the story of a dewdrop. [illustration] the story of a dewdrop j. r. macduff d d with four coloured illustrations london marcus ward & co belfast 1881 forewords. to charlie. a dewdrop is a small affair; and the world would not be the least interested, nor a bit the wiser, by knowing how i come affectionately to dedicate the story i have written about it to _you_. i may tell you it was one line of eleven words, read one night from a musty old volume of last century, which suggested it. everybody must have their play-hours and moments of recreation. i think i have gone back to other and more serious work all the better after writing a page or two of what follows. i am happy thus to have had my little holiday along with you in this ideal region of quaint conceits. shall we hope that others may share our pleasure? let us try. _list of_ illustrations. _the procession of the queen of the morning_ (p. 41), _frontispiece._ _the bird-talk and its surroundings,_ 14 _the nightingale and the dewdrop,_ 19 _the ascent of the million army,_ 53 _the story of_ a dewdrop. chapter the first. three birds of very favourable repute in these regions met together one evening--a thrush, a lark, and a nightingale. and all for what purpose, think you? it was a queer one--to hold a solemn conference about a dewdrop! yes, it must be allowed it was an original thought which brought these three feathered friends thus into council; and a pretty talk to be sure they had about it. they selected, as an appropriate time for preliminaries, the close of a bright day in early summer; just when things in outer nature were looking their best. the snowdrop and crocus had long ago hid their faces to make way for more ambitious rivals. that always pleasant season was a great way past, when you see the drowsy plants (after being tucked up--it may have been for weeks--in a white snowy coverlet), first roused from their sound winter sleep, yawning and stretching themselves, and rubbing their little eyes, and looking; wonderingly about them, saying--"what! is it now time to wake up and dress?" the tree foliage was approaching, if it had not already reached, perfection; all the mosses, too, looked so green and fresh; and how prettily the various ferns were uncoiling themselves among the rocks and shady nooks by the stream; while on this particular occasion the very sun seemed to have coaxed his setting beams into the production of most gorgeous colouring. belts of golden cloud were streaking the western sky; such long trails of them, that it was impossible to say whether the great ball of fire, which gave them their glory, had actually gone down behind the horizon, or was just about to do so. at all events, it was unmistakably _sundown_: though the scene was far removed from northern latitudes, it might be designated by the familiar scotch "gloamin'." the groves, and dells, and hedgerows, which had kept up a goodly concert the livelong day, were now silent. their winged tenants had, one after another, slunk to their nests, with very tired throats. they had left, apparently, all, or nearly all the music to the aforesaid brook in the dell. a stone's-throw higher up the valley, this latter, fed by recent rains, rattled in gleeful style over a bed of white and grey pebbles--the tiny limpid waves chasing one another as if they were playing at hide-and-seek amid the sedges, king-cups, and rushes. but it had now reached a quieter spot where, however, it still kept up a gentle, soothing evensong, a lullaby peculiar to itself, as if it wanted to hush the little birds asleep in their varied leafy cradles. the very cattle, that had been seen lying lazily out of the heat under the beech-trees, had ceased their lowings. in fact, nature had rung her curfew bell, and the sentry stars were coming out, one by one, to keep their night-watch. * * * * * let me first, however, say a word about this dewdrop, which had awakened so much curiosity as to gather three representative members of the bird-world together. it was a great puzzle, this dewdrop was. it was a puzzle where it came from; what it had come about; and a still greater puzzle, what it was made of. it was evidently a visitor from some unknown land. very quietly, too, it had travelled to its adopted country. these birds, in succession (with the curiosity birds generally have), had endeavoured by stealth to track its dainty fairy footsteps, and learn its past history. but it was to no purpose. however, there it was; not perhaps making its appearance every night, but almost every night. and, then, it invariably managed to perch itself so daintily on the tip of a rose-leaf. all three birds agreed that it had substantiated its claim in this, to be decidedly a lover of the beautiful. the leaf, moreover, which it made its resting-place, was not only pretty in itself, of a subdued delicate green, but it hung right over a full-blown rose, with a mass of pink leaves. the dewdrop quite seemed as if it had said to its own little personality regarding this round coral ball (or cup, if you prefer to call it so)--"well, i shall have a good look at you at all events, from my cozy couch, the last thing at night, and the first thing in the morning." [illustration] i somehow really believe the rose must have heard this complimentary speech, or at all events, by some instinctive way, have correctly surmised what the dewdrop was thinking about; for, in the last fading, glimmering light, it covered up its face so coyly with both hands, and blushed a deeper and deeper crimson. * * * * * but to return to the birds. it was just outside a copsy retreat that these three winged acquaintances met. the thrush, with his brown plumage and yellow spotted neck, being the biggest, and, if anything, the more talkative of the three, began the conversation. the consultation was a long and animated one, too long indeed to report in full, besides there being a considerable amount of superfluous talk, what in bird-language is called chattering; but i can give the close of it. "well," said the thrush, summing up the discussion, "i must now be off to bed--at all events after providing something suitable in the way of supper for my wife and family, and seeing them made tolerably comfortable for the night. and so too must you," he added, with a quizzical look to the lark, whose left eye was beginning to droop, as he stood, with one leg up, in the significant fashion our woodland friends indulge in when they indicate that they are tired. "we shall leave to you, bird of the night"--were his last words, as he addressed the nightingale--"we shall leave to you the first interview with this little sparkling thing from fairyland, or whatever other land it has quitted. we shall defer _our_ visit till to-morrow." so away the two brown-winged companions sped, i know not exactly where. but, though both in a great hurry to get home, they judiciously deemed, as i have just observed, that they might do a trifle of purveying business on the way, by picking up a few seeds; or if a manageable slug or grub presented itself, so much the better. i had not the curiosity to follow them; but i believe they each contrived to carry home a dainty supper; the one to the hole of a big ash-tree, the other to its nest in the furrow beside some tufts of golden gorse. it may be interesting, however, to know, by way of completing their domestic history, that both had promising young households--the one of three, and the other of four--to support; and the wee downy children had arrived too at a very ravenous age, with any capacity for food, which indeed amounted, at times, on the part alike of father and mother, to a trial of temper. the nightingale, now left all alone for the discharge of a somewhat novel duty, seemed at first to feel his responsibility: perhaps a feeling allied to nervousness in the human being. but he was a knowing little fellow too; and resolved to proceed in the most alluring as well as discreet way to his task. being fully acquainted with the position of the rose-leaf, he took wing, and settled himself on the branch of a birch close by. without any possible warning, he forthwith began (it was the best way of getting over these nervous sensations) to pipe one of his very best and most enchanting songs. he had somewhat unwarrantably indulged the expectation that he would get an immediate response from the dewdrop. he had however, in this, to exercise the virtue of patience. [illustration] "answer me, pretty dewdrop," he said in his most bewitching trill. but the dewdrop was silent. it appeared to pay not the slightest attention. another chirrup and mellifluous note, and then, coming to a lower and still nearer spray of the birch-tree, quite within whispering distance: "pretty little noiseless thing," continued the nightingale, "what are you? where were you born? have you any father or mother? or are you an orphan? my two brother birds spoke of your brightness and lustre. my eyes are tolerably good; but i confess i can see none of these things about you; you seem rather somehow to appear sad, though i trust i am wrong." "i have reason to be sad," at last replied the dewdrop, in the quietest, mildest, silveriest voice imaginable, and trembling with an emotion real or pretended. "you call me a dewdrop, but in truth i am not, i am a teardrop; a teardrop which fell from the sky." "a teardrop from the sky!" said the nightingale, in undisguised astonishment. "i cannot comprehend you. pray tell me what you mean?" "it is true, despite of your surprise," said the other. "the sky always weeps at the loss of the sun; and no wonder. i tell you again, believe it or not as you please, i am one of the tears it shed to-night. you need not, however, grieve for me. i shall be all right" (the tiny voice rising to a falsetto) "when the sun appears again. indeed, i venture to say, you will hardly know me then. _that_ i am sure of." "ay!" said the nightingale, with a sceptical, incredulous chirp. "yes! i always get bright, that i do, when the sun shows himself. look up to those stars, glittering in the sky. do you know how they twinkle so? i am myself neither scholar nor philosopher, and have no pretensions either way. but a confidential friend once told me, and i quite believe him, that it is because they are either suns themselves, or else get light from that beautiful sun you saw some time ago tingeing the sky with red and gold. _my sun_," continued the dwarf thing of mystery, raising its tones, with a sort of conscious pride. (if it had been aught else but a beaded drop, i would have described it standing on tip-toe as it said this.) it had, however, fairly exhausted itself with a very unwonted effort in the shape of a speech, and, without saying another word, turned on its side on the leafy bed, shut both eyes, and went to sleep. the nightingale was of course too polite, civil, and considerate to prolong. so he simply said, "good night to you, little teardrop, or dewdrop, whatever you prefer calling yourself. it is time, and more than time, for me to be on the wing. i have one or two domestic anxieties which, in the first place, i must see to; and, after that, i have an engagement among these old hawthorns to serenade till morning." "good night, kind bird," replied the dewdrop, turning in politeness half round on its pillow; "thank you for thinking of me in my loneliness." and away the songster flew, first to his home, and then, after some outstanding duties and civilities, over to his thicket among the may blossoms. the extreme beauty of the night seemed to dispel all care, and to have a decidedly inspiring effect on his nerves. i cannot tell whether he had really any such ambitious thought, but it almost seemed, from the gush of song, an attempt was made that every star in the heavens might at all events hear, if they could not appreciate his melodies. [illustration] chapter the second. it was now morning. the mist still slept drowsily in the valley; in some places so dense, that the smoke of the early fires in the hamlet could scarcely pierce it. already our friend the thrush had completed both toilet and breakfast, and had issued forth on his round of daily work and pleasure; as active and busy as the thrush family always are. when he first rose from bed, he was not exactly in the very best of humours; for he had, what was always a cross to him when it occurred (though that was rarely), a disturbed night. shall i tell you how his rest came thus to be invaded? why, the nightingale, on his way from the rose-leaf, had, perhaps somewhat inconsiderately, tapped at his door, to inform him that all he could get out of the dewdrop was (a very incomprehensible sentiment to a sleepy bird), that he was a tear wept by the sky when it lost the sun; and he was bound in all sincerity to add, that it seemed rather a dull and uninteresting tear to boot. "i know better," growled the thrush. (i have used the word "growl," because i can find no better to describe the reality.) growling, i am well aware, is a very uncommon demonstration of feeling in the case of a warbler. at all events, if it was not a growl, it was the nearest approach his beak could make to one, as he turned on the pillow which had been thus rudely disturbed. after, however, dozing for a few more hours, breakfast over, and his family seen to, off he sped with all his former cheerfulness and activity, till he found himself perched on a branch of the very tallest elm-tree he could pick out, and one, too, right above where the rose and the dewdrop were. dear me! how he piped, and chirruped, and throstled! i thought the nightingale had done wonders in that way; but it was nothing to the thrush. he doubtless was under the impression that the dewdrop was sound asleep, and needed no ordinary efforts in the way of rousing. i am sure if one could have dived under the yellow feathers, the little throat must have been purple. after these musical preliminaries, our new friend (songster no. 2) ventured by-and-by to come nearer. but, in doing so, he could hardly believe his eyes, specially after what the nightingale had told him. "a teardrop" indeed! there was not a bit of the tear about it. where had been the nightingale's eyes? it was something at all events very like a bright, unmistakable, beautiful diamond on which the thrush looked. how it glistened and sparkled; and that too with all the prismatic colours! the spectator could only (what was an effort to any member of the thrush family) gaze in mute wonder. "what in all the world can you be, you lovely, silent sleeper on the rose-leaf, with your round crystal cheeks? dewdrop we thought you were; teardrop you say you are: i cannot think you are either. if you are not a diamond set in rubies--stolen, for anything i know, from yesterday's rainbow--you look the thing uncommonly well." "i am indeed a diamond," answered the dewdrop. "look at me," said the little gleaming dot, with the air of an aristocrat; "do you not say i am fit for a monarch's crown? and it _is_ a monarch's crown i am presently to be set in. every day i meet the queen of the morning.--stay," it suddenly exclaimed, "i see her even now advancing with her rosy feet, 'sowing the earth with pearls.' see, for yourself, how the few stars which still linger in the sky, and which with their glittering torches lighted her out of the eastern gate, are paling every minute behind her! she says, of all the jewels in her tiara there is not one she is fonder of, or prouder of, than me. away, away, little bird," stammered out the dewdrop, with some nervous twitchings presently to be accounted for; "i must prepare to meet this queen aurora. but," it added in a kind of afterthought, "the procession will soon be over; come back shortly and see me, if you please." the keen diamond eye twinkled with a humorous, comical expression when these last words were uttered; as much as to say, "i shall manage to cheat you, old fellow, wont i?" the thrush had some small quantum of poetry in his nature; but he had a great deal of shrewd common sense too, and an immense idea of propriety. accordingly, he at once took the hint as to departure; but with guileless simplicity cherished the resolution of renewing the intercourse, in an hour or two at latest, after the royal cavalcade had swept by. this interlude was no peculiar hardship to our erratic friend, who knew he could spend the time merrily and profitably among his numerous kinsfolk in the groves. to tell the truth, he was not sorry to get away from the court pageantry, as all such ceremonial and pomp of circumstance was an abomination to him, and had always been so. it was, therefore, with pleasant anticipations of an early return that, by a few fleet bounces, he was lost from sight in the nearest thicket. barely, however, had the specified period elapsed, when he was back again upon his twig on the tall elm. he had certainly not exhausted his strength or conversational music-powers in that round of morning visits, for he renewed, then and there, his merriest notes, quite in the old style; and after this prelude, by way of making sure that the course was clear, he flew with more than wonted alacrity in the direction of the rose-leaf. but, can you imagine? to his wonder, sorrow, and chagrin, lo! when he looked for it, the leaf was empty! its small householder was gone! not a trace of either dewdrop or diamond left! there was no need of asking any questions; he comprehended in a moment what the roguish twinkle of the eye meant an hour before. he had, in a word, been "sold." it was more than a mere innocent trick played on him. his feelings and bird-dignity had, he felt, been a little compromised by what, had it occurred at night, would have been called "a moonlight flitting." it was more like what the big creatures in the world around him were in the habit of describing as an april errand. it was only too evident that the queen of the morning, in passing by, had picked up the dew diamond, and had inserted it in her crown; and that the little thing had made no demur to the appropriation. well, it must be owned that, anyhow for once, the thrush was crestfallen. he almost never knew any ditties but joyous ones; but on the present occasion, with no attempt at concealment, he went away wailing to the thicket, and outpoured his wounded vanity in something very like a dirge. he then buried his beak in rather sulky fashion under his wing, and went to sleep. [illustration] chapter the third. but what is this? it is a change of scene. away up in the morning sky, oh, how blue it is! and the light fleecy clouds, how they float in folds of white ether! the sun has climbed higher. it is now above the tallest of the poplars; and the long shadows cast by trunks and stems and branches are visibly shortened. and see! the cattle are again lowing in the fat meadows, and by degrees beating a safe retreat from the coming heat under the forest trees. high in that bright dome of azure, there is a delightful frolicsome twitter heard. it is not the nightingale; no, not so clear and mellow as that. not the thrush; no, not so loud or gushing as that. it is our little friend the lark. oh! how merry he is! more so than either of the other two. and what is he about? he seems to be floating and soaring, sauntering and curtseying, skimming and dipping, rollicking and frolicking--now up, now down--now describing gyrations, now imitating a pendulum--now trying to be so steady with his fluttering wings, that he looks like a star twinkling in the day-time--in short, playing all sorts of droll antics, indulging in every imaginable pirouette and somersault, in all the world (in his case _above_ the world) like a school-boy beginning his holidays; certainly appearing to put himself to a great deal of unnecessary trouble and exertion. but he is unmistakably, with his winning ways, about _something_, and something to the purpose. but what that is, no mortal could guess. as the thing however must be guessed, or otherwise found out, gentle reader, i shall take you into confidence, and unriddle the secret. the queen of the morning, as you already know, or at all events know now, had come with all her court, and troupe of gay courtiers. the young hours had unbarred for her the gates of day, and she at once sallied forth. beautiful little pages in the shape of pink clouds, quite like tiny angels with wings, were holding up her train. some of those fairy cherubs seemed, too, to have censers in their hands, at least if one could judge from the delicate wreaths of mist which rose like incense from them. others appeared to be discharging tiny golden arrows from silver bows; others to paint, with invisible pencils, in delicate and varying hues of amber and purple, the fringes of clouds; while the queen herself at times laid her own finger upon the larger of these, and braided them with snow and crimson. and then, how loyal everything seemed to be on the earth beneath! how each flower that had been asleep all night instantly rose on awaking, and, in the most duteous manner uncovering its head, prepared to take its place in the royal procession. the more gorgeous ones of the garden led the way, with their velvet tassels, and silken brocades, and pendants of opal and turquoise; some apparently carrying chalices filled with nectar. then the fields and hedgerows, in their rough, rustic, plebeian fashion, with their fustian jackets and smock-frocks, said--"we shall not be behind our betters;" so their buttercups and wood-anemones, speedwell and scarlet pimpernel, the meadow violet with its modest blue, the cowslip with its burnished cells, the daisy with its "golden eye and white silver eyelashes," all did fealty to their adored queen. some went down on their knees; others doffed their caps; others smiled bewitchingly; others could do nothing but waft sweet perfumes. there were even bands of very varied music and musicians, all assisting with their efforts in swelling the queen's anthem. the brook, though it had sung all night, and had need of a little respite, seemed to say--"no, i shall go warbling on; she shall have my very best treble of a ripple." and then there were minor performers in this nature-choir. the blackbird and redbreast, goldfinch and linnet, and chaffinch, each took part with striking effect. even the swallow in his own quiet way twittered, and the tomtit chattered, and the beetle droned, and the bee hummed, and the big dragon-fly, in armour of brightest cobalt, whirred; and the grasshopper, poor fellow! did his very uttermost,--he chirruped, he could do no more. the butterfly, who could not raise a single note, came out in his best plush court-dress of gold, vermilion, and blue, dainty little silent outrider that he is, waking up any exceptional sleepers. he carried, truth to say, his zeal sometimes too far; as when i saw him unjustly reproaching the foxglove for having bells and not ringing them, a thing they were never meant to do. even the spider hung his silver-tissued web from spray to spray; as if he had weaved a gossamer mantle, in case his queen might like to use it in the chill of early dawn. (_see frontispiece_.) well, the latter--i mean the queen--at last came to a pause, and, with most radiant grace in her countenance, she put her hand up to her crown, and took out the diamond. there was a little pet of a crimson cloud that happened to be floating past at the moment. she laid the lustrous gem on this roseate pillow; and then, slowly and gradually, she and all her retainers, in ghostly shape, vanished clean from sight. * * * * * but what, you will say, has all this to do with our friend the lark? his quick little eye had discerned what your dull sight and mine could not. he had watched everything i have now described. how indeed could he miss seeing that flashing speck of light lying so daintily on its cushion of state? no wonder he circles and zigzags, and does bird-homage to the brightest gem of the regalia. up, down--hither, thither--just as i have already told, doing obeisance in every possible and conceivable way; till at last, poising himself immediately above, fluttering with all his might, and settling himself in the fixed attitude in which the lark family are such adepts, he mustered up courage and said-"pretty sparkling thing! i know what you are. you are a rare diamond just taken from the crown of the queen of the morning. but, i confess, you look, too, very like the dewdrop i spied at a distance, a few hours ago, on the tip of a rose-leaf." "what a capital guesser you are, tiny minstrel," was the reply; "but you had better leave me with my diamond name, at all events for the present. i shall not say whether some scientific bird-winged philosophers are right or wrong when they aver that, though the queen of the morning borrowed me, i am really and truly a jewel from the crown of the sun; that when he took off his royal robes last evening, to lay his head on his nightly pillow, i dropped out of his crown, and tumbled down to the earth. i may tell you, however, confidentially (just in a whisper, you know)," added the brilliant speaker, "that though they call me diamond, i like quite as well the name with which god's beautiful mist baptized me, that of _dewdrop_. but i have brief time (indeed no time) to converse further with you now. you have seen, a short while ago, how the queen of the morning vanished. will you be astonished when i tell you that i am about to do the very same myself? i am going," it continued, "to my palace yonder" (an extra gleam, in the absence of a finger, was its own special way of pointing upwards). "i have said my _palace_--i should rather perhaps say, my _home_. we may meet," it added, "pretty soaring warbler, on the way to it. but please leave me now." what i have said of the thrush was true also of the lark. he was a peculiarly biddable and discreet bird, and when he got a hint he always took it. moreover, the dewdrop had spoken so courteously (he thought condescendingly) to him, he would not for the world intrude his company longer than desired. the other evidently wished to be all alone, to pack up and prepare for this great and distant journey. so the lark plunged down to the stream among the alders to bathe his wings and refresh himself. after the lustrations were duly completed, up again he rose like an arrow into the bright, blue sky. says he to himself, "i shall certainly be on the sharp out-look for that ascent of the dewdrop. i can at all events be a silent spectator, if my services cannot otherwise be of use." and, to be sure, he did not require to watch long; for, with that keenness of perception that belonged to all his ancestors, he found that he had soared right into the very midst of a golden mist. some people say and believe (though i am not wise enough in bird-lore to know the truth of it), that the lark family have eyes almost like a microscope; things invisible to us are said to be quite visible, and indeed conspicuous, to them. at all events, this was true in the case of the present representative of that discriminating race. so that what, if we had been there, would only have seemed an aggregation of glistening atoms, were to him nothing less than a vast army in visible shape--chariots and charioteers, knights mounted on steeds with white trappings and gold and silver bridles; other horsemen carrying glittering spears, polished shields, and flashing swords; others bearing standards of cloth of gold. i am only telling you what the lark saw, or thought he saw; and a most wonderful army on march you can very well believe it was. [illustration] oh, just see how he twitters and carols, as i have more than once pictured, and cannot do so too often--shaking first his little wings, and then his little throat; the old zigzagging to and fro--here, there, everywhere--whisking in this direction, and bouncing in that direction, restless gymnastic that he is, in a very whirl and vortex of excitement! "you told me, a little while ago," said he, mustering up courage, with an effort, to speak to this wondrous mass of knight-errantry; "at all events the diamond-drop, of which i know you are the fragments, told me you were going to some palace in the sky. where is that?" "it is our _home_, soaring warbler," said the million million little voices, their spears and helmets flashing brightly in the radiance, their horses prancing and pawing the path of light--"it is home, home, home!" said the myriads, the very air tremulous with the shout. "yes, but where is that?" repeated the lark, determined to come to the point, and not to be numerically extinguished, as he darted like lightning round and round the brilliant host. "the sun! the sun!" one after another made answer. the dewdrop was a tear that fell from the sky because the sun was gone. but, as you have just told us, we are all parts of it--everyone of us are; and we are on our way again to the golden entrance to his palace. the army of misty globules rose and rose, higher and yet higher. they seemed, too, to get brighter and brighter in the ascent, the lark rising with them, indeed till his little wings were tired. then when he felt that he could act as convoy no farther, down he came at one long unpausing dart to the furrow adjoining the wooded dell below, which was now all streaked with fleckered light. he thought (and we shall not quarrel with the fancy) that these patches of light were nothing else than the golden arrows he had seen shot from the bow of the cherubs--the little angels of the dawn--and that they were now lying thick in the green arcade. he just took breath, after the exhaustion and excitement, alike of both body and mind, which his aerial adventure had entailed; and then hastened straight to the home of the nightingale and thrush, to tell of the glorious ascent (what the old and learned creatures of the earth would have called the apotheosis) of the dewdrop on the rose-leaf; its severance into a million fragments; and how these, in the shape of a great army, had marched right within the sun's golden gates! [illustration] _afterwords._ _an angel's whisper._ the soul--the spirit of man--apart from the great sun, becomes a teardrop. all is dark to it, when that all-glorious source of light and love is away. earth's sweetest songs cannot cheer it. but when the morning comes, and the sun returns, the teardrop becomes a dewdrop--gleaming like a diamond in that peerless radiance. and at death, when it _seems_ to be dissolved, and has apparently vanished from sight, it is exhaled--not annihilated. it passes upward to the golden gates, to be lost in the splendour of the everlasting light! [illustration] the stars in the pool the stars in the pool _a prose poem for lovers_ by edna kingsley wallace _author of "feelings and things," "wonderings and other things"_ [decoration] new york e. p. dutton & company 681 fifth avenue _copyright 1920_ _by e. p. dutton & co._ _all rights reserved_ _printed in the united states of america_ the stars in the pool _the stars in the pool_ i. [sidenote: _the castle_] midmost of a forest of weaving lights and shadows, of dreaming winds, and fragrance wandering, there stood a great white castle, fair, and gleaming in the sun. massive it was, yet high as well, so that it caught all colours of the dawn and sunset, like unto some peak of snow, remote from men. [sidenote: _good king telwyn_] within the castle dwelt the good king telwyn, lord of all that forest realm, wherein at whiles were clearings, with orchards and vineyards, and fields of all manner of grain good for man and beast. and with the king was ellaline, the queen, beloved and beautiful, and mother of roseheart, whom telwyn her father, old and wise, knew for the tenderest thought of god in woman form. [sidenote: _the beauty of roseheart_] fair as the dawn was roseheart, and about her a freshness like that of babes. there was in her hair the ruddiness of tried gold, spun into a web to catch the sun. like the sky in the east at twilight were her eyes, and the dark brows thereof as a flight of bird's wings. the mouth of her was crimson, and fresh, and young, and curved so tenderly withal, that none looking upon her might fail to love her with the love that leaps into the heart for all young things of fair seeming and promise. [sidenote: _the isle of lokus_] [sidenote: _lokus remembereth his youth_] now upon a day came overseas to telwyn's realm one like a young god invincible, flame, son of lokus, lord of a far island, wherein were fiery mountains having their roots in the sea. it was a land of wondrous beauty, but they that dwelt therein, rich though they were, for that the land was exceeding fertile, yielding in fullest measure the fruits of the earth, yet dwelt ever in danger betwixt the mountains and the sea. for there had been times when living fire had rolled down the mountains, and the earth had been shaken mightily, and the sea, in a huge wall of emerald, had fallen upon the land and overwhelmed it. and lokus, giving thought to these things, had deep desire that the son of his heart should escape these dangers, and live out his years in peace and happiness. and for that the youth was ever of the mind to fashion of the clay of the earth whatsoever things he saw, and might in nowise be withheld from the cunning of his hands, it came into the mind of lokus that it were poor kindness to the child of his love to constrain him to courts and statecraft. for lokus remembered his own youth, and the struggle thereof, when that his father had denied him the life of his own gift, which, darkling long, now sought in the son of his body and spirit its life to the glory of god. [sidenote: _the gifts of flame_] [sidenote: _flame and the salt sea_] wherefore lokus had called his son to him, and had bidden him to go straitly to the friend of his own youth, the wise king telwyn, who would teach him somewhat of life and living in the great world. but more than for the ways and wit of men did flame have thought for all things beautiful in form. right well he loved to liven clay to semblance of young maids and children, mothers, and old men wise with living. ever into their faces he put somewhat no other man might see in them. at whiles, shapes of beauty like to nought that he had seen swam before his vision, but swiftly they faded, and he rubbed his eyes, and looked as he were silly. wherefore men called him dreamer. yet with all this had he little thought for what the lord god had meant in the making of the world, being well content in this his youth that by the instinct of his fingers, and no thought withal, he could please the good folk with happy likeness of themselves. tall and straight was flame, with hair like fire seen through smoke, and with skin like ripe olives in the light of the going sun. firm his mouth, and his brow both high and wide. in his eyes were all the changing lights and colours of the sea. and it was as if the salt sea were in his blood, so that when he flamed in the wont of youth and joy, it seemed like driftwood burning, leaping, flowering, in all the colours known of men. [sidenote: _the birth of love_] and flame, son of lokus, looking upon the princess roseheart, drew one great breath, and loved her with the love of a man's heart. and roseheart, when she looked into the eyes of flame, and his heart therein, knew him for her lord, and loved him wholly. [sidenote: _their troth plighted_] wherewith, telwyn the king, her father, seeing these things, pondered the youth, and when he had questioned him straitly, was in nowise loath that the thing should be. for telwyn was a wise man and discerning, and found flame a goodly youth, and nought against him for an husband to the princess, his daughter. then was their troth plighted, yet were they over young to wed, and telwyn the king spake plain words to flame, that it were well he should prove himself in some wise ere he should claim for bride the princess roseheart. ii. [sidenote: _the pool_] now some way from the castle, deep in the forest, was set a pool, so deep and still that in its depths was imaged all that bent above its brim--the fluttering leaves, and long-stemmed flowers, the flashing flight of birds, and white-winged argosies of cloud. and so shadowed it was, and so deep beyond depth, that he who looked as far as he might could see the stars of heaven mirrored therein. [sidenote: _the faces of love_] daylong did flame feed the hunger of his eyes on the beauty of his beloved, as clad in kirtle of forest-green, girt with gold, she knelt at the edge of the pool, or laughing, chased the butterflies, to woo them to her lips and hair. at whiles deep quiet came upon them as they bent above the pool, seeing nought of all it held save only the two faces of love that looked therein. [sidenote: _earthlove sprite invisible_] upon a day at the hour of golden noon, when all the land swam in a haze of beauty, a flickering brightness came and passed, when earthlove, sprite invisible, touched with his lips these twain, and with a lilt of laughter rode away athwart a sunbeam. thereafter did flame kiss roseheart long, upon the mouth, and trembling, gazed into her eyes that were like still pools, wherein was nought save his own image, more beautiful than life. and flame's heart swelled within him, lordly-wise, for that he dwelt so in the eyes and the heart of his beloved. and in the eyes of flame was nought save roseheart imaged, but swaying as it were on a surging wave wherethrough ran all the changing lights and colours of the sea. [sidenote: _the old gray woman_] but when it was some while since these things had befallen, the dusk was come, all suddenly, and there passed strangely over the pool a shivering, and from it rose a mist that hid it. the heart of flame was troubled, and lifting his eyes to see what was toward, he saw before him momently a figure of sorrow, wur, the old gray woman of shadows, whose eyes were as misty pools at twilight, her hair as cobwebs matted, and her garments as the wings of the dusk. yet upon her, nathless, was a wistful beauty as of moonlight, wherein were all things wondrous. [sidenote: _of sorrow_] "behold!" said flame in wonder to the maid roseheart, but she was in fear of somewhat that was as a thing known and not known, and would not look, but turned her face to his breast. and flame spoke unto the old gray woman of shadows, saying, "gray one, i pray thee, what wouldst thou?" [sidenote: _the way of destiny_] she answered, and her voice was as the winds of autumn, through bare branches: "i am sorrow, and the way of destiny, and the shadow of things to be. the flower fadeth, and the flesh falleth away as a garment, but the seed and the soul shall not perish, except the seed fall on barren ground, and the soul feed upon the body alone. ponder ye these things in your hearts." and in a breath she was gone, leaving upon them a chill as of the winter death. [sidenote: _earthlove once more_] wherefore was flame of grievous mind for that he did not understand these things. and roseheart clung to him weeping, the while he gave her such sweet comfort as he might. long he looked upon her in wonder, at the spun gold of her hair, the white shining about her brows, her deep, still eyes wherein was nought but his image, her mouth fashioned to joy and love, and her slender body, curving to the grace of womanhood. and once again earthlove, sprite invisible, touched him, and stung him, and his heart surged with love of the maid, and his man's desire grew great within him. she stirred, and looked into his eyes, and shrank away, for therein was that which affrighted the peace of her soul. looking, she saw not only her fair face, but her whole white body, drifting in the sea-surge of his eyes, wherein were all the changing lights and colours of the sea. [sidenote: _sea-surge and fire-bloom_] and the soul of roseheart was faint with the far music of the sea-surge that was the soul of flame. yet being but a young maid, she was in fear also, saying, "flame! thou dishonourest me!" and freed herself, and sped away fleetly. and upon the youth was shame, but a new strength therewith, so that he refrained him from following her, and cast himself upon the ground and wept, for that he had affrighted the innocence of roseheart whom his soul loved. and a great cry for succor grew in him, and he prayed full heartily to the lord god that he would show him his will. [sidenote: _senta the radiant one_] thereafter, feeling a presence, he looked up, and his eyes were blinded with a great light, and he covered his eyes, and bowed his head. before him, in garments more shining than the noonday sun, stood senta, the radiant one. she spake, and her voice had the beauty of the sea in storm, when sudden sunlight, flaming from the west, gives rainbow colours to the flying foam: "hearken, flame, to the voice of vision, which the lord god put into thy soul when thou wast born. from this day forth shalt thou rest not, but follow thy dream through all the earth and across the seas. at the last shalt thou find that thou seekest, for so is it written, but thou shalt not know the manner of thy finding, nor may i tell thee. sleep." [sidenote: _the vision_] [sidenote: _the woman of radiance_] and upon flame came sleep as the sleep of the sea at sunrise, midmost of the summer, whenas the glory of the sky is a great magic in the sea, swinging as a censer to and fro, that the lord god may be honoured of the wonders he hath made. now the dream of flame was a dream of womanhood--of women beautiful as dawn or flowers, of women whose fair seeming covered evil, women good and women false, maids and mothers and harlots, drifting, thronging, clamouring, praying, fawning, passing--until at last came one clad in shining garments, fashioned full seemly, of white silk that flowed and clung, revealing gracious lines of her form who walked stately-wise, with little children about her knees. and flame saw that her form was radiance, and her eyes were stars, but he might not discern the fashion of her face for the light thereof. and he was sore troubled that the seeming of her face was withholden from him, for he knew in his soul that he had somewhat to do with her. [sidenote: _mother of men_] came once more the voice of senta the radiant one: "flame, maker of images, attend my words. this woman shalt thou seek throughout the world, forasmuch as she is the dream of dreams in thy soul. in the fullness of thy manhood shalt thou fashion her in pure marble, and she shall be called mother of men. as for thee, thou shalt be called the giver of dreams. awake." and senta the radiant one, passing, gathered to her breast with one swift motion the sprite earthlove, that had revealed to her flame and roseheart in their need to be taught the wisdom of life which they knew not. iii. [sidenote: _senta taketh earthlove_] [sidenote: _dreams and awakening_] and when that senta had taken earthlove unto herself, and had passed, the evening was come, and there were stars a-many in the depths of pool. therewith, looking upon them, a great peace came upon flame, and being weary, he laid himself down that he might sleep and be refreshed. and as he slept, he dreamed of that woman whose form was radiance, and whose eyes were stars. and his fingers stirred, and sought to fashion out of the earth her form of beauty; but all crumbled under his touch, and he might not. [sidenote: _the queen and her women_] when the morning was come, and upon all things lay new freshness as of the world's beginning, the youth flame arose and stripped him, and plunged his body in the pool that sleep might be shaken from him. whereafter he got him to the castle, and when that he had stayed his hunger with bread and new milk, asked that he might have speech with his troth-plight, the princess roseheart. then a serving-man led him through many halls to a great room wherein with their women sat roseheart and the queen her mother. [sidenote: _beauty added unto beauty_] and there, in seemly raiment of soft colours, crimson, and the brown of old wood, and fresh green, the women sat before their looms, and their frames wherein rich broidery grew under their white fingers. and over all was sunlight, a flickering whereof was made by blown vines without the casements, which were open to the morn. there was the whisper of silk, and much babble of talk, after the fashion of women working. shuttles flew in the looms, and white arms wondrous fair in motion drew forth long silken threads, being wrought into fine stuffs, to the end that beauty might be added unto beauty. [sidenote: _roseheart is troubled_] queen ellaline sat very still in the midst of these her women. of delicate fashion she was, and gentle. her eyes were widely set, and blue, and mother-sweet, and her hair was silvering with the caress of the years. and she was sad in the midst of sunshine, forasmuch as she was troubled at the mien of the maid, her daughter, who sat with drooping head and still hands. and in good sooth, the heart of the princess was heavy within her, and no little in fear. nightlong had she seen the vision of flame, in whose eyes like the sea lay her white body floating. never before since he had loved her had she seen aught but her soul's self therein, and she was troubled. [sidenote: _roseheart is troubled_] [sidenote: _mother of men_] and now flame, son of lokus, lord of that far isle of sea-surge and fire-bloom, entered in courtly wise this room of work and idleness, of gayety and gossip, and of love perplexed. in reverent greeting did he kiss the hand of queen ellaline; then turning him to the princess roseheart, he took both of her white hands in his, seeking to look into her eyes. and soon, for her love of him she might not refrain, and bravely gave them to his seeing. and for that she was shamefast, in the way of a maid, she looked as one that saw not. but in the eyes of roseheart, he who loved her saw as he was wont only the image and seeming of himself. and he was sorrowful therewith, forasmuch as he had thought mayhap to find in the eyes of his love the twin stars of the woman of his dream. but the thing was not. and remembering the radiant one, and the things that she had said, he knew that, will-he, nill-he, he must fare forth in quest of that woman whose form was radiance, and whose eyes were stars--her from whom he should fashion his mother of men. then spake ellaline, the queen, with quiet voice, saying, "what wouldst thou, flame, son of lokus? my daughter roseheart hath seeming of some ill-hap with which thou hast to do." [sidenote: _flame speaketh plainly_] [sidenote: _the pain of roseheart_] therewith did flame drop the hands of roseheart his love, and standing before the queen her mother, he spake on this wise: "i know not what this thing may be, but somewhat hath been laid upon my will, so that choice it hath none. wherefore, though thy daughter roseheart is as the blood of my heart to me, and fain would i take her to wife straightway, yet first must i go across the sea, and through all the earth, until i find a certain woman whose form is radiance and whose eyes are stars, that i may fashion of her in pure marble a mother of men that shall fulfill the dream of my soul. not of my willing is this thing laid upon me. but the lord god when i was born put into my soul the vision, and into my hands the cunning to fashion the shape of my vision. therefore must i go, and abide the will of the lord god lest he destroy me. whether i shall return i know not, for many will be the perils of the way, but in my heart meseems i know that i shall return and take to wife the maid roseheart, whom in all honour i love and cherish." [sidenote: _a white stillness_] hearing these words at the last, roseheart found somewhat of courage beyond that she had had, and looked into the eyes of flame. therein was no longer her own white body, as she had feared to see, but the noble form of a woman whose white silken draperies flowed and clung, whose form was radiance, and whose eyes were stars. with her were little children. and roseheart, gazing, beheld the form of radiance, and the faces of the children, as somewhat known, and not known, and in her heart was a white stillness, and no anger that flame would leave her to seek this woman, but only the pain of longing, and a meekness like that of mary, the blessed mother. [sidenote: _flame, his farewell_] flame, pitiful of the still sorrow of roseheart, clasped her to his breast, and kissed her thrice upon the forehead. but the lure of the way of life was upon him, and turning strongly from the maid and the queen, her mother, he said: "good greeting must i give you, from the heart, and long farewell, for that i must be about the business the lord god hath set me. but ere i go, i would see telwyn, and speak with him of that i have to do." iv. [sidenote: _flame, his farewell_] all silently they three together sought telwyn, the king, but now returned from the hunt, and sitting at meat with his men in the great banquet hall of the castle. [sidenote: _king telwyn_] a mighty man of sorts was telwyn. fierce in war, yet had he also a great love of peace, of beauty, of mirth and joy, and of his food and wine. also had he great discernment for the true things in the hearts of men. wherefore, seeing sorrow and heaviness in the faces of the three whom he loved, who would have speech with him, he bade his men-at-arms and serving-men depart. [sidenote: _the king pondereth_] when that he had listened all quietly to the words of flame, there first came anger into his heart, and a mist upon his sight, for that roseheart, his daughter, who was as the remembered joy of his youth, should be in woe for the going from her of flame, son of lokus, to follow the gleam of stars in the eyes of the woman of his dream. yet was telwyn proud, and would constrain no man to take unreadily his daughter roseheart; and just, for that he remembered what he had said to the youth, that it were well he should prove himself somewhat ere he should take the maid in marriage. therefore with a mighty intake of the breath, and closing the lids of his eyes, wherein were lightnings, king telwyn spake on this wise, his voice as the voice of far thunders: "flame, son of lokus, thou grievest the heart of telwyn, father of roseheart, for that thou puttest the maid in sorrow for thy going. yet am i a man, and know the heart of a man in youth. fain would i give thee of the wisdom i have learned, but that may not be. [sidenote: _telwyn admonisheth flame_] in pain and struggle shalt thou come to thine own wisdom, which is for thee alone, so that no man may give it thee, but thou must win it. yet since thou hast won a maid to her promise, it were meet that thou shouldst go thy ways carefully, bravely, and in good faith, that thou mayest return in honour. [sidenote: _telwyn admonisheth flame_] i charge thee, see thou to these things lest the vengeance of telwyn find thee out, though thou wert in the uttermost parts of the earth. lend not thy soul to wine to make a mock of, nor to false women that they may break it. bear thou thyself with modesty; give of thy strength and wit to whomsoever hath need of them. cheat no man of his due in any wise, remembering that so thou wouldst cheat thyself of thy birthright, which is to be one with truth and right in so far as thou canst attain thereunto. thou art the son of lokus, and art bound to carry his name and blood in honour. i have spoken. farewell." v. [sidenote: _ellaline distraught_] [sidenote: _ellaline beholdeth wur_] now was ellaline, the queen, fair distraught, for that she understood not her own mind in the matter. and her heart was as water with pity of the maid, and as a sting her tongue, whenas she thought of the going of flame, for that to her seeing he had put an affront upon their house. yet might she not speak in wrath, when telwyn her husband had spoken in quietness. and there came upon her a trembling lest she speak, and telwyn's displeasure come upon her. [sidenote: _the strength of flame_] wherefore, turning to flee away, lest speaking she do wrong, ellaline the queen saw some way off in the hall a figure of sorrow, wur, the old gray woman of shadows. and being in eld, well she wot that in the coming of wur was sign that the lord god was minded to send upon their house sorrow and the winds of destiny, and that not for her love and grief might these things be stayed in anywise. wherewith she kissed the maid her daughter tenderly, as in farewell, and fled away straitly, weeping. and roseheart was white and still. when flame turned him to the princess roseheart, fain would she have had him kiss her upon the mouth, but he would not, seeking her brow instead, in all tenderness. and piteous was the face of the maid, that flame whom she loved denied her. but the eyes of telwyn marking the thing, it seemed good to him that flame turned him from the lips of his love. well did the king know the hearts of men, and right heartily did he hold in scorn those who had not the wit to fear such things as betray men unto weakness. [sidenote: _the going of flame_] thereafter did flame get him thence right speedily, to take ship for far countries. the maid roseheart covered her eyes that she might not see the going of her beloved. and she wept full sore, and when telwyn the king would have comforted her, wur, the old gray woman of shadows, came unto her pitifully, and took her from the arms of her father, and folded her mantle about her, and led her away all gently. and yielding his little maid unto wur, whom well he wot of old, the king was shaken in grief, that the thing must be and nought might stay it. vi. [sidenote: _roseheart and wur_] daylong and nightlong the maid clung to wur and to none other, and the old gray woman of shadows, whose voice was like unto the winds of autumn, made sad music of the days and ways of men. ever she spake, telling tales of sorrow, whereunto roseheart listened, saying in her heart, "there is no sorrow like to mine, who am a widow before i am wed." [sidenote: _roseheart wakes weeping_] yet there was, withal, in the tales of wur, a gray beauty that melted the heart of the maid, even in despite of her own grief, to a vague and terrible longing to learn what lay at the heart of life. nightlong did wur watch over her, and the maid dreamed in sorrow, to wake weeping. [sidenote: _the face of grief_] so for a space was grief bitter in the maid, and grievous was the hurt of all things, for that flame whom she loved had gone his ways from her. then on a day, for pity of the grief wherewith she suffered, a longing grew in her to look upon the face of her sadness in the pool in the forest. thither she went, therefore, with wur, the old gray woman of shadows, and leaned over the pool in the wont of her old fashion. and as with sore pity of herself she looked into the pool, upon the face of grief that was hers, she saw that in her eyes, which aforetime had held nought save the face of flame, was an image that blotted out all else. semblance it had of an image of wur, the old gray woman of shadows, whose hair was as cobwebs matted, whose eyes were as misty pools at twilight, and whose garments were as the wings of the dusk. yet as the maid looked more nearly, she saw that the form had only the seeming of wur, and was in good sooth that of roseheart herself, stricken in grief to the likeness of wur. arising in wonder she turned her to look upon wur, and in the face of the old gray woman of shadows she saw strangely the semblance of herself, roseheart. and at the horror and mystery of this thing which she might not understand, the maid shrieked with terror. and when the old gray woman would have folded her in her arms to quiet her, the maid would not, and shrank away, and prayed for help to the lord god that she might have comfort. [sidenote: _there came a radiance_] and there came a radiance, growing ever brighter, until wur, the old gray woman of shadows, might not stay, but fled away before that which was more shining than the noonday sun. and roseheart was ware of a presence she might not see for the brightness. [sidenote: _the coming of senta_] then spake senta, the radiant one, the voice of vision, unto the maid roseheart, full gently, yet in the manner of one who may not be gainsaid: "roseheart, beloved of flame, who shall be called giver of dreams, lift up thy heart. well hast thou learned the lore of sorrow that wur hath taught thee, and these things it is needful that thou shouldst know. but too much hast thou made thyself one with sorrow, to the end that it hath grown dear to thee. this thing may not be. pity that seeketh not itself makes pure the heart of man, but pity of thyself for thine own woe is another matter, whereto thou must look else will thy sorrow destroy thee. thou shalt arise, therefore, and go unto thy father telwyn the king, and thy mother, the queen ellaline. sore have been their hearts that thou wert in grief. it should be thy task rather, to bring them joy who are stricken in years. [sidenote: _vision and dreams_] "but since joy is not made of nought, and since there is now in thee sorrow alone, i say unto thee, go thy ways among the people of thy father the king, and of thy grief make garments of joy to cover the nakedness of the poor withal. take to them that are sick the flowers of thy kindness, that shall be as the snowdrops blossoming under the mantle of the winter of thy grief. look into the eyes of the old and find patience, and into the hearts of the children and find hope. tend thou the bed of pain, and ease the woe of the sons of men in such measure as thou mayest. therewith shall all things befall thee as the lord god desireth. unto me, senta, it is vouchsafed to give thee vision, and a dream, even as i gave these things unto flame, thy beloved. sleep." [sidenote: _the starry-eyed_] and roseheart laid her down in the deep sleep as of a rosebud in the sun at mid-day, when life in a great tide flows and greatens, to the end that the rose may be full-blown. and the dream of roseheart was on this wise: there was a woman in shining garments, fashioned full seemly of white silk that flowed and clung, revealing gracious lines of her form who walked stately-wise, with little children about her knees. her form was radiance, and her eyes were stars. and in the fashion of her seeming, and in the faces of the children, was somewhat as it were a thing known and not known. then beheld roseheart the seeming of flame, her beloved, looking in joy and reverence upon this woman whose form was radiance, and whose eyes were stars. and senta the radiant one said unto roseheart: "behold and see if this be not she whom thou didst look upon at the last in the eyes of flame whom thou lovest." and it was so, and roseheart marveled. [sidenote: _the heart of the maid_] whereafter senta bade her awake, and she awoke and pondered these things what they might mean. and in the heart of the maid there grew and strengthened the desire and the will to be as that woman of her dream, whose beauty was as music under the moon, and in all reverence beloved of her troth-plight, flame. thus are women ever, in their deep need to be in all ways that they may, the desired of their lord. vii. [sidenote: _roseheart gives greeting_] when all things had become clear to roseheart she arose swiftly, and went unto telwyn the king, and the queen her mother. and upon her face was a shining which was the shining of her soul. and she said unto them, "i give you greeting, my father and my mother." [sidenote: _the going of wur_] and looking upon her they were glad exceedingly, and exchanged looks the one with the other, for that the face of roseheart was no longer gray with grief. first answered ellaline, saying, "greeting to thee, my daughter. where now is wur, that thou hast the look of happiness?" sudden wonder made wide the eyes of roseheart. "in good sooth i know not," she answered. "i have not seen her at all any more since the coming of the shining one." telwyn the king leaned him forward in eagerness, asking, "the shining one? what meanest thou?" [sidenote: _roseheart, her task_] [sidenote: _telwyn perceiveth_] into the face of roseheart came the far, wondering look of children, but in her heart was a song. "i know not," she made answer, "unless it was an angel of the lord god, to shew me the things that i must do, and that which i must become." herewith the voice of the maid grew wondrous sweet. "of my garment of sorrow must i make raiment of joy to cover the nakedness of the poor. to the sick must i take the flowers of kindness that are now as snowdrops blossoming under the mantle of the winter of grief. i am to look into the eyes of the old and find patience, and into the hearts of children and find hope. and i am to tend the bed of pain, and ease the suffering of the sons of men in such measure as i may, that all things may befall me as the lord god desireth." into the face of telwyn there came a tenderness like that of women, and in his voice were the tears a man may not suffer in his eyes. "great is the joy in my heart," he said, "for that thou art indeed become a woman. and well i wot that the lord god is with thee, that thou knowest these things of wisdom." [sidenote: _the queen speaketh_] and ellaline, looking into the face of her daughter, drew her to her heart, and spake on this wise: "deep grief has it been to me that in thy pain i might not help thee, but must leave thee to the care of wur, that woman of sorrow. nathless have i prayed for thee without ceasing. blessed be the name of the lord god that he hath found the way for thee." [sidenote: _telwyn and roseheart_] now on the morrow when telwyn the king went among his people, to see that all was well, and nought amiss that might be set right, he put roseheart his daughter upon a white palfrey; and himself upon a mighty red horse, led her whithersoever he went, that she might see all things in the wisdom and tenderness newly come to her. and from his deep eyes like the caverns of the sky, he watched her, as pity grew in her, and knowledge, and quick device of succor. daylong they rode, at the noontide having bite and sup with a woodcutter and his wife, newly blessed with a fine man child. and roseheart, taking the child in her arms, laughed and wept that he was so small and sweet, and for that he clung to her, and turned to her breast. and when the shadows grew long, and they set their faces toward the castle, the maid was sore weary, but she knew it not, for the pity in her, and the thought of all awry in the world that must be set right. [sidenote: _roseheart steadfast_] and it befell that she dreamed that night of a babe that lay upon her breast, and so sweet it was, that she woke weeping for very joy. thereafter daily the maid went forth with the king her father, or at whiles with the queen her mother, whenas she was wont to say unto telwyn with sweet gravity, "this is a matter for women, of which thou knowest nought." [sidenote: _her need and desire_] and the king smiled in his beard at the woman-ways of her. but hours there were when that roseheart was a-weary, and an-hungered for flame, her troth-plight lord. yet always, remembering her dream, she arose from grief, and with the trouble of others, and what she might do for them, filled the emptiness of her heart. and so great was her need and desire to become as the woman of the great dream, that slowly as a slender moon fills with silver, or a rosebud greatens to fullness, did roseheart the maid grow in fashion and seeming and good sooth toward the very truth of her desire, to be as that woman whose form was radiance and whose eyes were stars. viii. [sidenote: _thrice bloomed the rose_] thrice the snowdrops came and went, thrice bloomed the rose; thrice the harvest ripened to the scythe, and winter flushed to spring, and flame, son of lokus, was not yet come from overseas to claim his promise of his troth-plight maiden. [sidenote: _flame journeyeth_] [sidenote: _he groweth in strength_] long had he wandered from land to land, seeking ever the shape of his dream. ever he made forms of beauty with his hands, whatsoever he saw, and men marveled thereat, so cunning-true they were, and skillful. and everywhere was he tempted with all manner of lures to flesh and spirit that he forsake his dream and take his ease and pleasure like other men, but he would not. and it befell that on a day when he was riding through the forest, he came upon a carle that beat a woman, his wife. and flame was wroth with the carle, and fell upon him in fury, that so he should misuse the strength that god had given him. and the anger of flame was as the strength of ten men, but when he had the throat of the man in his fingers, and would have slain him, all suddenly his anger was not. and in good pity of the fellow that he was yet in youth, he loosed him, and admonished him, and went his ways. and the strength of the man that he had spared to god's good life was added to his own strength. [sidenote: _he serveth need_] [sidenote: _he fareth on_] and with his good strength of the body was come strength of his soul also. wherefore, when in his wanderings he came upon a fair land wherein was much kindness, and after a while that land, which had an aged king, was threatened by savage men from wild forest land beyond, he girded on his sword and led the people in war that they might put to confusion the savage men who sought to slay them, and take their fat lands, and the homes where they were born. and when their enemies were driven out, the old king embraced with tears him who had risked his life for them, and besought him, saying, "flame, son of lokus, what wouldst thou? whatsoever thou ask, that will i give thee." and flame, with a look of far horizons in his eyes that were like the sea, answered him on this wise: "god be gracious to thee for thy kindness, but it is i who am in thy debt, for that i have learned the sweetness of giving myself wholly, even unto death, if need be, that innocent folk should not suffer, nor evil prevail. i am a selfish man, thinking little enough of other folk, as i go my way dreaming, and that now i have seen somewhat other than that is a mercy of the lord god." [sidenote: _of black words_] and though the people clamoured that he should stay with them, he went his way, and came into a new land, and dwelt there for a time. and being comely, with grace and courtliness in his mien, and the beauty of the sea in his eyes, when he looked eagerly into the faces of women, seeking his dream, many were sick with love of him. and they made devices that he should tarry with them, some in innocence and good faith, as a maid may, and some fawning, and whispering black words to the youth and heat of his blood. of these last there came betimes a witch-woman, who discerning with cunning the eyes of flame that they were like the sea, made herself as a moon-woman, that he should follow her. and flame, looking upon her, whose face was as silver, felt somewhat surge within him answering her desire. and the woman glided before him until they were come into the desert. [sidenote: _the moon-woman_] and when the moon-woman moved not so swiftly, but lingered, and flame would have touched her, she laughed, and would and would not, and reaching for her, he stumbled, and fell upon the ground, yet held her fast. and the night was black upon them. [sidenote: _the face of leprosy_] when the early morning was come, flame turned him from the moon-woman exulting that now at last he had drunk of the cup, desire whereof had tormented him. but as he turned, some way off in brightness stood senta the radiant one. and she drew near, and spake not, but shed her light, without pity, upon the moon-woman. and flame saw that she was not beautiful, but a hag, and her face of silver the face of leprosy, white and horrible, and as old as the world. and he looked about him, and saw in the desert the bones of men. then did he cry out in fear, "i am in the place of the dead!" and he rose up swiftly and fled away till he was come to the edge of the desert, and thence into a gentle land, of murmuring streams, and trees on the which was fruit of divers kinds, and good to the taste. and after that flame had drunk of the waters, and eaten of the fruit, the lord god was pitiful of his shame and weariness, and he slept. [sidenote: _cometh the dream_] [sidenote: _the voice of vision_] sleeping, once more he dreamed of that woman of radiance, starry-eyed. but whereas aforetime he might not see the fashion of her face, it was now revealed to him in the seeming of his troth-plight maiden, glorified. now was the rose full blown, the child become a woman, in strength, and tenderness, and wisdom, and her beauty was as music under the moon. then unto him in his dream spake the voice of vision on this wise: "now that thou hast proved thyself in turning thee from the place of the dead, shalt thou have fullness of life, withal. thou hast looked upon death in battle, and feared not, for that thou sawest therein that life which is greater than thine own life; and thou hast looked upon that life which is sin, and hast seen therein the death of the spirit. wherefore arise, and go straightway to claim the maiden roseheart for thy wife, that the true life of body and spirit may be fulfilled unto thee. and whatsoever thou fashionest with thy hands, that shalt thou fashion also with thy heart and soul, in the light of the vision the lord god hath given thee. arise." [sidenote: _strength fulfilled_] with a great cry of joy he awoke, and strength was fulfilled to him as it had been a fountain, ever leaping and ever renewed. wherewith straightway he arose, and girt up his mantle for the journey, that swift might be the way of his going. ix. [sidenote: _flame returneth_] [sidenote: _the people at games_] unto the days of three moons he journeyed, over land and sea, and at last he was come into the country of telwyn, wherein were peace, and good harvest, and labour for all that would. and while he was yet some way off, upon a hill, he saw that the people were gathered together in a great meadow, and there rose to him on the wind a great song of joy that they were singing. and drawing near he saw that some of the people were playing at games in the meadow, quoits and bowls, and other games of skill of divers kinds, with trials of strength and daring for the eager blood of youth. and there were horses a-many, and on them men laughing and jesting, and there were women and children, some hundreds, clad in fluttering garments of all the colours of joy. [sidenote: _the day of joy_] in the midst of the throng there sat upon a dais a woman in shining raiment of cloth of silver, broidered with roses that had caught their colour from the rose tint of her face. and her hair of spun gold was bound with a silver fillet, fashioned in all delicacy, and colored to the semblance of the roses that were in the pattern thereof, with leaves cunningly wrought of green gold. standing beside her was a young page clad in crimson who carried a tray whereon were ribbands of bright colours, the which the princess roseheart, for she it was in the shining raiment, did upon those who were victors in the games and contests. [sidenote: _the morning of life_] great was the pride of the people that the princess had come amongst them in their merrymaking. long had she been with them in sorrow and service, but not before this day in the joy of the morning of life, and they deemed it of good augury for her happiness. [sidenote: _cometh flame_] now when flame, yet some way off, saw that the woman in shining raiment was the beloved of his soul, roseheart, his heart leapt within him, and there was upon his limbs the speed of light. but betimes it came to him that travel was upon his garments, and that it were not fit he should dishonour his troth-plight maiden by coming before her eyes in aught unworthy. wherefore he turned him aside from the meadow, and made such haste as he might toward the castle midmost of the forest. when he was come thither, he found therein only a few old serving men and women, for that all others were making holiday in the meadow, the king, telwyn, and the queen ellaline, as well as the humblest folk in the castle. [sidenote: _sea-surge and fire-bloom_] and flame got him right speedily to the great room that had been for his sleeping aforetime. there, as of old, was a great chest wherein were the garments he had brought with him from his home, the isle of sea-surge and fire-bloom. therefrom he chose raiment of rich silk wherein leapt and flickered all colours as of driftwood burning--copper, and blue, and green, and rose, and violet--with a broidered cloak of velvet like clear flame. and he did on a sword the hilt whereof was wrought in divers hues of pure gold. and when all was done, and in the wont of youth he looked upon his likeness in a mirror of silver that was there, he laughed in his heart for that he was young and comely, and for that he was now returned to the home of his heart. [sidenote: _the silken tent_] then with all speed he betook him thence to the great meadow. and when he was come thither, he saw that a little way off at the edge of the forest was a silken tent that was like a purple iris, so beautiful it was, and that thereunder were king telwyn and queen ellaline, looking upon the pleasure of their people. [sidenote: _of queen ellaline_] and flame saw that whereas the princess roseheart had been in the midst of the crowd when first he had seen her, she was now with her father and mother, the king and queen, under the canopy, that had been set in a mossy glade flecked with sunlight and shadow, and glad with delicate flowers. the maid stood at the side of the queen her mother talking shiningly of all that had befallen that morning. and the queen ellaline, most fair indeed to look upon, in thin silk of silver-grey, wherethrough showed under-silks of blue and violet, smiled happily at the life and eagerness of the maid her daughter. [sidenote: _of greetings_] and when the people saw that flame, the son of lokus, was come once more, from overseas, to claim his troth-plight, the princess roseheart, they pressed upon him clamouring, glad with great joy that the youth was grown a man, in full stature of strength and bravery. and flame returned their greetings in all courtesy and kindness, but ever his eyes turned whither his heart drave, toward the tent like an iris, whereunder, like one dreaming, stood the woman of his heart and his dream, now motionless, with her soul in her eyes. [sidenote: _a silver trumpet singing_] and when king telwyn made sure that the figure of flickering beauty that burned its way through the crowd of the people was flame, son of lokus, and none other, his heart was as a harp, swept with chords of joy and questioning, of fear, and a nameless pain that now mayhap he must give his little maid, that was as the remembered joy of his youth, to the clasp of a man, in whom should be her life thenceforward. but the heart of queen ellaline was as a silver trumpet singing, that the maid her daughter was now to live the life of a woman, giving her life to a man, that it should be greatened unto her, and to the world. x. [sidenote: _the humility of pride_] [sidenote: _the return in honour_] now when flame was come before the king and queen and the princess roseheart, he was filled with the humility of those who have great pride, insomuch that he fell upon his knees before them to beg that which aforetime he had asked as in the ignorance of a child. but ere he could speak, king telwyn put forth his hand and raised him, saying, "flame, son of lokus, thou art a thousand times welcome. hearty greeting we give thee, in good faith that thou hast returned in honour." then spake flame on this wise: "greeting from the heart i give thee. meseems my heart will burst with the fullness of my joy that i am come once more to the home of my love, to look upon her beauty, and to give into her keeping all that i have, and all that i am, for she is the soul of my soul." [sidenote: _the eagerness of flame_] then, bethinking himself that he must remember in courtesy to put before his own desires that which was due to others, he made obeisance to the queen, ellaline, who greeted him with kindness, asking him whether he had had food and drink since his journey. "nay," he said, "how should that have been, when i was so much more an-hungered to see quickly the face of my beloved?" and he turned him to his love, roseheart, standing very still, with her soul in her eyes. [sidenote: _the woman of stars_] with quick woman-wit then did queen ellaline motion the serving men that they should draw the curtains of the tent, themselves standing without. and the king and queen withdrew also, that the lovers might be alone. whereupon roseheart, her silver cloak falling from her, stood forth to flame as that woman whose form was radiance, and whose eyes were stars, she that was clad in shining raiment, fashioned full seemly of white silk that flowed and clung, revealing gracious lines of her form, who walked stately-wise, with little children about her knees. [sidenote: _flame falleth upon his knees_] and upon the sight of flame was a mist, and when it had passed and he looked again, the little children were not as they were living, but like wraiths of divers colours, making as it were a rainbow in the midst whereof stood one still a maid. and flame fell upon his knees, and called upon her name. and she set her two hands upon his head, and lifting it gently, looked down into his soul. and when they had come to understanding on this wise, she gave her hands into his, and lifted him up. and he drew her to his heart, and kissed her on the mouth, whereat she was all a woman, and clung to him, saying with little broken cries, "it hath been so lonely without thee--i love thee so!" [sidenote: _the finding_] remembering the pain and struggle of his quest, flame cried out, "wherefore did i go from thee?" yet even as he spake, right well he knew how it had been needful that all things should have befallen them as they had done. then did the face of roseheart grow wistful-sweet, and she asked, "the woman of thy dream--didst thou find her?" and flame answered, "aye, i have found her. dost thou not know? thou thyself art that radiant woman, starry-eyed. i know not what hath befallen thee, save that the starry heavens, that look upon all things, have made thine eyes their dwelling-place." [sidenote: _beyond self_] [sidenote: _the remembered vision_] whereupon roseheart, his beloved, chided him on this wise, with a laughter that was of the soul, and naught unkind in it: "my happiness is so deep, i needs must laugh at thee. meseems the truth is that aforetime thou sawest only thyself in mine eyes, and that now thou hast learned to look beyond thyself. and thus it hath been with me also. once i saw not anything but myself in thine eyes, but now therein i see ships and far countries, and the forms of beauty that thou hast dreamed, and those which thou shalt create in the years to come. when first i saw in thine eyes that woman of thy dream, of whom thou hadst spoken, sorrow and humility were heavy upon me, for that i understood not why there should be aught in thine eyes but thy love, roseheart. but there came a time--" she was silent for a moment that she might hear the music of the remembered vision. "have i grown like her--in good sooth?" she whispered. "thou art she," answered flame, "the soul of my soul." "and what of thee?" whispered roseheart. "what hast thou learned of life in thy far countries?" [sidenote: _the feast is spread_] whereupon he answered, as the voice of vision had told him, "i have looked upon death for right's sake, and seen therein the life greater than mine own life; and i have looked upon the life which is sin and have seen therein the death of the spirit. i have much to tell thee, for that there must be nought but truth between us." then did king telwyn himself draw the curtains of the tent and look within, smiling. "flame, son of lokus, the feast is spread for thee, though well i wot thou knowest not if thou art hungry. but time and enough will there be for talk with thy speech-friend and troth-plight maiden, when thou hast eaten thy meat, and refreshed thee from thy journey. wherefore come now, the both of you, and shew yourselves unto the people, that all may rejoice." [sidenote: _feasting and laughter_] thereupon did flame, son of lokus, lead forth his troth-plight maiden roseheart, to a great table that had been spread under the trees, with a silken cloth, and great dishes of silver and gold, whereon were roast flesh, and new bread, and green things steaming and savoury, and fruits of divers sorts, good to the taste and beautiful. and there were flagons of wine, crimson, and of the colour of corn, and of brown like the leaves of autumn. [sidenote: _flame speaketh modestly_] then was there feasting and laughter, and flame, son of lokus, told many tales of far countries--of strange customs, and cunning of husbandry and handicraft; of wars and the courts of kings; of mightily mountains, of great seas and the storms thereof, wherein he himself had laboured mightily with the men of the ship that they should not perish all. [sidenote: _the queen taketh note_] and for that all he spake on these matters was shrewd and well taken, and modest withal, king telwyn, listening, marked with gladness the manhood that had come to this youth of the isle of sea-surge and fire-bloom. and he was right well pleased, also, that the troth-plight of his daughter was returned with clear eyes and noble bearing, and courtesy and readiness for all that made speech with him. [sidenote: _roseheart hath pride_] and queen ellaline, in the wont of elder women, had eyes to the way of flame with his wine, the which he took gladly, as becomes a man, but not overmuch; and she was content. roseheart, sitting beside her mother, the queen, had thought for none but her troth-plight lord whom she loved; yet marked with pride his thought and courtesy for all that sat at meat with them. there was that in her which remembered with joy and tenderness how that he had thought aforetime only of themselves and their love; but now was she proud that her lord was become a man among men, for well she knew that with all he said and did in any wise, there ran always the music of his joy in her, and the love of his soul for hers. xi. [sidenote: _the shadows grow long_] [sidenote: _queen ellaline speaketh_] now when they had eaten and drunk their fill, and had had much talk withal, the shadows had grown long, and bird-song rippled the air in the wont of sundown. wherefore king telwyn bethought him how it would be pleasant that the four of them, the queen, the princess roseheart, and her troth-plight lord, flame, should walk in the forest for a space, ere yet they returned to the castle. but queen ellaline said to him, "nay, my lord, shall not thou and i return to the castle alone? well i wot these twain have much to say, each to the other. were it not well that they should walk apart in the forest in the cool of the evening, if that be their wish?" and king telwyn smiled thereat, saying, "well, well! certain it is that i am but a stupid man, and thy woman's wit in the right of it." and therewith he bade the young pair go apart as they wished for the space of an hour or two. [sidenote: _flame showeth gratitude_] but ere they went their ways, flame raised to his lips the hand of the queen, and kissed it, forasmuch as he was grateful to her exceedingly that she had had thought and remembrance of the need of young lovers to be alone together. whereafter, the king and the queen having turned their steps to the castle, flame and the princess roseheart wandered in sweet content in the path that led to the pool, where aforetime they had found their love and their destiny. [sidenote: _roseheart radiant_] and when they were come thither, they found there, fluttering like butterflies in a shaft of sunlight that came under the trees and among the stems thereof, children that sported about the pool. and these, forsaking their play, clamoured about the princess roseheart, in sweet rivalry of her love and her touch. and forasmuch as his beloved stood now in the shaft of sunlight, radiant, starry-eyed, with little children about her knees, flame, the giver of dreams, worshiped her in his soul, and stooped him to the earth that he might seize the clay thereof, and mixing it with water from the pool, fashion the likeness of her. but though mightily he strove, the cunning of his hands was withholden from him, and he might not. [sidenote: _the dusk cometh_] then the children, seeing it was late, flitted away to their homes, and the sunlight grew faint and fainter, until the dusk was come, all suddenly. and as the twain stood a little apart, each from the other, there passed between them, as she had been a night-moth, wur, the old gray woman of shadows, whose eyes were as misty pools at twilight, her hair like cobwebs matted, and her garments as the wings of the dusk. and momently there was upon them a chill as of the winter-death. [sidenote: _hand in hand_] then did flame know in his heart that he must tell his white-souled love, roseheart, of the moon-woman in the desert. and his heart shook at thought of her grief and trouble thereat. but being a true man, and strong for the more part, he knew that it were an ill thing to set forward the time of saying that which must be said. therefore he took his love by the hand, and led her to a mossy bank, whereupon they sat them down, hand in hand. after a little he said: "there is a thing that i must tell thee, but because thou art a maid and innocent, i know not if thou wilt understand." [sidenote: _flame confesseth_] and seeing his trouble she answered him gently: "meseems thou couldst not do anything i would not understand." drawing her close within the shelter of his arms he said, "thou believest that i love thee as my heart's blood?" "verily," she made answer, "that must i needs believe, else could i not wed thee." then because he was silent a space, as one thinking, she said, "what is it that thou wouldst say to me?" [sidenote: _speech faileth him_] with quick words then he spake on this wise: "know then that there was a woman--a witch that made herself as a woman of moonlight, beautiful exceedingly, that i should follow her. and forasmuch as mine eyes and my blood are as the sea, i might not refrain, for my weakness, but followed her as the sea the moon. and we came into the desert, and there remained for a space." then did the speech of flame fail him, for that he knew not how to say that which must be said. [sidenote: _life dishonoured_] and roseheart looked upon him shrinkingly, and put away his arms, and rose, and stood away from him. and in her eyes that had held stars, there came a mist, as when the heavens grow dull with that which is not storm, but more like to sickness. "and thou--" she whispered, "didst thou give thyself to this woman?" "yea, but in the way of the flesh only," he answered, shamefast. "i know not if a maid can understand." then was roseheart silent a space, whereafter she said slowly, "meseems that therein lay the sin of what thou didst. hadst thou given thyself body and soul, thy sin against me had been greater, but methinks then would it have been less against the lord god, whose gift of life thou hast dishonoured." [sidenote: _the radiant one_] then spake flame eagerly, "but i told thee she was a witch-woman. thou rememberest the radiant one?" "aye." the princess roseheart was grave and sorrowful. "when that i turned me away from the moon-woman i saw the radiant one, and she came and said naught, but shed her light upon the woman, and i saw that she was not beautiful, like the moon, but a hag, and leprous. wherefore, looking about me i saw the bones of the dead. and i rose and fled away from that place." "thou didst well." [sidenote: _flame shamefast_] then was flame filled with terror that though she spake in all gentleness, his love roseheart was become as a stranger to him. straightway he went to her, saying, "canst thou not forgive?" "i know not," she made answer, with the weariness of one in mortal pain. [sidenote: _thoughts of torment_] then he sought to put his arms about her, and draw her to him, but she looked at him as one in surprise, and therewith he feared to touch her. and he fell upon his knees, and buried his face, shamefast, in the hem of her garment, and wept that he had so wounded her whom his soul loved. with all gentleness she put him away from her, and went apart. and her eyes were dry, but her heart bled, so that she was as one sick unto death. her thoughts pricked her with torment, that her lord whom she had worshipped kneeling, as is the wont of women, was proven but a weak creature on whom she might not lean for strength, for that he had it not. and it was bitter to her that he whom she had thought to be a man such as the lord god had meant in the making of the world, had been but as a child, or blind, that he had been deceived by the moon-woman. wherefore her heart, that had shrined a god, was now empty. xii. [sidenote: _the need of flame_] for some while did flame lie upon the ground as one dead, but presently his manhood arose and stood before the princess roseheart, saying, "then wilt thou send me from thee?" [sidenote: _a new sweetness_] [sidenote: _roseheart forgiveth_] and looking upon his manhood, that would face what must come to it, she saw therewith somewhat that wrung her heart, the look of a little child, with wistful eyes, and mouth that quivered. and she saw that his need of her was greater than it had been aforetime, as of a child for his mother. wherewith into her heart that had been empty of all things whenas the god might dwell there no longer, there came a new sweetness it could scarce hold, so great was the flood thereof. and through her body and her soul the sweetness surged, so that there remained no bitterness at all, but a great gladness, as of the singing of many waters in spring. in her face was the look as of a young mother looking upon her first man-child that she hath borne in pain with thanksgiving. flame, looking upon the glory that was her face, fell at her feet, crying, "thou wilt forgive?" and she lifted him up, and drew his head to her breast, saying the while little words of love and comforting. whereafter, he stood straight before her, and they looked each into the other's eyes as they had been spirits out of the flesh. [sidenote: _somewhat of new beauty_] and there came a shining round about them, that was brighter than the noonday sun, for that senta, the radiant one, was come and stood near them. and flame saw that in the face of his love was somewhat that had not been there before, for the beauty whereof his soul sang. as one in a dream he stooped him to the earth once more to take of the clay thereof and fashion her his mother of men. [sidenote: _the meaning of love_] but ere he might do the thing he would, senta the radiant one drew near, and spake unto them, and her voice was as the music of a mighty pine-wood raising to heaven a paean of triumph in a great wind of spring, with the voices of children therethrough, like little singing streams. and the words of senta were these: "joy to you that ye have learned somewhat whereof life and love are made! roseheart, beloved of flame, son of lokus, now art thou become in very truth a mother of men in thy woman's soul, for that thou hast learned the meaning of love, which is to minister, to suffer, to understand, and to forgive. and thou too, flame, hast learned of it, insomuch that love constrained thee in the pride of thy manhood to become as a little child that thou mightest be forgiven. but stay thy hand, even yet, until thou hast taken the maid to wife, and made her in good sooth a mother of men according to the flesh. then only shalt thou be given fullness of vision, and shalt fashion her in pure marble to be as a dream forever in the hearts of men." [sidenote: _the sign and symbol_] with the passing of senta, the radiant one, was full evening come. and flame, fashioner and giver of dreams, led the princess roseheart, his love and troth-plight maiden, to the brink of the pool, in wonder beyond speech, and a silence as of music. for the pool held deep within deep; and far beyond their two faces of love, they beheld as in the night blue of heaven, the stars that the lord god had set therein to be a sign and symbol unto men of the things beyond the flesh. * * * * * and here ends this story of "the stars in the pool." written by edna kingsley wallace. set in type by the odets printing company, in the year of our lord one thousand nine hundred and twenty, and published by e. p. dutton and company in the city of new york. * * * * * transcriber's note. title page spelling of "auther" was corrected to "author." page 16 "s e -surge" was corrected to "sea-surge." page 29 "he he" was corrected to "he." archaic spellings, syntax and other anomalies remain as in original. transcriber's note: minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have been retained as printed. words printed in italics are noted with underscores: _italics_. the table of contents was not present in the original text and has been produced for the reader's convenience. the witch hypnotizer by zena a. maher published for the author san francisco the bancroft company 1892 copyright, 1892 by zena a. maher issued from the press of the bancroft company _to my husband, the truest and noblest of men_ the witch hypnotizer contents chapter i. ii. iii. iv. v. vi. vii. viii. ix. x. xi. xii. xiii. xiv. xv. xvi. xvii. xviii. xix. xx. xxi. xxii. xxiii. xxiv. xxv. xxvi. chapter i. let there be light. genesis i, 3. let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your father which is in heaven. matthew v, 16. in the world of imagination many witches have lived and died since the one of whose existence and wonders i am about to relate, came into prominence. she lived quite alone in a little cottage on the outskirts of a large city in america, of course, and why should not the free soil produce all sorts when it is the dumping ground for all creation? alone, with the exception of her dog and several cages of canaries which, by the way, were a new departure in the line of pets, for the old-time witches were supposed to favor cats and parrots, she commanded the respect of all, but there was something so very peculiar about her that some of her more superstitious neighbors looked upon this woman as a kind of good witch. there was nothing remarkable about her personal appearance and the peculiarity was not visibly noticeable. it was nothing tangible, but an indescribable something which gave her influence over other minds, to bend them to her will. every one felt this more or less in her presence; a giving up of pet hobbies, even, to her ideas, which fortunately were very liberal. there was that also about her sympathetic nature which invited confidence, and many who were not given to complaining found themselves, they hardly knew why, telling her their secret sorrows. for years this witch or woman was herself unconscious of this power, but when she fully realized it, her work to her conscientious heart was laid out, and that must be in doing all the good possible through this genius that was hers. she had always endeavored to do her best, ever ready to lend a helping hand to any one in trouble. chapter ii. while attending to her birds one morning, the witch was interrupted by a knock at the door and a summons from one of her neighbors, who had sent a child to ask if this good soul would come over. yes, she would be there directly. donning her sombre colored bonnet and shawl the witch started for her neighbor's. the unhappy little woman craved sympathy, and had sent for her who knew so well how to render it. she told the oft-repeated story of a drunkard's wife. her husband had left home the previous evening and had not returned, and after these prolonged sprees she feared his coming, who was the kindest of men when himself, but very savage when under the influence of liquor. then, too, she was afraid that he would lose his position, which his employer had threatened if he did not attend to work better. the witch told her to be of good cheer; that all would be well with her yet. she looked at the shabby furniture and still shabbier clothing of the children. this family had once been in comfortable circumstances, but were brought to this state of poverty through intemperance, the prevailing evil. for the drunkard and the glutton shall come to poverty. proverbs, xxiii, 21. and yet how much good these beverages might do if used in moderation, but too many are with this, like all their other appetites over which they have no control. the mind should be made to strive harder after the knowledge of god in order to subdue these carnal desires. for they that are after the flesh do mind the things of the flesh; but they that are after the spirit, the things of the spirit. for to be carnally minded is death; but to be spiritually minded is life and peace. because the carnal mind is enmity against god; for it is not subject to the law of god, neither indeed can be. so then they that are in the flesh cannot please god. as many as are led by the spirit of god, they are the sons of god. romans viii, 5, 6, 7, 8, 14. woe unto them that rise up early in the morning, that they may follow strong drink, that continue until night, till wine inflame them! woe unto them that are mighty to drink wine, and men of strength to mingle strong drink. isaiah v, 11, 22. he that soweth to his flesh shall of the flesh reap corruption; but he that soweth to the spirit shall of the spirit reap life everlasting. galatians vi. 8. all things indeed are pure; but it is evil for that man who eateth with offense. it is good neither to eat flesh, nor to drink wine, nor anything whereby thy brother stumbleth, or is offended, or is made weak. romans xiv, 20, 21. whilst we are at home in the body, we are absent from the lord. ii corinthians v, 6. be not drunk with wine wherein is excess; but be filled with the spirit. ephesians v, 18. walk in the spirit and ye shall not fulfill the lust of the flesh. galatians v, 16. denying ungodliness and worldly lusts, we should live soberly, righteously and godly in this present world. titus ii, 12. about midday this fallen image of god came home partially sobered and ferocious as a wild animal. the witch mentally compared man with beast and gave her dog the preference. he had commenced his wicked profanity, when a hand was laid on his arm and reproachful eyes looked into his. wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging; and whoever is deceived thereby is not wise. proverbs xx, 1. god created man in his own image. genesis i, 27. know ye not that ye are the temple of god, and that the spirit of god dwelleth in you? if any man defile the temple of god, him shall god destroy; for the temple of god is holy, which temple ye are. i corinthians iii, 16, 17. after this he sat quietly for a long time apparently lost in thought; then this truly penitent one arose, stood beside his wife and vowed that in future he would be a better man, and their home should be happy as in the old days before this false friend took possession. tears of happiness were streaming from the little woman's eyes, and our witch withdrew, thanking god in her heart for this power he had given her. chapter iii. on reaching home she found a neighbor waiting outside, who entered with her, in the meantime pouring into the ever sympathetic ears her trouble. she was bewailing over the downfall of her boy who heretofore had been exceptionally dutiful, invariably spending his evening at home, but of late all was changed. he had contracted the card disease with all its adherent vices, which was rapidly developing into a mania. his salary, which was the home support, was being sacrificed on the gambling altar. here was more work. the only son and mainstay of a widowed mother fast going to ruin. yes, something must be done. early the following evening the witch made it her business to pay a visit to the widow about tea time. the son was hurriedly finishing his meal preparatory to starting out for the night, when somehow he changed his mind and stayed at home instead, and our friend, the witch, knew that in future he would have sufficient strength of will to pass by his old haunt and on home to his waiting loving mother with his earnings in his pocket, which meant more home comforts, more books and evening reading, and happiness to both. turn not to the right hand nor to the left; remove thy foot from evil. proverbs, iv. 27. the witch went home well satisfied with her day's work, and that night thought and planned for the good of humanity. why not venture further into a wider range for action? she might peddle her songbirds from door to door, and in this capacity gain access into houses where she could more readily acquaint herself with those in need of her assistance. chapter iv. the next morning our witch opened her bible and read as she was wont to do before any new undertaking. her eyes rested on these lines: if ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children, how much more shall your heavenly father give the holy spirit to them that ask him? luke xi, 13. she knelt and prayed long and earnestly for an abundance of this holy spirit to guide and help her. she took her birds and started out. i will put my spirit within you, and cause you to walk in my statutes, and ye shall keep my judgments and do them. ezekiel xxxvi, 27. her first stopping place was at a dwelling that stood back some little distance from the street and was surrounded by flowers. what drew her attention most was the appearance of a little child whose innocent face reminded her that purity still existed. she entered the grounds and rang the bell. a young woman opened the door and kindly invited her in. the witch made some remark about the pretty boy outside, when she saw an expression of pain flit over the lady's face. something wrong here, she thought. yes, the child was hers; she had loved not wisely but too well, her betrayer, a prosperous business man who was as yet unmarried, was allowed to move in the very best of society, but the finger of scorn was pointed at her from all sides. she was the only daughter of parents who thought very fondly of their lovable grandchild, still felt keenly the disgrace that had been brought upon the hitherto spotless family name. does the seventh commandment demand more obedience from one sex than the other? it reads as if it was spoken to both alike. our witch learned the man's name and business address, and departed. chapter v. she was so in sympathy with this family that she felt in a hurry to get to work, and so signalled a passing car to stop, and entered. it was well filled, but two seats remaining unoccupied she seated herself in one of them. presently a little colored girl came in and took the other. a high-bred dame sitting next elevated her aristocratic nose and pulled her skirts aside as if fearing contamination. hear ye, and give ear; be not proud; for the lord hath spoken. jeremiah xiii, 15. there is a generation, o how lofty are their eyes! proverbs xxx, 13. behold, i am against thee, o thou most proud, saith the lord god of hosts. jeremiah 1, 31. every one that is proud in heart is an abomination to the lord. proverbs xvi, 5. i will cause the arrogancy of the proud to cease, and will lay low the haughtiness of the terrible. isaiah xiii, 11. the lofty looks of man shall be humbled, and the haughtiness of men shall be bowed down. isaiah ii, 11. why draw this color line so tightly? what of this outer covering? have not these people immortal souls which may be white as the whitest; and in many cases, brilliant talents? the witch remembered a circumstance where a king of oratory, holding a high official position, was debarred from sitting at table with a ship's crew on account of this same color, which was only a heavier shading; and is not all creation a matter of shadow and coloring? and hath made of one blood all nations of men for to dwell on all the face of the earth. acts xvii, 26. a shabbily dressed woman came in. the stamp of labor was on her gloveless hands, and she looked weary, indeed. but no attention was paid her whatever. then came two flashily attired females. no less than five gentlemen arose to offer seats. were they more in need of rest than this poor laboring woman? ah, well! perhaps they were more heavily burdened with their follies than she with her cares. for once the witch was too busy with many thoughts to concentrate her mind on any individual in particular, and passed on and out of the car to finish her day's work. chapter vi. she went in to a business establishment and made her way to the office. the proprietor, a busy man of the world, was at his desk. he looked in surprise at the cage of birds; a rather unusual place, certainly, to attempt the sale of a bird, the business house of a man without family. "i have no use for pets myself, and have no one to give them to." no one? then memory stirred; he thought of the one whom he had so cruelly wronged, and of his innocent child in disgrace. why were these new and better impulses taking possession of his mind? he did not know, but the witch did. she saw the result of her work a few days later when his marriage notice was published in the paper. another family put to rights. chapter vii. next, a respectable looking place that might belong to the occupants, for there was not that unkempt appearance about it that is peculiar to rented property. our witch opened the gate and went in. a scowling woman came to the door who looked daggers at the unwelcome peddler, and said she would not have one of those noisy birds in the house. about this time her tired-looking husband came home from work, and judging from the tirade of abuse heaped upon him, it was evident that she certainly would not tolerate any noise about the premises that she could not make herself. it was only a matter of time when this quiet, hard-working man would tire of his home life. husbands with such life partners are not so much to blame if they do prefer the company of other women, the gambling dens and saloons, or any place rather than their homes. it is better to dwell in a corner of the housetop than with a brawling woman in a wide house. proverbs xxi, 9. how many wives, instead of trying to make home attractive, drive happiness away with their cruel tongues? who have said with our tongue will we prevail; our lips are our own who is lord over us? psalms xii, 4. hold thy tongue. amos vi, 10. the tongue is a fire, a world of iniquity. it is an unruly evil, full of deadly poison. james iii, 6, 8. a soft answer turneth away wrath; but grievous words stir up anger. a wholesome tongue is a tree of life; but perverseness therein is a breach in the spirit. proverbs xv, 1, 4. let all bitterness, and wrath, and anger, and clamor, and evil speaking, be put away from you, with all malice: and be ye kind one to another, tender hearted, forgiving one another, as even god for christ's sake hath forgiven you. ephesians iv, 31, 32. the witch is yet at her work. she proceeded on her way, thankful that she has made one less shrew in the world. chapter viii. on her way along she observed a boy sitting on the walk near some shrubbery. he seemed very intent on whatever he was doing. she approached nearer and saw a poor butterfly denuded of its wings lying quivering in his hand, and he was looking at it with the most intense satisfaction. "my lad, do you know that- the eyes of the lord are in every place, beholding the evil and the good. proverbs xv, 3. even a child is known by his doings, whether his work be pure, and whether it be right. proverbs xx, 11. "understand that it is sinful to torment any living thing." the boy slunk away, realizing for the first time that it was wrong to torture anything so small as a butterfly. the disposition to torture seems to be inherent with many boys and if allowed to grow on them will in time predominate over all good impulses, and prompt them to commit the most terrible crimes. for the land is full of bloody crimes, and the city is full of violence. ezekiel vii, 23. if they were taught to cultivate will power to subdue these evil impulses what a blessing would be derived! how prone to wickedness is all human nature, and how much we need to pray for help to overcome it! watch and pray. matthew xxvi, 41. chapter ix. the witch noticed a girl in the regulation uniform of white cap and apron marshalling several children. how oft seen in the want column: "a nurse girl who will wear the cap." why was this headgear exacted as a badge of servitude? why ape the old world customs? say unto the king and to the queen, humble yourselves, sit down; for your principalities shall come down, even the crown of your glory. jeremiah xiii, 18. thus saith the lord god: remove the diadem and take off the crown; this shall not be the same; exalt him that is low, and abase him that is high. i will overturn, overturn, overturn it; and it shall be no more until he come whose right it is; and i will give it him. ezekiel xxi, 26, 27. and the lord alone shall be exalted in that day. isaiah ii, 11. was not this government founded on the principle of equality? did not the pilgrim fathers estimate one good as another if their righteousness was equal? and the distinction was made only between good and evil doers. a nation that did righteousness, and forsook not the ordinance of their god. isaiah lviii, 2. and ye were now turned, and had done right in my sight in proclaiming liberty every man to his neighbor; and ye had made a covenant before me in the house which is called by my name: but ye turned and polluted my name, and caused every man his servant, and every man his handmaid, whom he had set at liberty at their pleasure, to return, and brought them into subjection, to be unto you for servants and for handmaids. jeremiah xxxiv, 16, 17. then, again, should it not be more essential for these mothers to look more after the morals of the persons who were to be companions for their children and to be less watchful of mrs. grundy's edicts? for the customs of the people are vain. they are altogether brutish and foolish; the stock is a doctrine of vanities. they are vanity, and the work of errors; in the time of their visitation they shall perish. jeremiah x, 3, 8, 15. the witch recalled an instance where a distinguished political leader married a sewing woman, and his bride was ostracized from society when it leaked out that she had labored for a livelihood. had all these aristocrats as clean a record? am afraid one's hands would be somewhat soiled by too close investigation. ye are they which justify yourselves before men; but god knoweth your hearts. luke xvi, 15. for there is nothing covered that shall not be revealed; neither hid, that shall not be known. luke xii, 2. for god shall bring every work into judgment with every secret thing, whether it be good or whether it be evil. ecclesiastes xii, 14. the just lord is in the midst thereof; he will not do iniquity; every morning doth he bring his judgment to light, he faileth not. zephaniah iii, 5. chapter x. one day when passing the jail our witch was moved with an impulse to go inside. the warden allowed her to pass in. her heart ached for these poor wretches whose faces from behind the bars looked so hopeless and unhappy, and whose blasphemous language chilled her. she longed for the time when: every one that nameth the name of christ depart from iniquity. ii timothy ii, 19. who knew but these criminals were as innocent in the light of god's all-searching eye as those who less tried have committed less evil? for all have sinned and come short of the glory of god. romans iii, 23. if we say that we have no sin we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us. john i, 8. some have better childhood memories of good influences brought to bear on their susceptible innocence, and would not humanity, begot and reared in iniquity, have a natural inclination to evil, and consequently be pardonable for greater crimes than those of a healthier nourishment? and would not those stronger ones with great mental gifts have more to answer for accordingly than those of weaker natures? well, it is beyond any human comprehension to execute perfect justice. then hear thou from heaven, thy dwelling place, and forgive, and render unto every man according unto all his ways, whose heart thou knowest; for thou only knowest the hearts of the children of men. ii chronicles vi, 30. i, the lord, search the heart, i try the reins, even to give every man according to his ways, and according to the fruit of his doings. jeremiah xvii, 10. the judgments of the lord are true and righteous altogether. psalms xix, 9. but why dost thou judge thy brother? or why doth thou set at nought thy brother? for we shall all stand before the judgment seat of christ. let us not therefore judge one another any more; but judge this rather, that no man put a stumbling block or an occasion to fall in his brother's way. romans xiv, 10, 13. thou art inexcusable, o man, whosoever thou art, that judgest; for wherein thou judgest another, thou condemnest thyself. romans ii, 1. judge not, and ye shall not be judged; condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned; forgive, and ye shall be forgiven. luke vi, 37. therefore judge nothing before the time until the lord come, who both will bring to light the hidden things of darkness, and will make manifest the counsels of the hearts. i corinthians iv, 5. but crime will come to an end in that happy time when we will know each other's innermost thoughts. what a grand and awful time will be the day of judgment, when the spirit quickens the dust of centuries! grand for those who have sincerely tried to serve the king! who among us shall dwell with everlasting burnings? he that walketh righteously, and speaketh uprightly; he that despiseth the gain of oppressions, that shaketh his hands from holding of bribes, that stoppeth his ears from hearing of blood, and shutteth his eyes from seeing evil: he shall dwell on high; his place of defence shall be the munitions of rocks; bread shall be sure. isaiah xxxiii, 14, 15, 16. blessed are they that keep his testimonies, and that seek him with the whole heart. psalms cxix, 2. they that feared the lord spake often one to another; and the lord hearkened and heard it, and a book of remembrance was written before him for them that feared the lord, and that thought upon his name. and they shall be mine, saith the lord of hosts, in that day when i make up my jewels; and i will spare them as a man spareth his own son that serveth him. malachi iii, 16, 17. awful for the hypocrites when god's magnetic eyes burn into their souls. in this way the world of sin will be dissolved, but space, in which we move and have our being, will never be destroyed. one generation passeth away and another generation cometh; but the earth abideth forever. ecclesiastes i, 4. for this hath the lord said: the whole land shall be desolate, yet will i not make a full end. jeremiah iv, 27. lift up your eyes to the heavens, and look upon the earth beneath; for the heavens shall vanish away like smoke, and the earth shall wax old like a garment, and they that dwell therein shall die in like manner; but my salvation shall be forever, and my righteousness shall not be abolished. isaiah li, 6. who may abide the day of his coming? and who shall stand when he appeareth? for he is like a refiner's fire. malachi iii, 2. every man's work shall be made manifest; for the day shall declare it, because it shall be revealed by fire; and the fire shall try every man's work of what sort it is. i corinthians iii, 13. for our god is a consuming fire. hebrews xii, 29. the earth and all the inhabitants thereof are dissolved; i bear up the pillars of it. psalms lxxv, 3. all the earth shall be devoured with the fire of my jealousy. zephaniah iii, 8. their flesh shall consume away while they stand upon their feet, and their eyes shall consume away in their holes, and their tongue shall consume away in their mouth. zechariah xiv, 12. as wax melteth before the fire; so let the wicked perish at the presence of god. psalms lxviii, 2. therefore the inhabitants of the earth are burned and few men left. isaiah xxiv, 6. all the hosts of heaven shall be dissolved, and the heavens shall be rolled together as a scroll. isaiah xxxiv, 4. woe unto you, scribes and pharisees, hypocrites! for ye devour widow's houses, and for a pretense make long prayers. therefore ye shall receive the greater damnation. matthew xxiii, 14. for the congregation of hypocrites shall be desolate, and fire shall consume the tabernacles of bribery. job xv, 34. i will bring you into the wilderness of the people, and there will i plead with you face to face. and there shall ye remember your ways, and all your doings, wherein ye have been defiled; and ye shall loathe yourselves in your own sight for all your evils that ye have committed. ezekiel xx, 35, 43. chapter xi. the witch was not a regular attendant at any house of worship of any set creed, but preferred ones of lesser grandeur, feeling that she met with more sincerity within. but one sabbath morning her steps led to one of the largest and most fashionable churches in the city. the ushers were busy seating the well-dressed throng. she slipped along and took a seat by the side of a sumptuously dressed lady who shifted and spread her drapery a little more as a hint to the intruder that her presence was undesirable. many haughty glances of derision were shot at the poorly clad stranger who had presumed to come in their midst. she looked about her on the throng. all is vanity. ecclesiastes i, 2. richly attired matrons, conscious only of their extreme style; fair young girls, not a whit less extravagantly garbed than their elders, with cramped waists and all the accoutrements belonging to devotees of fashion. a pity that such fair flowers like the rose could not remain longer in bud, for both fall into decay all too quickly after maturity. but dame fashion seems in a hurry and holds to artificial development. make not my father's house a house of merchandise. john ii, 16. what more was this great display of finery than one way of advertising goods? bring no more vain oblations; incense is an abomination unto me; the new moons and sabbaths, the calling of assemblies, i cannot away with; it is iniquity, even the solemn meeting. wash you, make you clean; put away the evil of your doings from before mine eyes; cease to do evil. learn to do well; seek judgment, relieve the oppressed, judge the fatherless, plead for the widow. come now, and let us reason together, saith the lord: though your sins be as scarlet they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool. if ye be willing and obedient, ye shall eat the good of the land. but if ye refuse and rebel, ye shall be devoured. isaiah i, 13, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20. their land also is full of idols; they worship the works of their own hands that which their own fingers have made. isaiah ii, 8. the daughters of zion are haughty, and walk with stretched forth necks and wanton eyes, walking and mincing as they go, and making a tinkling with their feet. in that day the lord will take away the bravery of their tinkling ornaments about their feet, and their cauls, and their round tires like the moon. the chains, and the bracelets, and the mufflers. the bonnets, the headbands, and the earrings. the rings. the changeable suits of apparel, and the mantels, and the wimples, and the crisping pins. the glasses, and the fine linen, and the hoods, and the veils. isaiah iii, 16, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23. that women adorn themselves in modest apparel, with shamefacedness and sobriety; not with broidered hair, or gold, or pearls, or costly array; but (which becometh women professing godliness) with good works. i timothy ii, 9, 10. the eloquent and eminent divine preached a flowery discourse with no reproof pointing to the vanity and frivolity of the hour. they are shepherds that cannot understand; they all look to their own way, every one for his gain, from his quarter. isaiah lvi, 11. many pastors have destroyed my vineyard; they have trodden my portion under foot. jeremiah xii, 10. the pastors are become brutish, and have not sought the lord. jeremiah x, 21. woe unto you, ye blind guides. matthew xxiii, 16. whose mouths must be stopped, who subvert whole houses, teaching things which they ought not, for filthy lucre's sake. titus i, 11. ye are departed out of the way; ye have caused many to stumble at the law. malachi ii, 8. preach the word; be instant in season, out of season; reprove, rebuke, extort with all long suffering and doctrine. for the time will come when they will not endure sound doctrine; but after their own lusts shall they heap to themselves teachers having itching ears; and they shall turn away their ears from the truth, and shall be turned into fables. but watch thou in all things, endure afflictions, do the work of an evangelist, make full proof of thy ministry. ii timothy iv, 2, 3, 4, 5. the great organ reverberated through the building. the choir sang of god's love to all creatures alike. two women sat side by side, and the one of loftier mien bowed her head, and for the first time in her life felt the love of god in her heart; and the witch went out from church happy, knowing that through her influence one soul was redeemed this sabbath morning. chapter xii. marching along the road came the salvation army. a crowd of juveniles bent on hilarity followed in line, mimicking and ridiculing them. the crowd on the sidewalk jeered, and a high dignitary in church affairs joined his voice with the rest, remarking that this rabble never ought to be allowed to parade the streets sunday. who knows how many degraded lives have been elevated by this much ridiculed religious body who do good work in the slums where religion is most needful, and in so doing follow more closely in the footsteps of the christ than those who spend their energy in striving among themselves for precedence in the public schools and everywhere? why all this contention? should not real christian worshippers work in harmony? have we not all one father? hath not one god created us? malachi ii, 10. and there was also a strife among them which of them should be accounted the greatest. but ye shall not be so; but he that is greatest among you, let him be as the younger; and he that is chief, as he that doth serve. luke xxii, 24, 26. do all things without murmurings and disputings. philippians ii, 14. shun profane and vain babblings. ii timothy ii, 16. be at peace among yourselves. i thessalonians v, 13. seek peace and pursue it. psalms xxxiv, 14. let nothing be done through strife or vain glory. philippians ii, 3. now the end of the commandment is charity out of a pure heart, and of a good conscience, and of faith unfeigned. from which some having swerved have turned aside into vain jangling. i timothy i, 5, 6. examine yourselves whether ye be in the faith; prove your own selves. be of one mind, live in peace. ii corinthians xiii, 5, 11. avoid foolish questions, and genealogies, and contentions, and strivings about the law; for they are unprofitable and vain. titus iii, 9. for where envying and strife is, there is confusion and every evil work. james iii, 16. now i beseech you brethren by the name of the lord jesus christ, that ye all speak the same thing, and that there be no division among you; but that ye be perfectly joined together in the same mind and in the same judgment. i corinthians i, 10. i will therefore that men pray everywhere, lifting up holy hands, without wrath and doubting. i timothy ii, 8. behold, ye fast for strife and debate. is not this the fast that i have chosen? to loose the bands of wickedness, to undo the heavy burdens, and to let the oppressed go free, and that ye brake every yoke? is it not to deal thy bread to the hungry, and that thou bring the poor that are cast out to thy house? when thou seest the naked that thou cover him; and that thou hide not thyself from thine own flesh? then shall thy light break forth as the morning; and thy righteousness shall go before thee; the glory of the lord shall be thy reward. then shalt thou call, and the lord shall answer; thou shalt cry, and he shall say: here i am. if thou take away from the midst of thee the yoke, the putting forth of the finger, and speaking vanity; and if thou draw out thy soul to the hungry and satisfy the afflicted soul; then shall thy light rise in obscurity, and thy darkness be as noonday; and the lord shall guide thee continually. isaiah lviii, 4, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11. let us hear the conclusion of the whole matter: fear god and keep his commandments, for this is the whole duty of man. ecclesiastes xii, 13. he hath showed thee, o man, what is good; and what doth the lord require of thee but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy god? micah vi, 8. chapter xiii. the witch resumed work monday morning. there was more stir in the streets than usual. on every corner were groups of excited men. nothing but whisky and election would cause so much commotion. the carriages of the different candidates were out scouring the town for voters. some of these aspirants for office had almost impoverished themselves by daily treating the crowd of loafers who are always ready to trade their votes for whisky. they go about electioneering for themselves. bosh! if a man has the elements of greatness he will find his place without all this self-praise. for men to search their own glory is not glory. proverbs xxv, 27. for if a man think himself to be something, when he is nothing, he deceiveth himself. galatians vi, 3. election day and no mistaking it; the saloons are supposed to be closed, but there is a back door to some of them. it is not for kings to drink wine; nor for princes strong drink: lest they drink and forget the law and pervert the judgment of any of the afflicted. proverbs xxxi, 4, 5. is it any wonder that the women of our land clamor for a voice in the affairs of state and nation? but a woman's place is not at the polls. she can do more good at home in training the minds of her sons, the future voters, and in making her husband's home-coming pleasant, that he may prefer it to haunts of vice. and it is to be hoped that man through debauchery will not become altogether inefficient and make it necessary for woman to take the lead. but i suffer not a woman to teach nor to usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence. i timothy ii, 12. chapter xiv. in the evening at that most entrancing hour between daylight and dark, when all creation seems in a dreamy mood, the witch found herself at the entrance of a gilded palace of sin. a number of the inmates were flitting about the flower-laden, well-kept grounds. she approached one of exquisite beauty of person whose face was not yet passion-scarred. she was dressed in some soft, flowing, white material which gave her more of a seraphic appearance than one of sensualism. the witch asked what brought her to this stage of immorality. the woman's reply was that she had been reared in wealth, but her father through some unlucky speculation lost everything. she had never learned to work, but had been taught that any labor was most degrading, and she had not qualified herself to teach any branch of learning, never having made allowance for the swift wings of vanishing wealth. when thrown on her own resources she was at a loss to know what to do, when a wealthy gentleman friend came to her assistance at the sacrifice of her honor. he soon tired of her, however; her father had died broken-hearted, and her mother was staying with a distant relative who had kindly offered her a home. the witch persuaded her to leave this life of disgrace, to learn honest work and brighten her mother's remaining years. study to show thyself approved unto god, a workman that needeth not to be ashamed. ii timothy ii, 15. she said that it would be hard for her to face the world with this stigma of shame on her character; that all those bearing any claim to respectability would scorn her. the witch told her that god was judge and not the people, and their lives were not altogether blameless. god is the judge. psalms lxxv, 7. he that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her. john viii, 7. the woman was undecided, but the better mind prevailed and she accompanied the witch home, and the next day found respectable employment. and still the good work goes on. reader, i am only narrating a small portion of this woman's work which she found as the days went by to be illimitable. _vice versa._ if one possessing this mysterious power was inclined to evil rather than good, what a great amount of wickedness might be accomplished through it. god only knows how much of the good and evil that has been done in the world may be attributed to this hidden force. was the famed enchantress of the nile gifted with this secret to a very great extent, and many other characters of history celebrated in their day for the influence they exercised? chapter xv. the witch heard of a murder trial that was going on in court and arousing intense interest, owing to the high social standing of all the parties concerned. she acted on impulse to a certain extent and, leaving her birds at home, started at once for the court-house. on her way there she turned her attention to a case of street pugilism. a crowd of boys, ranging in age from seven to twenty, had congregated. two small urchins were fighting; their faces were scratched and bleeding, and the crowd was urging them on to do each other more injury. these young ruffians made a study of wickedness which is more than mischief, and this element is on an increase the world over. yea also the heart of the sons of men is full of evil. ecclesiastes ix, 3. no wonder when they have for examples men in high places who take such interest in prize fighting. it would be more in keeping with their positions if their minds could aspire to something more elevating. they are ready enough to censure the spaniards for their bull fights, but are themselves not far in advance when they will encourage this barbarous sport which seems to be gaining popularity. the wicked walk on every side when the vilest men are exalted. psalms xii, 8. for the leaders of this people cause them to err; and they that are led of them are destroyed. isaiah ix, 16. these are the men that devise mischief and give wicked counsel in this city. ezekiel xi, 2. if they would exercise the spiritual nature more and the animal less they could take no pleasure in such brutish doing. for the flesh lusteth against the spirit, and the spirit against the flesh; and these are contrary the one to the other. galatians v, 17. even the press takes a hand in it, and devotes whole columns of the papers to explaining in minutest detail the movements of the combatants. our witch was wrapped in thought, but did not forget her work, and in a few moments after she appeared among them the shamefaced crowd dispersed. chapter xvi. when the chief witness against the accused was called to give his testimony there was one among the throng of spectators whose eyes never left his face. he started in a resolute manner, then wavered a little, and finally broke down in the midst of it and confessed his own guilt. he was the murderer. thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor. exodus xx, 16. confess your faults one to another, and pray one for another. james v, 16. he that covereth his sins shall not prosper; but whoso confesseth and forsaketh them shall have mercy. proverbs xxviii, 13. if we confess our sins he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness. john i, 9. there was a hush like the hush of death in the courtroom while he was speaking. when the crowd passed out, a plainly garbed figure went out also unobserved. the witch had done her work for the day. chapter xvii. she looked on the cars gliding over the electric road. what of this occult power? and what of her own? eventually would electricity impel the entire universe? had this always existed and was yet to be brought out by masterful minds? was this the connecting link between god and man? then it was wisely said in ages past: how long, ye simple ones, will ye love simplicity? proverbs i, 22. the lord possessed me in the beginning of his way before his works of old. when he prepared the heavens i was there; when he set a compass upon the face of the depth. proverbs vii, 22, 27. he ruleth by his power forever. psalms lxvi, 7. in the lord jehovah is everlasting strength. isaiah xxvi, 4. take hold of my strength. isaiah xxvii, 5. have ye not known? have ye not heard? hath it not been told you from the beginning? have ye not understood from the foundation of the earth? isaiah xl, 21, 22. for my people is foolish; they have not known me; they are sottish children, and they have none understanding; they are wise to do evil, but to do good they have no knowledge. jeremiah iv, 22. understand, ye brutish among the people, and ye fools, when will ye be wise? psalms xciv, 8. o ye simple, understand wisdom; and ye fools, be ye of an understanding heart. proverbs viii, 5. yea, if thou criest after knowledge, and liftest up thy voice for understanding; if thou seekest her as silver, and searchest for her as for hid treasures; then shalt thou understand the fear of the lord, and find the knowledge of god. proverbs ii, 3, 4, 5. he hath made the earth by his power, he hath established the world by his wisdom, and hath stretched out the heavens by his discretion. when he uttereth his voice, there is a multitude of waters in the heavens, and he causeth the vapors to ascend from the ends of the earth; he maketh lightnings with rain, and bringeth forth the wind out of his treasures. jeremiah x, 12, 13. the heavens declare the glory of god; and the firmament sheweth his handiwork. day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night sheweth knowledge. there is no speech nor language where their voice is not heard. their line is gone out through all the earth, and their words to the end of the world. in them hath he set a tabernacle for the sun, which is as a bridegroom coming out of his chamber, and rejoiceth as a strong man to run a race. his going forth is from the ends of the heaven, and his circuit unto the ends of it, and there is nothing hid from the heat thereof. psalms xix, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. the voice of the lord is upon the waters; the god of glory thundereth, the lord is upon many waters. the voice of the lord is powerful. psalms xxix, 3, 4. the thunder of his power who can understand? job xxvi, 14. with thee is the fountain of life; in thy light shall we see light. psalms xxxvi, 9. the earth shall be filled with the knowledge of the glory of the lord, as the waters cover the sea. habakkuk ii, 14. who is wise, and will observe these things, even they shall understand. psalms cvii, 43. at the resurrection, when the lamb of god will rule the world as the center of gravitation like the sun, who among us can study mischief in secret when mind meets mind in one common thoroughfare of thought which cannot be divided by land or sea? as the lightning cometh out of the east, and shineth even unto the west; so shall also the coming of the son of man be. matthew xxiv, 27. and the city hath no creed of the sun, neither of the moon, to shine in it; for the glory of god did lighten it, and the lamb is the light thereof. revelation xxi, 23. the sun shall be no more thy light by day; neither for brightness shall the moon give light unto thee; but the lord shall be unto thee an everlasting light, and thy god thy glory. thy sun shall no more go down; neither shall thy moon withdraw itself; for the lord shall be thine everlasting light. isaiah lx, 19, 20. there shall be a resurrection of the dead, both of the just and unjust. acts xxiv, 15. as the father raiseth up the dead and quickeneth them, even so the son quickeneth whom he will. john v, 21. ye shall know that i am the lord, when i have opened your graves, o my people, and brought you up out of your graves. and shall put my spirit in you, and ye shall live. ezekiel xxxvii, 13, 14. the dead men shall live together; with my dead body shall they arise. awake and sing, ye that dwell in dust; for thy dew is as the dew of herbs, and the earth shall cast out the dead. isaiah xxvi, 19. chapter xviii. one morning when near a handsome residence the witch stopped at the sound of a musical instrument. the music ceased and a lady of forty or thereabout answered her ring. she was surrounded with every luxury, but our witch soon learned that here, too, was trouble. yes, another mismated couple. the lady said that her husband and herself had never lived very happily together after the first few months of married life; and recently another woman had come between them, and her husband, desirous of a separation, was about to commence proceedings for a divorce from her. as for herself it mattered little, but for the sake of her children she had rather it would not be. presently the husband came. he was a fine-looking man of pleasing address and unless appearance was deceiving he would do very well if started on the right track. here was more work for the ever busy brain. lo, this only have i found, that god hath made man upright; but they have sought out many inventions. ecclesiastes vii, 29. yet i had planted thee a noble vine, wholly a right seed; how then art thou turned into the degenerate plant of a strange vine unto me? jeremiah ii, 21. he sat down facing the witch, and after a little time was conscious of a new train of thoughts. his better spirit moved. would it not be as well to live the remainder of his life with the mother of his children whom he dearly loved? what therefore god hath joined together let not man put asunder. matthew xix, 6. contract marriage is most suitable for the present age. that leaves the contracting parties on a grade with the cattle and admits of their changing companions whenever and as often as they like without breaking god's holy vows. and this have ye done again, covering the altar of the lord with tears, with weeping, and with crying out, insomuch that he regardeth not the offering any more, or receive it with good will at your hand. because the lord hath been witness between thee and the wife of thy youth, against whom thou hast dealt treacherously; yet is she thy companion and the wife of thy covenant. and did not he make one? yet had he the residue of the spirit. therefore take heed to your spirit, and let none deal treacherously against the wife of his youth. for the lord, the god of israel, saith that he hateth putting away. malachi ii, 13, 14, 15, 16. if a man put away his wife and she go from him, and become another man's, shall not that land be greatly polluted? jeremiah iii, 1. when a marriage is solemnized by the word of god, then no law on earth is justifiable for breaking it; and when a couple truly love each other what but death can separate them? for misfortune of any kind only binds the tie of sympathy more closely. if this tie was not so easily broken more persons would consider whom they were marrying and what they were marrying for, and if less deception was practiced beforehand, there would be fewer marriages which prove such dismal failures. the heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked; who can know it? jeremiah xvii, 9. we will be done with all this in the resurrection. in the resurrection they neither marry, nor are given in marriage, but are as the angels of god in heaven. matthew xxii, 30. when the witch left this pair she was happy in the thought that they would live together on better terms, and be like a re-united family. chapter xix. later in the day our witch was in another part of the city; while walking through an alley, she saw a chinaman carrying a large basket full of clean clothes that he was returning to the owners. the witch also noticed several half-grown boys and heard one of them remark: "say we take a shot at that heathen." so with one accord they commenced pelting him with everything available. their victim tried to defend himself to the best of his ability, but the half dozen boys pounced on him, and in the fracas the clothes were upset into the street. it was hard to tell how far they would carry their vicious work, which they considered a capital joke, when some one appeared among them who was also at work. very soon they all left off, not knowing why. the witch stood near while he gathered up the clothes, which necessarily must be washed over again. then she tried to solve in her mind this chinese problem: these mongolians are in a measure obnoxious, but as a rule are peaceable and industrious, which is more than can be said of many other people. they have few opportunities for making a living in their own over-populous country, but perhaps when they have become more thoroughly christianized, the race will be less prolific, which would be beneficial to their own nation and others. say among the heathen that the lord reigneth. psalms xcvi, 10. for the more a man leans to divinity the less he cleaves to his animal nature; and what is true of the chinese applies to other densely populated countries. for they that are after the flesh do mind the things of the flesh; but they that are after the spirit, the things of the spirit. romans viii, 5. let not sin therefore reign in your mortal body, that ye should obey it in the lusts thereof. romans vi, 12. for all that is in the world, the lust of the flesh, and the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life, is not of the father, but is of the world. and the world passeth away, and the lust thereof; but he that doeth the will of god abideth forever. john ii, 16, 17. her mind reverted to an incident which she witnessed in a cemetery. it was the sabbath and she was walking about in there as she often did on this day, for what more forcible sermon can be delivered than a thinking mind can feel while moving about among the dead? after a time she was conscious of a disturbance of some kind going on at one corner of the enclosure. a promiscuous crowd had gathered and ere long there came a chinese funeral train and stopped at the open grave. then the crowd mocked them, and by this time it was evident that they had gathered there to have sport at the expense of the mourners. the children were cutting up all manner of antics, and the parents stood by highly amused at the proceedings. it was almost impossible to conduct the burial rites on account of the confusion made by the mob. to be sure it was a peculiar ceremony, but some respect ought to have been due the feelings of these sorrowing ones at such a time. these children were wholly undisciplined in the matter of right and wrong; their behavior was like so many young savages. what were their parents teaching them? to selfishly enjoy the discomfort of others, and this was all, never trying to encourage the finer and better feelings in their natures. our witch did not wait till the ceremony was over. thoroughly disgusted with human nature, she left the cemetery. chapter xx. she thought still less of it that night when awakened from sleep by a gang of boisterous picnickers who, full of liquor, were returning home from a day of revelry. women's and men's voices mingled together in singing vile songs. how wholly depraved are some natures, and how necessary that these lewd minds should be purified by a closer communion with more spiritual intellects! when there are seven days in a week and our king only exacts from us the sabbath it does seem as if he is entitled to that, but where people are confined to employment every day in the week but one, it is hardly probable that the kind father would object to their having an outing on their one day of liberty out of a week of unremitting toil, if they would conduct themselves properly. not in rioting and drunkenness; not in chambering and wantonness. but put ye on the lord jesus christ, and make not provision for the flesh to fulfill the lusts thereof. romans xiii, 13, 14. my sabbaths they greatly polluted. i am the lord your god; walk in my statutes, and hallow my sabbaths. ezekiel xx, 13. thus saith the lord, keep ye judgment, and do justice. blessed is the man that doeth this, and the son of man that layeth hold on it; that keepeth the sabbath from polluting it, and keepeth his hand from doing any evil. isaiah lvi, 1, 2. if thou turn away thy foot from the sabbath, from doing thy pleasure on my holy day; and call the sabbath a delight, the holy of the lord, honorable; and shalt honour him, not doing thine own ways, nor finding thine own pleasure, nor speaking thine own words: then shalt thou delight thyself in the lord; and i will cause thee to ride upon the high places of the earth, and feed thee with the heritage of jacob thy father; for the mouth of the lord hath spoken it. isaiah lviii, 13, 14. but ere long a few cannot monopolize all the comforts, nor the masses be obliged to struggle hard every hour for the bare necessities of life, for who can defraud his neighbor when all minds will be a unit? and if honesty was practiced to the letter, the good things of life would not be so unequally divided. the profit of the earth is for all. ecclesiastes v, 9. yet ye say, the way of the lord is not equal. is not my way equal? are not your ways unequal? ezekiel xviii, 25. for every one from the least even unto the greatest is given to covetousness, from the prophet even unto the priest, every one dealeth falsely. jeremiah viii, 10. their tongue is an arrow shot out; it speaketh deceit; one speaketh peaceably to his neighbor with his mouth, but in heart he layeth wait. jeremiah ix, 8. as a cage is full of birds, so are their houses full of deceit; therefore they are become great, and waxen rich. jeremiah v, 27. behold these are the ungodly who prosper in the world; they increase in riches. psalms lxxiii, 12. thus saith the lord, execute ye judgment and righteousness, and deliver the spoiled out of the hand of the oppressor; and do no wrong, do no violence to the stranger, the fatherless, nor the widow. jeremiah xxii, 3. be renewed in the spirit of your mind; putting away lying, speak every man truth with his neighbor; for we are members one of another. ephesians iv, 23, 25. that they all may be one; as thou, father, art in me, and i in thee, that they also may be one in us. john xvii, 21. behold, how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity! psalms cxxxiii, 1. chapter xxi. ever on the alert to do good the witch stopped at a rickety tenement, with nothing to recommend it but a climbing rose-bush, set out by some flower-loving tenant a number of years before, and which twined its long branches in full bloom over one end of the dilapidated structure; it was an illustration of extremes meeting, this perfectly beautiful rose-bush and the unsightly old porch. the landlady did not care to buy a bird, and none of the occupants of her rooms were at home during the day, except one, who poor boy, was always in, and a visitor would be sure to cheer him up a bit, though it would be useless to try and sell a bird there. she led the way up a flight of stairs to the room where a little cripple was amusing himself with a few marbles that he was rolling about on the table by which he was sitting. he was delighted with the birds, but knew that his sister could not afford to buy him one. he said she was employed up town in a store, naming the business block of a well-known and very wealthy merchant, and he could not go out and play like other boys, and the days seemed very long sometimes. yes, thought our witch, a day must be a long time to this poor weakling with little to amuse him. she gave him his choice of the birds, and after promising to bring it back in the evening with a new cage which she would buy for him, the witch took her leave. chapter xxii. a little way down the street in advance of her was a heavy wagon drawn by one patient horse that looked as though it might have seen better days, but now one could numerate every rib in its worn frame. the driver was beating the poor animal unmercifully. it doubtless had a history, and if allowed speech would tell of a gradual decline, of careful nourishment and little to do in its prime, but when strength and beauty began to wane, of a harder life, and now in old age when attention was most needful, must fall in line with the great majority of overworked, under-fed beasts of burden, and some day when no longer able to hold up the harness, would be taken out and shot. our witch could hear in her mind's ear the rebuke of old: what have i done unto thee, that thou has smitten me these three times? numbers xxii, 28. she watched the man intently for a few seconds, and then his arm dropped to his side. why this sudden sympathy so foreign to his hardened nature? the all-seeing eye must often look down in tenderest pity on this ill-treated animal creation, which is more deserving of his regard than these inhuman beings, who by their cruelty place themselves far below a level with the lower animals. the lord is good to all; and his tender mercies are over all his works. psalms cxlv, 9. be ye therefore merciful, as your father is also merciful. luke vi, 36. the merciful man doeth good to his own soul: but he that is cruel troubleth his own flesh. proverbs xi, 17. surely the society for the prevention of cruelty to animals is one of the noblest organizations of modern times, and for good work stands second to no religious denomination that has ever existed, or ever will exist. chapter xxiii. her next stopping place was not in a rookery part of the city, but was where wealth abounds. it was just before the noon hour when she entered the palatial home of a many times millionaire and was ushered into the library where he was busy with some papers. "would you care to buy a bird, sir?" "i have no time to talk with you this morning, madam." he looked at her uneasily, and mentally resolved to administer a reproof to the servant for allowing these tramping peddlers to enter the house. the magnetic power was again brought into requisition. the witch might have used this influence for her own financial advantage, but was too conscientious for that, and furthermore money was not her aim in life. gradually there came stealing into this rich man's brain new thoughts; was he doing right with his boundless wealth? he could not understand why he was just waking up to the fact that he had not. how many needy ones had he passed by? withhold not good to them to whom it is due, when it is in the power of thine hand to do it. proverbs iii, 27. to endow some charitable institution at his death, as a monument to his own memory, would hardly atone for neglected duty. would god hold him responsible for this neglect and bar him from the kingdom? thou art weighed in the balances, and art found wanting. daniel v, 27. woe unto him that buildeth his house by unrighteousness, and his chambers by wrong; that useth his neighbor's service without wages, and giveth him not for his work. thine eyes and thine heart are not but for thy covetousness. jeremiah xxii, 13, 17. your riches are corrupted, and your garments are moth-eaten. your gold and silver is cankered; and the rust of them shall be a witness against you and shall eat your flesh as it were fire. ye have heaped treasures together for the last days. behold the hire of the laborers who have reaped down your fields, which is of you kept back by fraud, crieth: and the cries of them which reaped are entered into the ears of the lord of sabaoth. james v, 2, 3, 4. who so stoppeth his ears at the cry of the poor, he shall cry himself, but shall not be heard. proverbs xxi, 13. let not the rich man glory in his riches. jeremiah ix, 23. neither their silver nor their gold shall be able to deliver them in the day of the lord's wrath. zephaniah i, 18. charge them that are rich in this world, that they be not high-minded, nor trust in uncertain riches, but in the living god, who giveth us richly all things to enjoy. that they do good, that they be rich in good works, ready to distribute. i timothy vi, 17, 18. he that oppresseth the poor reproacheth his maker: but he that honoreth him hath mercy on the poor. proverbs xiv, 31. as a partridge sitteth on eggs, and hatcheth them not; so he that getteth riches, and not by right, shall leave them in the midst of his days, and at his end shall be a fool. jeremiah xvii, 11. chapter xxiv. faithful to her promise, the witch purchased a cage, and early in the evening returned to the cripple's abode and was joyfully greeted. "o, but you are a good lady to think of me, only a cripple boy!" she felt that it was indeed more blessed to give than to receive (acts xx, 35) when one could do god a service at the same time. as ye have done it unto the least of these ye have done it unto me. matthew xxv, 40. he that hath pity upon the poor lendeth to the lord. proverbs xix, 17. in a short time the sister came. his face brightened up with pleasure when he told her of the present he had received; now he would have a companion all through the long days. she was also in a happy mood. the head of the firm where she worked had raised the salary of all his employes, and she was very thankful for her good luck because of her brother who needed more books and toys, for the poor child had to amuse himself the best he could during the day. the witch returned home. she saw the progress of her work many times after in this millionaire's acts of benevolence which were so liberal as to excite press comment. blessed is he that considereth the poor; the lord will deliver him in time of trouble. psalms xli, 1. chapter xxv. our witch read of the doings in the old world and was sorry that distance and sea prevented this influence from being brought to bear upon some of the crowned heads, who, born to almost absolute power, showed no mercy to a religious sect, who according to holy writ are the chosen people of god. but one alone cannot revolutionize the earth, unless that one be omnipotent. some day this persecution must come to an end. for the lord will have mercy on jacob, and will yet choose israel, and set them in their own land, and the stranger shall be joined with them. isaiah xiv, 1. prepare to meet thy god, o israel. amos iv, 12. the great day of the lord is near, it is near, and hasteth greatly. zephaniah i, 14. let all the inhabitants of the land tremble, for the day of the lord cometh, for it is nigh at hand. joel, ii, 1. but of that day and hour no man, no not the angels of heaven, but my father only. watch, therefore, for ye know not what hour your lord doth come. matthew xxiv, 36, 42. obey, i beseech thee, the voice of the lord, which i speak unto thee, so it shall be well unto thee, and thy soul shall live. jeremiah xxxviii, 20. return ye now every one from his evil way and make your ways and your doings good. jeremiah xviii, 11. and to wait for his son from heaven whom he raised from the dead, even jesus, which delivered us from the wrath to come. 1 thessalonians i, 10. neither is there salvation in any other; for there is none other name under heaven given among men, whereby we must be saved. acts iv, 12. there is therefore now no condemnation to them which are in christ jesus who walk not after the flesh, but after the spirit. romans viii, 1. draw nigh to god and he will draw nigh to you; cleanse your hands, ye sinners, and purify your hearts, ye double minded. james iv, 8. behold, i stand at the door and knock: if any man hear my voice, and open the door, i will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me. revelation iii, 20. i will heal their backsliding, i will love them freely. hosea xiv, 4. repent ye, therefore, and be converted, that your sins may be blotted out when the times of refreshing shall come from the presence of the lord; and he shall send jesus christ, which before was preached unto you. acts iii, 19, 20. if ye thoroughly amend your ways and your doings; if ye thoroughly execute judgment between a man and his neighbor; if ye oppress not the stranger, the fatherless, and the widow, and shed not innocent blood in this place, neither walk after other gods to your hurt; then will i cause you to dwell in this place, in the land i gave to your fathers, for ever and ever. obey my voice and i will be your god, and ye shall be my people. jeremiah vii, 5, 6, 7, 23. therefore, turn thou to thy god; keep mercy and judgment, and wait on thy god continually. hosea xii, 6. depart from evil and do good, and dwell for evermore. psalms xxxvii, 27. the redeemed of the lord shall return, and come singing unto zion; and everlasting joy shall be upon their head; they shall obtain gladness and joy; and sorrow and mourning shall flee away. isaiah li, 11. and it shall come to pass that he that is left in zion, and he that remaineth in jerusalem shall be called holy, even every one that is written among the living in jerusalem. when the lord shall have washed away the filth of the daughters of zion, and shall have purged the blood of jerusalem from the midst thereof by the spirit of judgment, and by the spirit of burning. isaiah iv, 3, 4. behold, i come quickly. and the spirit and the bride say, come; and let him that heareth say, come; and let him that is athirst come; and whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely. revelation xxii, 7, 17. chapter xxvi. the witch did not go about her work the next day, nor the next, for somehow she contracted a severe cold which completely prostrated her, and then pneumonia clutched her throat. one morning, when the first golden rays of the sun glanced over the sleeping city, they rested in benediction on her death bed. a neighbor, whom in time past she had befriended, was at her side. she knew that the end was near. will this influence stop here? or will it go on and on through all the ages to come? blessed are the dead which die in the lord from henceforth: yea, saith the spirit, that they may rest from their labours; and their works do follow them. revelation xiv, 13. produced from scanned images of public domain material from the google print project.) daisy; or, the fairy spectacles. by the author of "violet; a fairy story." boston: phillips, sampson, and company. 1857. entered, according to act of congress, in the year 1856, by phillips, sampson, and company, in the clerk's office of the district court of the district of massachusetts. stereotyped at the boston stereotype foundry. publishers' advertisement. the universal commendation bestowed upon the exquisite little story of "violet," published last year, has led to the issue of this second book, by the same author. it will be found to possess the same delightful simplicity of style, the same sympathy with nature, the same love of the good and the true, which characterized its predecessor. to those parents who would bring their children into contact with a mind of perfect purity, strong in correct principles, loving and liberal in nature, and refined in tastes and sympathies, the publishers commend this little volume. daisy; or the fairy spectacles. chapter i. the old fairy. there was a great forest, once, where you might walk for miles, and never hear a sound except the tapping of woodpeckers, the hooting of owls, or the low bark of wolves, or the strokes of a woodman's axe. for on the borders of this wild, solitary place one man had built his little house, and lived there. it was very near the trees which he spent his time in cutting down; and peter thought this all he cared about. but when the summer wore away, and the cold, lonely winter months came on, and there was no one to keep his fire burning and the wind from sweeping through his home, and no one to smile upon him and comfort him when he came back tired from his hard day's work, peter grew lonely, and thought he must find a wife. so he went to a market town, a whole day's journey off; for he knew it was a fair-day, and that all the young women of his acquaintance would be there, and many more beside. at first he looked about for the most beautiful, and asked her if she would be his wife; but the beauty tossed her head, and answered, not unless he lived in a two-story house, and had carpets on his floors, and a wagon in which she could drive to town when she chose. all this, was very unlike the home of poor peter, who had nothing in the world but his rough little cabin and a barrow in which he wheeled his wood. the next maiden told him he had an ugly scar on his face, and was not good looking enough for her; and, besides, his clothes were coarse. the next declared that she was afraid of wolves, and would rather marry one of the village youths, and live where she could hear the news, and on fair-days watch the people come and go. so peter started for his lonely home again, with a sadder heart than he left it; for there was no chance that he could ever grow handsome or rich, and therefore he thought he must always dwell alone; instead of the music of kind voices, with which he had hoped to make his evenings pleasant, he was still to hear only the cracking of boughs, and hissing of snakes, and the barking of wolves. but suddenly he met in the road some people who seemed more wretched than himself--an old, bent woman, clad in rags, and with such an ugly face that, strong man as he was, peter could not look at her without trembling, and a girl whom she led, or rather dragged along, through the dusty road. the girl looked as if she had been weeping and was very tired; she did not raise her swollen eyes from the ground while peter talked with her companion. the old dame said she was a silly thing, crying her eyes out because her mother was dead, when she ought to be thankful to be rid of one so old, and sick, and troublesome. the girl began to cry again, and the woman to scold her loudly. "just so ungrateful people are," she said; "when i have promised to find a place where you can live at service, and earn money to buy a new gown, you must needs whimper about the old body that's well enough in her grave." "perhaps the poor child is lonely," said peter, who had a kind heart under his rough coat, and knew, besides, from his own experience, what a hard thing it is to live with no one to love us and be grateful for our care. [illustration: she put the girl's hand into his.] the girl looked up at peter with her pale, sad face; but her lips trembled so that she could not thank him. and he began to think how this poor beggar must have a gentle and loving heart, because she had taken such good care of her old mother, and, notwithstanding she was so troublesome, had been grieved at losing her. so he made bold to ask once more what he had been refused so many times that day, and had never thought to ask again, whether she would marry him, and live in his little cabin, and cook his meals, and keep his fires burning, and smile and comfort him when he should come home tired from his work. and at these words a bright smile came into the face of the old woman, and seemed for an instant to take its ugliness away. she put the girl's hand into his, and said to her, "one who can forget his own trouble in comforting another will make you a good husband, susan." all at once the old woman had disappeared; and peter and susan, hand in hand, were travelling towards the cabin in the wood. they looked about in every direction; but she was gone. then they looked in each other's faces, and seemed to remember that they had seen each other before; at least, peter knew he had always meant to have exactly such a wife as susan, and susan was sure that, if she had looked through the world, she could have found no one so manly, and kind, and generous as peter. i may as well tell you a secret, to begin with--that it was no accident which led the young woman into peter's path, but a plan of the old dame. and she was not the withered hag she seemed, but the youngest and most beautiful fairy that ever entered this earth--the strongest, too, and richest, for the earth itself is only a part of her treasure; and should she forsake it for a moment, our world would wither like a flower cut from its stem, and be blown away with the first wind that came. but you must find out for yourselves the fairy's name. chapter ii. the woodland home. to susan peter's cabin seemed like a palace; for he had taken care that it should look clean and pleasant when his new wife came. it was shaded with the beautiful boughs of the wood; and the door stood open, for he had no lock and key. there were inside some comfortable seats, and a fireplace, and table, and some wild flowers in a cup; and on the floor were patches of sunshine that had crept through the leaves, and made the room look only cooler and shadier. peter opened a closet, and showed his stores of meal and sugar, and all his pans and dishes; and he took from his pocket the stuff for a new gown, which he had bought at the fair on purpose for his wife, and wheeled from its dark corner an easy chair he had made for her, and hung upon the wall a little looking glass, so that she might not forget, he said, to keep her hair smooth, and look handsome when he should come home at evening. poor susan could hardly believe her own senses: but a few hours ago she had been a beggar in the streets, without one friend except the old woman that dragged her through the dust and scolded her. many a night they had slept out of doors, with only a thorny hedge for shelter and the damp grass for a bed; and if it rained, and they were out, had had no fire to dry their shivering limbs; and when they woke up hungry in the morning, had no breakfast to cook or eat. and now the lonely beggar girl was mistress of a house, and the wife of a man whom she would not exchange for the whole wide world, and who seemed pleased with her, and even proud of her. so you see, dear children, that it is never worth while to be unhappy about our trials, because we do not know what may happen the next minute. we never can guess what good fortune is travelling towards us, and may, when times seem darkest, be standing outside of our door. the poor debtor in jail may suddenly hear that he has been made a prince; the dear friend that is sick, and seems almost sure to die, may arise all the stronger, and the dearer, too, for the illness which frightened us; the sad accident that causes such pain, and perhaps mutilates us for life, may have kept off from us some more dreadful pain--we cannot tell. but of this we may always be sure, that the good god, who never sleeps nor grows tired, loves and watches over us, and sends alike joy and sorrow, to make our souls purer, and fitter to live in his beautiful home on high. susan never was sorry that the strange old dame had put her hand in peter's; for he led her through the pleasantest paths he could find, and when the way grew rough, he was so careful of her comfort, and so grieved for her, that she almost wished it might never be smooth again. they were very poor, and worked hard from morning until night, and often had not quite clothes enough to wear nor food enough to eat; but they were satisfied with a little, and loved each other, and enjoyed their quiet, shady home. many a time they talked over the strange events of their wedding day, and wondered if they had really happened, or were only the recollections of a dream; and susan would declare that she had not yet awakened from her dream, and prayed she never might; for the cold, cruel, lonely world she always knew before that day had changed to a beautiful, sunny home, where she still lived, as merry as a bird. susan was not so ignorant as you might think; for before her old mother was taken sick, she had lived at service, and though unkindly treated, had learned to do many things, and could prepare for peter little comforts of which he never dreamed before. she had, too, a pleasant voice, and she and her husband sang together of evenings; so that it happened, after his wife came, peter never heard the snakes or wolves again. ah, and there were more cruel, more fearful snakes and wolves that susan kept away. suppose she had been ill natured or discontented, and instead of enjoying her house, had tormented peter because it was not a more splendid one; and when he came home tired, instead of singing pleasant songs to him, had fretted about her little troubles, and they had vexed and quarrelled with each other; do you think the far-off voices of snakes and wolves outside would have made the poor man's home as doleful as those angry, peevish voices within, which no lock could fasten out? chapter iii. daisy. perhaps by this time you are wondering what has become of the fairy. this is exactly what susan used to wonder; and when, at evening, she went out to tell peter that supper was ready, and it was time for him to leave off work, if a leaf fell suddenly down, or a rabbit ran across her path, she would start and look about cautiously; for it seemed to her the old woman might at any time come creeping along under one of the tall arches which the boughs made on every side, or even she might be perched among the dusky branches of the trees. peter used to laugh at her, and ask if she could find nothing pretty and pleasant in all the beautiful wood, that she must be forever searching for that ugly face. but, to tell the truth, when he walked home alone after dark, and the wind was dashing the boughs about, and sighing through them, and strange-looking shadows came creeping past him, peter himself would quicken his pace, and whistle loudly so as not to hear the sounds that came thicker and thicker, and seemed like unearthly voices. he could not help a feeling, such as susan had, that the old fairy was hidden somewhere in the wood, and that her dreadful face might look up out of the ground, or from behind some shadowy rock. he did not know what a lovely, smiling face was hidden beneath the dame's wrinkles and rags; he did not know that this spirit, he dreaded so much, was his best and kindest friend; and that, while he feared to meet her, she was always walking by his side, and keeping troubles away, and it was even her kind hand that parted the boughs sometimes, to let the sunshine stream upon his little home. it is very foolish to fear any thing, for our fears cannot possibly keep danger away; and suppose we should sometimes meet living shadows, and dreadful grinning faces, in a lonely place, it is not likely they would eat us up; and it is a great deal better and braver for us to laugh back at them than to be frightened out of our senses, and run into some real danger to escape a fancied one. the fairy was not to be found by seeking her, but she came at last of her own accord. when peter came home from his work, one night, and passed the place where susan usually met him, she was not there; he walked slowly, for it was a beautiful evening, and he did not wish to disappoint his wife, who thought more of her walk with him than of her supper. no susan appeared, for all his lingering; and when his own door was reached, who should stand there but the old woman, her ugly face bright with smiles; and in her arms a little child, as small, and helpless, and homely as you would wish to see. but it belonged to peter and susan; and if children are ever so homely, their own parents always think them beautiful. you never saw a person so pleased as peter; he hugged his little girl, and danced about with her, and went out to the door, when it was light, to look at her face, again and again. it seemed to him as if a miracle had been wrought on purpose for him; and already he could fancy the little one running about his home, building up gardens out of sticks and stones, and singing with a voice as musical as her mother's, and even pleasanter, because it would sound so childish and innocent. of course susan was pleased with what delighted peter so much; and neither of them minded the little homely face, except once, when peter declared it looked like the old woman herself, and he was afraid it had caught her ugliness. "what's that--what's that?" exclaimed the fairy, whom he supposed to have gone away; for he was too happy to think much about _her_. up she started from susan's easy chair, with her great eyes glittering at him, and her wide mouth opening as if she would devour the baby. "i said she looked like her godmother," answered peter, holding his child a little closer, and moving towards the door to look at its face again. "then," cried the old dame, "i must christen her. there is nothing rich or beautiful about her looks, and it would be foolish to call her by a splendid name. she will live in lonely, lowly places, and grow without any one's help, and always have a bright, fresh, loving face, that looks calmly up to heaven: we must call her daisy. take care of her heart, now, peter; and this gift of mine will be a more precious one than ever was bestowed upon a queen." so she fumbled a while in her great pocket, and brought out a pair of rusty spectacles, which she offered peter: but he did not know this, for he was looking at susan; and the fairy laid them upon the little, sleeping bosom of the child, and hobbled off into the dark, and was not seen in peter's house again for many a day. "what folly is the meddlesome old dame about, i wonder?" said peter to himself, taking up the spectacles, and about to throw them away; but the child opened her eyes, and took them in her little hand in such a knowing way, he must needs have her mother see it. "dear soul!" exclaimed susan; "she will be such a comfort to me, when i am here alone all day with my work! what shall we name her? it must be something bright and pleasant; and it seems to me there is nothing prettier than daisy." now, while peter and the old woman were talking by the door, susan had been fast asleep, and had not heard what they said. "the dame has talked you into that fancy," answered peter. "i should call the little one susan." "what dame?" asked the wife, in surprise. "you cannot mean that the old woman has been here." if he had ever heard susan speak an untruth, peter would have thought she was deceiving him now; but he felt that she was good and true, and thought, perhaps, after all, she had been so drowsy as to forget the dame's visit; so he patiently told about it, spectacles and all. susan took them in her hand with some curiosity, and even tried them upon daisy's face; they were large and homely, besides being all over rust. while daisy wore them, the moonlight broke through the boughs again, to show her little face, looking so old, and wise, and strange, that susan snatched the spectacles off, and threw them into a drawer, where she quite forgot them, and where they lay, growing rustier, for years. chapter iv. great picture books. you would not suppose that susan's home could be any different because such a poor little thing as daisy had come into it; but bright and pleasant as it was before, it was a hundred times brighter and pleasanter now. the child was so gentle and loving, and so happy and full of life, that susan and peter felt almost like children themselves, in watching her. no matter how tired peter was at night, he would frolic an hour with daisy, tossing the little thing in the air, lifting her up among the boughs till she was hidden from sight. and susan would leave her work any time to admire daisy's garden, or to dress the wooden doll that peter had made for her. as for daisy's self, she was the busiest little soul alive, after she once learned to walk; for at first she could only lie and look up at the leaves, and the great sky, so far, far off, and see the slow, white clouds sail past the tops of the trees, and watch the birds, that hopped from branch to branch and looked down at her curiously, wondering if she were any thing good to eat. daisy would hold up her little hands, to tell them they'd better not try, and then the bird would turn it off by singing away as if he had no such thought, and watch her as he warbled his gay little song, that said, "o daisy, i'm having a beautiful time; are you?" then daisy would coo, and laugh, and clap her hands, which was her song, and which meant, "yes, indeed; only wait till i can use my feet, and have a run with you." peter made a rough kind of cradle out of willow twigs, and hung it in a tree, so that the fresh, green leaves shaded it, and kept away the flies, and fanned daisy's face, as she lay there swinging, when the day was warm, like a little hangbird in her nest. no wonder the child was always fond of birds, when she began so early to live with them and listen to their songs. but daisy learned to walk in time; and then she was constantly flying about, like the butterflies she loved. for the little girl thought even more of butterflies than of birds; they seemed to her like beautiful flowers sailing through the air, and making calls upon the other flowers, that were fastened down to the earth,--poor things!--as she used to be before she learned to walk. she would pick the flowers sometimes, and toss them into the air to see if they didn't fly, and tell them they were silly things to fall back on the ground and wilt, when, if they only would not be afraid, they might float off, with all their wings, and see a little of the world. daisy's hands were always full of flowers; and she brought some to the cabin which susan had never seen before; for the good woman could not leave her work long enough to go in such out-of-the-way places as they chose to blossom in. daisy had no work except to amuse herself; and she never tired of trudging under the trees, crowding her way among the tall weeds by the river bank, and creeping behind great rocks, or into soft, mossy places in the heart of the quiet wood; and here she was sure of finding strange and lovely things. these were the little girl's books; she had no spelling and history like yours, but studied the shapes of leaves and clouds, and the sunshine, and river, and birds. she did not know all their names, but could tell you where the swallow lived, and where wild honeysuckles grew, and the humming bird hid her little eggs, and how many nuts the squirrel was hoarding for winter time, and how nicely the ant had cleaned her house for spring, and when the winged seeds on the maple tree would change to broad green leaves, and the leaves themselves would change to colors as gay as the sunset, and then all droop and wither, and leave the bright little stars to wink at her through the naked boughs. the birds all knew daisy, and were not afraid of her; they would bring their young ones about the door, that she might feed them with crumbs and seeds. and even the sly little rabbits, that started if a leaf fell, came quietly and nibbled grass from daisy's hands, and let her stroke their long, soft ears. you may wonder that susan was not afraid the snakes and wolves would devour her little girl; but, as i told you before, she never could help thinking that the old woman was somewhere in the wood, and remembering how she had smiled at looking into the baby's face, thought she would not let daisy come to any harm. and she was right; for the fairy only lifted her finger when the little girl passed, and the wolf that had begun to watch and growl at her would crouch back in his den, and fall asleep. but he would not have frightened daisy, had he come forth; she did not know the name of fear, and, glad to see a new play-fellow, would perhaps have climbed on his back, and, patting his mouth so gently with her little hand that he forgot to growl, would have told him now he might gallop along, and take her home to her mother. chapter v. trouble for daisy. it was fortunate that susan was so happy while she could be; for the poor woman little dreamed how soon her sunny home was to become a sad, dark place for her. peter used to go forth in the morning, whistling as gayly as any of the birds; and daisy following him, proud enough that she could carry his little dinner basket for the short way she went. she did not know that what was such a heavy load to her was only a feather for the strong man to lift, and so delighted in thinking she had grown old enough to help her dear father. still peter had to watch his dinner closely; for daisy would espy some beautiful flower or vine looking at her from away off in the shade; and down the basket would go, and the little girl was off to take a nearer look, and see if she could not break off a branch to carry home to her mother. sometimes peter walked so fast, or daisy staid so long, that they lost each other; and then the father made a call that could be heard for miles, which frightened all the birds home to their nests, and must have startled the old dame herself, wherever she might be lurking in the wood. but the call was music to daisy; and before many minutes, she would come bounding into her father's arms, almost hidden in the waving white blossoms with which she had loaded herself. and all this while, unless peter himself took care of it, what would become of his dinner! when susan went to meet her husband at evening, now, daisy was sure to be with her--one moment holding her hand, the next skipping away alone, or kneeling to gather bright pebbles and sheets of green moss, to make banks and paths in her garden. she fluttered about in the sunshine like the butterflies she loved, and was as harmless and gentle. but, alas! one night, no peter came to meet them; and though daisy kept thinking she heard his step or his voice, it could only be the fall of some dead limb or the hooting of an owl. the night grew darker, and it lightened so sharply that daisy clung to her mother's skirts, and begged her to hide somewhere under a rock until the storm should be past, as the little girl felt almost sure her father had done. but susan groped her way on, with the wind blowing the branches into their faces, and the dead boughs snapping and falling about them, and the snakes, that they had never seen before, gliding across the path, hissing, and running their forked tongues out with fear. and at length they found poor peter, dead, on the ground. the tree which he had been cutting down had fallen suddenly, and crushed his head so under its great trunk that they only knew him by his clothes. chapter vi. the sweetest flower. small as daisy was, she saw that her father could never speak to her again; she remembered how kind he had always been; how many good times they had had together; how, that very morning, he had waited, on his way to work, and climbed a tall tree, only to tell her whether the eggs were hatched in the blue-jay's nest. she thought, too, how he had let her go farther than usual, and then walked back with her part way, to be sure she was in the right path, and how gently he had kissed her at parting, and told her to be a good girl, and help her mother. ah, she would take care to do that now, and never forget the last words which her dear father spoke to her. when our friends are taken away, we remember every little kind word, or look, or smile they ever gave us--things we hardly noticed while they were alive; and daisy could remember only kindness, only smiles and pleasant words. she thought no one could ever have had so good a father as peter was to her, and that no little girl could be so lonely and wretched as she was now. who was there left to call her up in the morning before the birds, and to make her garden tools, and swing her in the boughs, and listen to her stories at night about the rabbits and flowers? it seemed as if her heart would break. but daisy had one pleasant thought to comfort her--it seemed like a sweet flower that her father had dropped down from his new home in paradise, and which she would always wear in her bosom; and perhaps he would know her by it when, after a great many years, she should go to live with him there. this dear thought was, that when peter lived, she had done every thing in her power to please him and make him forget his weariness, and that he had known of this thoughtfulness, and loved her for it, and had always felt younger and happier when she was by his side. if your brothers and sisters or parents die, whether by accident or sickness, are you sure that they would leave you such a comforter as daisy had? think about it; for when you stand by their coffins, and it is too late to change the past, and the cold lips have spoken their last word, this little flower will be worth more to you--though no one may see it except yourself--than all the treasure in the world. but if you have been cold and cruel, there will come into your heart, instead, when you think of them, a dismal shadow, which all the light of the blessed sun cannot drive away. chapter vii. the woodman's funeral. daisy did not see the lightning, nor hear the snakes, nor feel the drops of rain that began to patter down; she only felt the cold hand that would never lead her through the wood again; for when she lifted it, it fell back on the ground, dead--dead! she asked her mother if they were not going home; but susan said her home was with peter; and if he staid out in the dark wood, she must stay there, too. she was frightened, and wild with sorrow, and did not know what she was saying, and began, at last, to blame the old woman, who had brought her there, she said, to be so happy for a little while, and always afterwards lonely and wretched--the old hag! "what old hag!" said a voice close to susan's ear, that brought her senses back quickly. "is this all your gratitude, susan? and are you going to kill your child, out here, with the cold and damp, because your husband's gone? come! we must bury him; and then away to your home, and don't sit here, abusing your best friend." daisy, you know, had never seen the woman, and she had never looked so dreadfully as now; she was pale and starved, and her great eyes glittered like the eyes of the snakes, and her voice was sharp and shrill enough to have frightened one on a pleasanter night than that. with peter's axe the fairy sharpened two stout sticks; one of these she made susan take, and there, by the light of the quick flashes of lightning, and a little lantern that the woman wore like a brooch on her bosom, daisy watched them dig her father's grave. the fallen tree was one of the largest in the wood, and the two women could not lift it; so they dug the earth away at the side and underneath the trunk; and when the place was deep enough, poor peter's body dropped into its grave. while her mother and the fairy were filling it over with earth, daisy went for the moss which she had gathered to show her father, and, by the light of the fairy's lamp, picked the sweetest flowers, and fragrant grasses, and broad leaves that glistened with the rain, and scattered them on the spot. then, with one of susan's and one of daisy's hands in hers, the old dame hurried them out of the wood. they stumbled often over the broken boughs, and stepped, before they knew it, on the snakes, that only hissed and slid away among the grass. susan was crying bitterly, and their guide kept scolding her, and daisy heard the wolves growl in their dens. she had heard of great funerals, where there were carriages and nodding plumes, and heavy velvet palls, and bells tolling mournfully; but daisy thought it was because her father had been such a good man, that his funeral was so much grander. she knew that all about his grave, and on, on, farther than eye could see, the great forest trees were bending and nodding like black plumes, and sounds like groans and sighs came from them as they dashed together in the wind; the lightning was his funeral torch; and the thunder tolled, instead of bells, at peter's grave; and the black clouds swept on like a train of mourners; and the great, quick drops of rain made it seem as if all the sky were weeping tears of pity for the little girl. ah, and daisy could not see how the dreadful old woman only seemed such, and was, in truth, a good and gentle fairy, who meant still to watch over the little orphan with tender care, as she had always done; whose soft, white wings, even now, were spread above, to shelter her from the cold rain and wind, and whose kind heart was full of pity for that little aching heart of hers. you and i, and all the people we know, walk through the world with this same strange fairy; who seems to frown, and scold, and force us on through cruel storms, and yet who is really smiling upon us, and shielding our shrinking forms with tender care, and leading us gently home. have you thought yet what can be the fairy's name? chapter viii. daisy's mission. no sooner had daisy stepped inside of her mother's door, than there came such a crash of thunder as she had never heard; and the little house shook as if it must surely fall. the old trees ground their boughs together, and, blown by the wind, the night birds dashed with their wet wings against the door; the screech owl hooted, for the young were washed out of her nest; and the rain leaked under susan's door sill, ran across the floor, and put out the little fire of brushwood which was burning on the hearth. and daisy thought of her father, out alone in this fearful night, and how the cold rain must be dripping into his grave. she peeped through the window. the sharp, jagged lightning made the sky look as if it were shattering like a dome of glass. she wondered if that lightning might not be the light of heaven she had heard about, and whether, if the sky should really fall, heaven and earth would be one place, and by taking a long, long journey, she could find her father, and live with him. and she thought that, for the sake of having him to take her by the hand again, she would walk to the end of a hundred worlds. then the sky seemed to daisy like a great black bell; and the thunder was the tongue of it that tolled so dismally over her father's grave. she was startled by a bony hand laid upon her shoulder, and looking up, heard the old woman say in her sharp, shrill voice, "come, little girl! don't you know i am hungry after all this work? fly round, and get me something to eat." and when daisy noticed her poor, starved face, she wondered that she had not thought to offer her some food. so she went to the closet,--the same one which poor peter had shown to his wife with so much pride,--and pointed to bread and a dish of milk,--for the shelves were so high that daisy could not reach them,--and drew her mother's easy chair into the dryest place she could find, and begged the dame to seat herself. she did not wait to be asked twice, but hobbled into the chair, and, to daisy's wonder, ate all the bread at a mouthful, and drank the milk at a swallow, and then, looking as hungry as ever, asked for more. so the little girl brought meat, and then some meal, and some dried fruit, and even cracked nuts; but the more she brought, the more the fairy wanted. if daisy had feared any thing, she would have trembled when, at last, the old dame fixed her glittering eyes upon her, and began to talk. "couldn't you do any better, daisy, than this," she said, "for your mother's friend and yours? are you not ashamed, when i am so hungry and tired, to give me such mean food?" "i am sorry, if you do not like it," said daisy; "it is the best we ever have." "don't tell me that," and the dame began to look angry. "do you call it good food that leaves me thin as i was before, and as hungry, and my clothes as ragged, and does not rest or soothe my poor old aching bones?" "if you wait till mother has done crying, she can make a drink out of herbs that will stop the aching--i am sure of that," said daisy, looking up in the fairy's face. "but i want it now; and, o, i am so cold! and she will cry all night. do, daisy, find me something else to eat." the poor old woman shivered as she spoke, and tears came into her eyes. "if it were daytime, i could find you berries and nuts out doors, for mother says i have sharp eyes." "have you--have you? and could you find my hut? there is a beautiful loaf of bread and a flask of medicine on the table. o, dear! this dreadful pain again!" and the ugly face grew uglier, as its wrinkles seemed all knotting up with agony. "i am almost sure i could find it, and i am so sorry your bones ache; pray, let me try." "what! go out into the dreadful night, with the owls, and wolves, and snakes, and with bats flapping their wings in your face, and the thunder rolling and rumbling overhead?" "none of these things ever hurt me, and i don't believe they will now. may i try?" "just listen to the wind and rain, and see the lightning cut through the darkness like a sword; and think, daisy, if you should see your father, just as he lay in the wood, with his head all crushed." "my father has gone to heaven," said the little girl; "that is only his body out in the woods, just as that is his coat on the wall; and i shall see nothing except the nice loaf of bread and the medicine, and think only how they will cure your pain." without another word, the fairy took the lantern from her bosom, and fastening it to daisy's, led her to the door, and pointed out into the black night. "who could see to hurt me, when it is so dark!" the little girl exclaimed. "now, tell me which way i shall turn, and see if i am not back soon." "walk only where the light of the lantern falls." she was saying more; but the wind slammed the door suddenly, and daisy found herself alone. chapter ix. fairy food. the lantern made a little pathway of light, sometimes leading straight forward, sometimes turning, running among thick bushes or over the rocks; and daisy went bravely on, never minding the frightened birds that fluttered through her light, like moths, nor the sad sigh of the wind, nor the dripping trees. she looked for pleasant things, instead of frightful ones; and let me whisper to you, that, with fairy help or without it, we always find, in this world, what we are looking for. the mosses seemed like a green carpet for her feet, and the pebbles like shining jewels; and the little flowers looked up at her like friends, and seemed to say, "we are smaller and weaker than you are, daisy; but we stay out here every night, and nothing harms us." and the trees bowed, and folded their leaves above her, as she passed, so gently, that she thought they were trying to shelter and take care of her. at length the light paused before a rock; but daisy could find no house, until she parted a clump of bushes, and then saw the entrance to a cave. she crept in; and as her lantern filled the place with light, she saw what a damp, uncomfortable home the old dame had, with only some stones for seats, and a table, and a ragged bed, and a smoky corner where she built her fire. there, however, upon the table stood the loaf and flask which daisy had come to find; she took them and hurried away, for it seemed as if the old dame's face were looking at her out of the rocky wall on every side. [illustration: the loaf and flask.] it was a heavier load for the little girl than her father's basket had been; but she had a strong heart, if her hands were weak. she ran along, trying to get before the light, that was always just in front of her, and singing the merriest songs she knew, so as not to hear the wind nor think about the faces on the wall. she reached home safely, but could not open the door; for the latch was high, and the dame had gone fast asleep. daisy thought she must wait until daylight out there in the cold, and sat on the step, feeling disappointed and sad enough. but one of her tame rabbits, awakened, perhaps, more easily than the dame, hopped out of his burrow, and nestled in daisy's lap, and looked up at her with his gentle eyes, while she warmed her hands in his fur, and did not feel so much alone. at last the old woman started from her sleep, and wondering what had become of daisy, went to look for her. she seized the bread with a cry of joy, and breaking a morsel, ate it eagerly, as she led daisy towards the fire, which she had built up again. "now, see the difference between your food and mine." as the fairy spoke, daisy looked up, and saw, to her surprise, the wrinkles smooth away, and a beautiful light break over the old brown face, the wide mouth shrink to a little rosy one, all smiles, and pearly teeth inside. the fairy's eyes grew brighter than ever; but the dreadful glittering look had gone, and they were full of joy, and peace, and love. "wait, now, till i take my medicine." her voice had changed to the softest, most silvery one that daisy ever heard. and when she had tasted the drink, her poor old crooked hands grew plump and white, her bent form straightened, and, what made daisy wonder more, even her clothes began to change. first they looked cleaner, then not so faded, then the rags disappeared, and they seemed new and whole; and then they began to grow soft and rich, till the ragged cotton gown was changed to velvet and satin, the knotted old turban to delicate lace, that hung heavy with pearls, but was not so delicate and beautiful as the golden hair that floated about the fairy wherever she moved. "poor child!" she said; "you are tired and cold; come, rest with me;" and taking daisy in her arms, began to sing the sweetest songs, that seemed to change every thing into music, even the wailing tempest and her mother's sobs. and all the while that tender, loving face bent over her, and the gentle hands were smoothing her wet hair, and folding her more closely to the fairy's heart. upon this pillow our tired daisy fell asleep. chapter x. daisy's dreams. strange and pleasant dreams came to daisy as she slept; and in all of them she could see the beautiful fairy floating over her head, and her father walking by her side. it seemed to her that, as she watched the lightning, the sky really broke like a dome of glass, and came shattering down, and that after it floated the loveliest forms, and odors and music came pouring down, and light which was far clearer, and yet not so dazzling as the light of earth. the clouds came floating towards her, and all their golden edges were bright wings, that waved in time with the music; then came falling, falling slowly as snow flakes, what seemed little pearly clouds, but blossomed into flowers and then changed into sweet faces, that all smiled on her as they passed by. among these the little girl searched eagerly for her father's face, when all at once he took her in his arms, and said, "ha, my daisy! is it you?" in his own merry, pleasant way. this startled her so much that she awoke, only to fall asleep again, and dream another dream as wonderful. but at length the morning sun had crept around the side of the cottage, found its way through the window, and fell so full on daisy's face, that she could dream only of dazzling, dazzling light, which seemed burning into her eyes, and made her open them wide, at length. and then, alas! how every thing was changed! her first thought was of the fairy; but she had gone, and daisy had been sleeping in her mother's easy chair, and felt cold and lonely as she looked around upon the silent room. no music there, no flowers and angelic faces, and clouds like chariots of pearl, with golden wings to hurry them along; no father to take her in his arms, and call her his little daisy. she closed her eyes, and tried to sleep again, for it seemed to her a great deal better to dream than to be awake in such a dreary little world as that. but suddenly daisy thought of her mother, and almost at the very moment was aroused by a moan from another part of the room. she ran to susan's side, and found her sick, and wretched as she was the night before; so daisy bathed her head, and brought her some fresh water from the spring; and when she could not comfort her in any other way, began to tell her dreams, how she had seen her father again, and felt sure he must be still alive. as susan listened, she dried her tears, and kissed daisy so fondly that the little girl no longer wished to be asleep, but was glad that she had power to run about, and prattle, and amuse her lonely mother. for she remembered peter's last words now, that she must be a good girl, and help, not herself, not sit still and have pleasant dreams, but help her mother. and this daisy felt resolved to do, if only for his sake. chapter xi. the dame's bundle. as soon as her mother smiled once more, daisy asked her what had become of the splendid fairy, and when she would be back again, and how it happened that the light and music had gone with her from their home. susan had seen no fairy, and could not believe that daisy was thinking of the poor old wrinkled dame. when she told the story of her journey to the cave, and the loaf of fairy bread, and the old dame's sudden change, the mother stroked daisy's hair, and said that this was only another of her wonderful dreams, and that, instead of going to the rain, the rain had come to her, pelting upon the window so hard, it had, perhaps, sprinkled her face--that was all; and the light of the fairy was, she supposed, the light of the morning sun, that had pried her little sleepy lids apart, at last. daisy felt bewildered and sorrowful at this, for she did not like to give up her new friend; but her mother told her how long she had known the dame; how she had put her hand in peter's, years ago; and afterwards put daisy in his arms, a little thing, no larger than her wooden doll, that could only lie in the grass or swing in its nest among the boughs, and look up at the sky. daisy thought, if she could have such another dear little thing to play with, and love, and tell her stories to, she should be contented with her home, and willing to wait for her father, and forget the vision of the fairy that had folded her so tenderly in her arms. so she went on asking questions about the dame; and then her mother remembered the gift of the iron spectacles. of course daisy wished to see them; but where they were no one knew. and susan consoled her by saying they were but homely and worthless things. "all things are worthless unless we make use of them," said the shrill voice of the dame, who in her sudden way appeared all at once in the room. "i only wonder that i don't grow tired of helping you," she said; "for you give me nothing except ingratitude. here, take this, and see what fault you can find with it." she tossed a bundle into susan's arms, put a loaf on the table, and pointed daisy to the rubbish heap outside the door; then frowning angrily at susan, "pretty extravagance! to make believe you are poor, and throw away what is worth more than all the gold on earth. why didn't you make the child wear my gift?" "she was homely enough, at first, without it," susan answered; "and after she grew better looking, why should i waste my time looking up those old rusty spectacles, to make her a fright again?" "you will have no such trouble with the other one." as the fairy spoke, a lovely little face peeped out from the bundle in susan's arms. "now, tell what i shall give her, with her name." susan had never seen such a beautiful child, and, poor as she was, felt grateful to the dame for this new gift; but she begged for leave to name the little one herself. "i will call it peterkin, after my husband. ah, how the dear man would have loved it!" and susan began to cry. "then her name will not match her face; if you want a peterkin, i will bring you one instead of this; but her name must be maud." so susan gave up the name for the sake of the child's good looks, and begged the dame to keep her always so beautiful, and to make her rich. "that's easy enough; you should have asked me, susan, to make her heart rich and beautiful. yet rich she shall be; and no one in all the earth shall have so handsome a face. but, remember, it is on one condition i promise--that maud and daisy shall always live together, rich or poor; that they shall never spend a night apart, until daisy goes to live with her father again." susan promised, and was thanking the dame with all her heart, though looking at the lovely little face that nestled in her bosom, when daisy flew into the room. "o mother, mother! i've seen her again, and prettier than she was at first. she smiled at me, and stroked my hair, and then went floating off among the trees, like all the faces in my dream." "then she and the dame are not one; for, look!" "look where? has the dame been here again?" "to be sure; i was talking with her when you came; and the door has not been opened since." but no old woman was in sight; daisy looked under the table, and in the closet, and every dark corner; but she was not there; and the little girl told her mother that she must have been dreaming, now. but susan showed her what the dame had brought, and even put the little thing in daisy's arms. it was hardly larger than a bird, and pretty as a flower, and as helpless, too. and daisy almost forgot the fairy in this new delight; she thought that all the visions in the air were not so sweet and lovely as her sister's face. she could not look at it enough; and at length taking out from her pocket a pair of spectacles, gravely put them on, and looked at her sister again. susan laughed; she couldn't help it, daisy looked so drolly. she saw that the spectacles were the very ones the dame had brought; for she thought there could hardly be another pair so old and rusty in the world. the little girl said she had found them in a dust heap, where susan remembered that she had emptied the rubbish from some old boxes, the day before. daisy had but just cleaned the glasses with her apron, and was holding them up to find if they were clear, when she saw, through them, the beautiful fairy floating by, and smiling on her as she passed. she thought, after all, it might have been the glasses that had changed the sour old woman into a smiling fairy; but when she looked at her sister's sweet little face through them, it was not half so beautiful--it seemed cold and hungry, and the smile was gone. susan felt very sure that the dame was real, for all about her were the care and trouble she had brought; and had she not dragged her on through cruel storms, and scolded her when she was trying to do her best? and if the beautiful smiling vision was real, why did it always float away? susan forgot that the dame, too, floated away when her errands were done. so daisy did not know but she had been dreaming again, though with her eyes wide open; and yet she could not forget how softly she had been folded once in the fairy's arms. perhaps it was because the little girl believed in her, and was always watching and hoping to see her again, that the beautiful bright form sometimes floated past her eyes. chapter xii. a leaf out of daisy's book. after a great many days of rain, the storm ceased; and glad enough was daisy, for she had grown tired of staying in the house, or of being drenched and almost blown away when she ventured out of doors. the sun came out, one morning, and did not hide in clouds again, as usual, but poured its beautiful beams down on the earth, till the dark forest trees seemed touched with gold, and the little drooping flowers lifted up their heads once more. daisy, as she looked from the cabin window, and saw and heard the raging storm, had often wondered what would become of her friends the birds--if their nests would not be shaken from the trees, and their little unfledged young ones would not shiver with cold. then, too, the butterflies, she feared, would have their bright wings washed away or broken; and the flowers would have their petals shaken off, and be snapped from their slender stems. but we are apt to dread a great deal worse things than ever happen to us; and though daisy did find some fallen nests and dead birds scattered on the ground, she could see that the storm had done more good than harm. for every bird there were hundreds of insects lying dead--not bees and butterflies, but worms and bugs, that bite the flowers, and make them shrivel up and fade, and that gnaw the leaves off the trees and all the tender buds, and sting and waste the fruit. the toads were having a feast over the bodies of these little mischief makers; and the birds were swinging on the tips of the leafy boughs, and singing enough to do your heart good; bees came buzzing about as busily as though they meant to make up for all the time they had lost; and a beautiful butterfly, floating through the sunshine, settled upon a flower at daisy's feet, and waved his large wings, that looked soft and dry as if there had never been a drop of rain. then the trees were so bright and clean, with the dust all washed away, and fresh as if they had just been made; they waved together with a pleasant sound, that daisy thought was like a song of joy and praise; and every little leaf joined in the chorus, far and wide, stirring, and skimming, and breathing that low hymn of happiness. the wood was fragrant, too; and in all its hollows stood bright little pools, that reflected the sky, and sparkled back to the sun; the grass and flowers had grown whole inches since daisy saw them last, and the mosses were green as emerald. quite near the cabin, though hidden from it by the trees, was a wide river, that had swollen with the rain, and was rushing on with a sound so loud that it shook the leaves, and seemed like a mighty voice calling to daisy from a great way off. so she found her way to its shore, and saw that the bridge across it had been swept away; and as it went foaming and tearing along, whole trees, and boats, and rafts were whirling in the tide that was rushing on, on, on, she wondered where. then the little girl remembered how long she had been away from home, and hurried back to tell her mother about the bridge, stopping now and then to snatch a flower as she passed. her hands were full when she bounded into the cabin; and she looked as bright, and fresh, and full of joy as any thing out doors. but her mother sat in a corner, feeling very sad, and hardly looked at daisy's flowers, and said it was nothing to her how bright the sun shone so long as it never could rest again on peter's face. "why," said daisy, "i thought father was happy in heaven, and where he did not have to work so hard, and there were never any storms, and the flowers were prettier than these." "that is true enough," susan answered; "but it will not keep us from being lonely, and cold, and hungry, too, sometimes." "but we are not hungry now, and perhaps the queer old dame may bring us some more of her bread, or else i'm pretty sure the fairy will take care of us. who feeds the flowers, mother?" "god." "what, ours--up in heaven?" "there is only one god, daisy; he gives us meat and milk, and gives the flowers dew and air." "then i suppose they were thinking about him this morning." "why?" "because, when i first went out, they seemed as if they were dreaming--just as i felt when i dreamed; so that i wondered if they hadn't seen the fairy pass, or if their eyes were sharper than ours, and they could see faces floating in the air when there were none for us. it was damp, at first, and there were great shadows; but presently the sunshine poured in every where, and still they kept looking straight up into the sky--a whole field of them, down by the river bank; and, do see! even these i've brought you are looking up now at our wall as if they could see through it. if god can see through walls, can't we, when we are looking after him?" "i don't know but we might, daisy. you ask strange questions." "just answer one more, mother. if the flowers have the same god with us, why do they always look so happy, and beautiful, and young? does he think more of them than he does of us?" "no, child--not half so much. we suffer because god made us wiser than the flowers." "why, they get trampled on, and beaten in the wind, and have their stems broken, and have to stay out doors in the cold all night, (daisy was thinking of her midnight walk,) and sometimes they don't have any sunshine for a week: we should call that trouble, and i know what i think about it." "tell me." "why, you see, the flowers are always looking at the sky, and don't mind what is happening around them, nor wait to think who may step on their pretty faces. suppose we are wiser; why can't we live as they do, mother, and think about god and heaven, instead of always ourselves?" "i know a little girl who lives very much like them now," said daisy's mother, kissing her. "but, my dear child, how strangely you have looked ever since you put on those old spectacles!" "why, am i not the same daisy? am i changing to a fairy, like the dame?" "i fear not; they leave a sort of shadow on your face, and make you homely. it seems to me, daisy, i'd throw the old things away." "o, don't say that--not if they make me like the old woman herself. i guess it doesn't matter much how we look down here." "down where?" "why, on the earth; for you know father was not handsome; and when i saw him in heaven, in my dream, o, he had such a beautiful face!" so daisy went on prattling about her father until susan dried her tears; for when she thought of peter now, it was not the poor crushed body in the wood, which she had wept about, but the beautiful, smiling angel in paradise. and when cares gathered thicker about her, and want seemed so near that susan grew discouraged, daisy would bring her flowers; and the mother would remember then how they were always looking up to the kind god, and so look up herself, and thinking about him, forget her sorrows and her cares. chapter xiii. maud. the little maud grew more beautiful every day; she was fair as a lily, except that you might think rose leaves had been crushed to color her cheeks. her bright eyes were shaded by long, silky lashes; and her pretty mouth, when it was shut, concealed two rows of delicate, pearly teeth. her hair hung in a cloud of dark-brown curls, touched on the edges with a golden tinge. the old dame took care that her dress should be always fine; and while she gave daisy the coarsest woollen gowns, brought delicate muslins for maud. but daisy did not mind this; she was glad to see her beautiful sister dressed handsomely; and, besides, how could she crowd through the bushes by the river bank, or sit on the ground looking at grass and flowers through her spectacles, if her own dresses were so frail? it was not, after all, so very amusing as daisy had hoped, to take care of miss maud, when she began to run about and play. she did not dare to go in the wood, for fear of bugs and snakes; she did not like to sail chips in the river, and make believe they were boats; she tossed away daisy's wooden doll, and called it a homely thing; she pulled up her sister's flowers, and always wanted to go in a different place and do a different thing from her. the little girl found it hard to give up so many pleasures; but she kept thinking that maud would be older soon, and would know better than to be so troublesome. and maud was no sooner large enough to run about than daisy wished her young again; for she took pains to tread on the prettiest flowers, and call them old weeds, and would chase every butterfly that came in sight, and tear his wings off, and then laugh because he could not fly; she pinched the rabbits' ears until they grew so wild they were almost afraid of daisy, and seemed to have no pleasure except in making those about her very uncomfortable. yes, maud had one other pleasure--she loved to sit beside the still pools in the wood, that were like mirrors, and watch the reflection of her handsome face. but after this, she was sure to go home peevish and discontented, telling her mother and daisy what a shame it was to live in such a lonely place, and have no one admire her beauty; and to be so poor, and depend on the charity of "that hag," as she called the dame. then she loved to tell daisy what a common-looking little thing _she_ was, and how the mark of those ugly spectacles was always on her face, and every day it grew more homely and serious, and as if she were a daughter of the dame. "as for myself," maud would end, "i am the child, i know, of some great man; the dame has stolen me away from him, i feel sure, and then thinks i ought to be grateful because she brings me these clothes." at this, daisy would look up through her spectacles, and say, meekly, "it doesn't matter much who is our father here; for god, up in heaven, is the father of us all, and gives great people their fine houses, just as he gives these flowers to you and me; for mother told me so." then maud would toss her head, and ask, "what is mother but an old woodcutter's wife, that has worked, perhaps, in my father's kitchen?" "god doesn't care where we have worked, but how well our work is done," said daisy. "o, nonsense! who ever saw god? i want a father that can build me a fine house, all carpeted, and lighted with chandeliers, and full of servants, like the houses mother tells us about sometimes." "why, maud, what is this world but a great house that god has built for us? all creatures are our servants; the sun and stars are its chandeliers; the clouds are its beautiful window frames; and this soft moss is the carpet. look, what dear little flowers grow among it, and gaze up as if they were saying, 'yes--god made us all.'" "who wants a house that every one else can enjoy as much as we, and a father that is not ashamed to call every dirty beggar his child?" daisy thought her home all the pleasanter for this, and loved her heavenly father more, because he had room in his heart for even the meanest creature; but she could not make her sister feel as she did, nor try, as daisy tried, to be patient, and gentle, and happy. chapter xiv. the spectacles. ashamed as maud was of her mother, she found new cause for unhappiness, when, one day, susan died. "who is there, now," asked the beauty, "to make my fine dresses, and keep them clean, and to pet me, and praise my beauty, and carry me to the fair sometimes, so that every one may look at my face, and wish hers were half so handsome?" "poor, dear mother, your hard work is done," said daisy, in her gentle way, bending over the dead form that susan had left. "you will never see the old dame's face again, nor hear the wolves growl in the wood, nor tire yourself with taking care of us." the corpse's hands were hard and rough, but they had grown so with working for her children; and daisy kissed them tenderly, and filled them with fresh flowers, and bore her mother's body far into the still wood, and buried it under the same great tree that lay still, like a tombstone, across peter's grave. though daisy was no longer a child, she could not have done this without fairy help. all the way, she felt as if other arms than hers were bearing her mother's form, and as if new strength were in her own when they handled the heavy spade. as daisy worked there alone in the wood,--for she could not see the fairy, who was helping her,--the little birds sang sweet and tender songs, as if they would comfort their friend. for daisy had loved her mother dearly, and remembered her loving, parental care, and could not but be sorrowful at losing her, even for a little while. yet she tried to calm her aching heart, because maud, she knew, would need all her care now, and must be served, and entertained, and comforted more carefully than ever, so that she might not constantly miss her mother, and spend her days in weeping over what could not be helped. the young girl did not think how much more toil, and care, and unhappiness was coming to herself; for it was always daisy's way to ask what she could do for others, and not what others might do for her. and, children, if you want your friends, and god himself, to love you, depend upon it there is no way so sure as this--to forget yourselves, and think only whom you can serve. it is hard, at first, but becomes a pleasure soon, and as easy and natural as, perhaps, it is now for you to be selfish. you must not be discouraged at failing a few times; for it takes a great deal of patience to make us saints. but every step we move in the right way, you know, is one step nearer to our home in heaven--the grand and peaceful home that christ has promised us. we left daisy in the wood, with the birds singing above her, as she finished her pious work; perhaps, with finer ears, we might have heard angels singing songs of joy above the holy, patient heart that would not even grieve, because another needed all its strength. but the birds' songs ceased; they fluttered with frightened cries, instead; the wind rose, and the boughs began to dash about, and the night came on earlier than usual. daisy saw there was to be another fearful storm; and her first thought was of maud, alone in the lonely wood. how she wished for wings, like the birds, that she might fly home to her nest! but, instead, she must plod her way among the underbrush, which grew so thick in places, and the wind so tangled together across the path, that she went on slowly, hardly knowing whether she were going nearer home or deeper into the wood. "silly girl, where are your spectacles?" said a voice by daisy's side; and the old woman seized her arm, and dragged her over the rough path, as she had done once before. "there is no need of them, now i have your lamp," said daisy in a sad voice; for she was thinking of dear faces that her eyes would never rest upon again. "that's as much as you know. but you cannot cheat me, daisy. have my glasses been of so little use that you put them in your pocket, and choose rather to look through tears?" "i did not mean to cry; but how can any one help it when----" "i know--i know; you needn't tell me of your sorrows, but take out the spectacles." so daisy did as she was told, and never had the glasses seemed so wonderful; for, besides that now the old dame's lamp gave a clearer light, something made daisy lift her eyes, and, instead of two poor bodies lying asleep in the storm, she saw a splendid city far, far up upon the tops of the tallest trees, and peter and susan walking there, hand in hand, and smiling upon her as peter had smiled in her dream. "well," said the shrill voice of the dame, "will you give me back my glasses now, and keep your tears?" "o, no!" and daisy seized the old woman's withered hand, and turned to thank her; but she was not there: one moment daisy felt the pressure of a gentle hand in hers, and then the beautiful fairy floated from before her sight, far up above the trees, and stood, at last, with her father and mother. all three were smiling upon her now, and pointing upwards to the trees, whose leaves were broader and more beautiful than any in the wood. but the young girl stumbled, and fell among the thorns, and seemed all at once to awake from a dream; for, the dame's lamp gone, her path had grown narrow and dark again; and she found it would not do to look any more at the city of gold, until she should find her own poor cabin in the wood. chapter xv. the father's house. at length daisy knew that her home was near; for, above all the howling of the storm, she heard her sister's sobs and frightened cries. very tired she was, and cold, and drenched with rain, and sad, besides, for she could not enter the door without thinking of the burden she had borne away from it last. but, instead of rest and comforting words, maud ran to meet her with whining and bitter reproaches, and called her cruel to stay so long, and foolish to have gone at all, hard-hearted to neglect her mother's child, and would not listen to reason nor excuse, but poured forth the wickedness of her heart in harsh and untrue words, or else indulged her selfish grief in passionate tears and cries. alas! the wolves and snakes that susan kept away from the cabin had entered it now, and our poor daisy too often felt their fangs at her sad heart. she gave her sister no answering reproaches back, and did not, as she well might, say that it was maud's own fault she had been left alone; for she had refused, when daisy asked her help in making their mother's grave. when we see people foolish and unreasonable, like maud, we must consider that it is a kind of insanity; they don't know what they are saying. now, when crazy people have their wild freaks, the only way to quiet them is by gentleness; and we must treat angry people just the same, until _their_ freaks pass. you would not tease a poor crazy man, i hope; and why, then, tease your brother or sister when their senses leave them for a little while? as soon as maud would listen, daisy began to tell about the beautiful city she saw through her spectacles, and how the dreadful old dame had changed to a graceful fairy, and floated up above the trees. but her sister interrupted her, to ask why she had never told before of the wonderful gift in her spectacles, and called her mean for keeping them all to herself. she knew very well that the reason was, daisy had never found any one to believe in what she saw, and that even her mother laughed at her for wearing such old things. maud snatched them eagerly now from daisy's hand, but said, at first, she could only see the lightning and the rain, and then suddenly dashed them on the ground, with a frightened cry. for she had seemed, all at once, to stand out in a lonely wood, by night, and to look through the ground, at her feet, and see as plainly as by daylight the dead form of her mother, with the rain drops, that pelted every where, dripping upon the flowers which daisy had put in her folded hands. maud would not tell this to her sister, but said peevishly, "your old glasses are good for nothing, as i always thought; and you only want me to wear them so as to spoil my beauty, and make me as homely as you. tell me again about the place you saw our mother in, though i don't believe a word of what you say." daisy knew better, and answered, "it was a more beautiful city than any we ever thought about in the world. this earth seemed like its cellar, it was so dull and cold here after i had seen that glorious light; the trees looked in it as if they were made of gold." "o, you are always talking about light and trees; tell me about the people and the houses." "the houses were so bright, i cannot tell you exactly how they looked; the foundations of them were clear, dazzling stones, of every color; even the streets were paved with glass; and the walls were gold, and the gates great solid pearls!" "what nonsense, daisy! didn't the shop-keeper tell us, at the fair, that one little speck of a pearl cost more than my new gown? now, what of the people?" "you didn't look at the houses, after once seeing them; they had such lovely faces, and such a kind, gentle look, i could cry at only thinking of them now." "don't cry till you've finished your story. were any of them handsomer than the rest? and what kind of dresses did they wear?" "their clothes were made of light, i should think; for they were softer than spider webs, and kept changing their shape and color as the people moved about." "how could they?" "why, all the light poured from one place, that i could not look into; and even the heavenly people, when they turned towards it, folded their wings before their faces." "that is where i should build my house." "o, no, my sister; that is where our heavenly father has built his throne; and it is the light from him that makes the whole city splendid, without any sun or moon. you cannot tell what a little, dark speck i felt before god: i trembled, and did not know where to turn, when one of the people came and took my hand." "how frightened i should have been! did he have wings?" "i can't remember; but he moved--all in the heavenly city move--more quickly and more easily than birds. they want to be in a place, and are there like a flash of light; and they can see and hear so far, that the beautiful man who spoke to me said he saw me kiss our mother's hands, and put flowers in them, and carry her into the wood." "did he say any thing about me?" "yes--that some time you would love him better than any one else. and he told me why the people's clothes kept changing: when they went nearer our father, their faces, and every thing they wore, became more splendid and lovely, but as they moved away from him, grew darker and coarser; and yet, maud, the commonest of all the people there is beautiful as our fairy, and wears as splendid clothes." "what was the man's name? i hope he was not common, if i must love him." "no, he was the greatest in heaven; all the men and angels bowed to him, and they called him christ." "o, i would give every thing to see him; you never shall go through the wood alone, daisy, for fear he will come again when i'm away." "he could come to our house as well as to the grave. and i'll tell you another strange thing about the city, maud: some of the roads, you know, are glass, and some are gold; and there is a beautiful river, like crystal, shaded with palm trees, and sweeping on till it is lost in the great light." "i don't see any thing wonderful in that, if the rest of your story be true." "i have not finished: these broad roads ended in narrow paths; and from the river trickled tiny streams, that somehow came down over the golden walls of the city, and over the clouds, and the tops of trees, into this very earth we are standing on." "o daisy! are you sure? could i find one of the paths, and so climb up to heaven, and find the beautiful christ i am to love?" "yes, he told me so himself, and pointed to all the people on earth that were in those paths; and i saw a brightness about them, and a calm look in their faces, such as god's angels have. and then christ told how all who tasted of the streams grew strong; beautiful, and glad; sick people, that stepped into them, were healed; and those who washed in the water were never unclean again." and daisy did not tell, because she feared it might make her sister envious and sad, that the beautiful one had kissed her forehead, and said, "daisy, you have picked many a flower beside these streams, and they have soothed your father's weariness, and healed your mother's aching heart; and when you come to live with me, and i place them all on your head in a wreath that shall never fade, no angel in heaven will wear a more beautiful crown." daisy looked up at him then, and asked, "but will you take them away from my mother? and shall not maud have some? only let me live near you, and give her the crown." christ smiled, and then looked sad, and said, "it will be long before your sister is willing to walk in such straight, narrow paths, and dwell beside such still waters, as she must in order to find these flowers; but you will always be pointing them out to her; and, in the end, she will love me better than she loves any one else. i would gladly help her, daisy, for your sake; but only they who love can dwell with me." chapter xvi. the watchman. so tired was daisy, after all the labor and excitement of the day, that as soon as she had finished her story she fell asleep. maud tried until she was tired to arouse her sister, and make her talk some more; but daisy, except for her quiet breathing, was like one dead. maud could not sleep; she listened to the howling of the storm, and then remembered the grave she had seen through daisy's spectacles, out there in the night; and then her sister's vision of the beautiful, shining city, whose people were clothed in light, and thought of the highest among them all, the king, who waited for her love. "he will not care for daisy, with her wise little face, when once he has seen mine," thought maud. "i shall wear my finest garments, and put on my most stately and haughtiest look, to show him i am not like common people. i hope he does not know that every thing i have comes from that wretched old dame." here there sounded a rattling at the door latch, as if some one were coming into the cabin. maud's heart beat loud and fast for fright; she imagined that dreadful things were about to happen, and scolded poor daisy, as if she could hear, for pretending to be asleep. then came quick flashes of lightning, that made the room like noonday for one instant; and then thunder in crashing peals, that sounded more dreadful in the silent night; and then a stillness, through which maud could hear the voices of the wolves, and the heavy, pelting drops. sometimes she thought the river would swell, and swell, till it flooded into the cabin, and drowned them both; sometimes she thought the lightning would kill her at a flash, or the wolves would break through the slender door, and eat her up, or the wind would blow the cabin down, and bury her. wasn't it strange that the thought never came to her, as she lay there trembling, what a poor, weak thing she was, and how good the fairy had been to keep all mischief from her until now? she did think of the fairy, at length, and resolved to call her help, if it were possible. she lighted a lamp, and held it so near daisy's eyes as almost to burn the lashes off; this she found better than shaking or scolding, for daisy started up from her pleasant dreams, and asked where she was and what was happening. "that!" said maud, as a still sharper flash of lightning ran across the sky, and then thunder so loud that it drowned maud's angry voice. daisy covered her face, for the lightning almost blinded her, and then first found that she had fallen asleep with the fairy spectacles on. "come, selfish girl," said maud, "look through your old glasses; and if they are good for any thing, you can find what has become of the dame, and if she is still awake and watching over us." then daisy told how she had been once to the old woman's cave; and if it were not for leaving her sister alone, would go again to-night. maud would not listen to this at first, but told daisy that she was deceiving her, and only wanted to creep off somewhere and sleep, and leave her to be eaten by the wolves. as she spoke, daisy's face lighted all at once with the beautiful smile which peter saw, the day that she was born. "o maud, listen, and you will not be afraid," she said in her gentle voice. "i seemed to see, just now, the night, and the storm, and our cabin, and myself asleep--all as if in a picture. the lightning flashed and thunder rolled; the wolves were creeping about the door, and sniffing at the threshold, and the cabin rocked in the wind like a cradle. "but just where you are standing, maud, was an angel bending over me, and shading my eyes from the dazzle with her own white wings. she had such a quiet, gentle face as i never saw any where except in my vision of our father's house." "were her eyes black, or blue like mine? i wonder if christ ever saw her." "i do not remember the color; but her eyes were full of love, and pity, and tenderness; and when i seemed to awake, and look up at her, she pointed out into the night." "and there, i suppose, you will pretend that you saw something else very fine--as if i should believe such foolish stories! but talk on, for it keeps you awake." "no, maud, nothing seemed beautiful after the angel's face; but i saw a strong city, with walls, and towers on the walls, and with watchmen walking to and fro to keep robbers away. and i saw a great house, as large as a hundred of ours, with heavy doors, and bolts, and locks, and many servants--strong men, sleeping in their beds, for it was night. "and in one of the inmost rooms, where all was rich and elegant, and the carpet was soft as moss, and the muslin curtains hung like clouds, lay a girl about my age, but a great deal more beautiful, asleep." "was she handsomer than i?" interrupted maud. "i had not time to ask myself; for, as i looked, the door opened softly, and two thieves crept in, and snatched the jewels that lay about the room, and then, seeing a bracelet on her white arm, went towards the bed. "i was about to scream, when the fairy softly put her hand before my mouth, and pointed again. "as soon as the thief touched her arm, the girl awoke, and shrieked aloud; and, when they could not quiet her cries, the men struck at her with their sharp knives, and left her dead. "then the angel whispered, 'daisy, there is only one hand that can save; there is one eye that watches, over rich and poor, the crowded city and the lonely wood, alike. that eye is god's; unless he keep the city, the watchman walketh in vain.' "so, maud, the angel will take care of us, if we only trust in her." maud's fears were quieted so far by daisy's words, that she urged her sister now to go and seek the dame, and leave her there alone. the truth was, maud had a feeling that, if poor little daisy had an angel to watch over her, she, who was so much more beautiful, could not be left to perish. perhaps, even the glorious christ would come; and if he did, she would rather not have her sister in the way. chapter xvii. the fairy's cave. the old dame had built a fire in the corner of her cave, and sat, alone, watching the embers. presently she heard a sound unlike the storm--a parting of the bushes outside, a crackling of dry sticks upon the ground; and, all at once, daisy's bright face appeared, seeming to bring a sunshine into the gloomy den. daisy was dripping with rain, and felt a little afraid that the dame would scold her because her feet made wet tracks on the floor. but the fairy seemed in a merry mood to-night--perhaps she was glad of some one to keep her company. she laughed till the old cave rang again, when her visitor told that she had been frightened by the storm; for she said it was music in her ears, and ought to be in the ears of every one. so she drew a stool before the fire for daisy, and, while wringing the dampness from her dress, asked what had become of the spectacles. "o, they are safe enough," answered daisy. "i know now how much they are worth, and what a splendid present you gave me, though it seemed so poor. you are very good to us, dame." "better than i seem--always better than i seem," she muttered, looking into the fire still. "now, if you think so much of your glasses, put them on." daisy wiped the water from them on a corner of the fairy's dress, for her own was too wet, and did as she was told. and, down, down miles beneath the cave, she saw fires burning, blazing, flashing, flaming about, and filling the whole centre of the earth; beside them the lightning was dull, and the old dame's fire seemed hardly a spark. she saw whole acres of granite--the hard stone that lay in pieces about the wood, half covered with moss and violets; acres of this were rolling and foaming like the river in a storm, melted and boiling in the fiery flames. "why, in a few minutes, the cave itself, and all the earth, will melt, and we shall be burned up," said daisy, alarmed. "o, no," laughed the fairy. "the fire was kindled thousands of years before you were born; and the granite your violets grow upon has boiled like this in its day; but we are not burned yet, and shall not be. there's a bridge over the fire." and, surely enough, when daisy looked again, she saw great cold ribs of rock rising above the flames and above the sea of boiling stone, up and out, like arches on every side. upon this rock the earth was heaped, layer above layer, until on its outside countries, and cities, and great forests were planted, and fastened together, it seemed, by rivers and seas. in the beds of rivers, in crevices of rock, in depths of the earth, were hidden precious stones and metals; and where the rocks rose highest, they formed what we call mountains, that buried their soaring heads in the sky, and stretched along the earth for many hundred miles. "what can this rock be made of?" asked daisy. "look!" and, to her wonder, she saw that it was all little cells, crowded with insects of different kinds. she asked the dame how many there were in one piece of stone which she picked up, and which was about an inch square. "about forty-one thousand millions of one kind, and many more of another," she answered carelessly. "you could not make maud believe that," thought daisy; and the dame, as if seeing into her mind, continued,-"but it is only the one little world we live in which you have seen thus far: look above." the roof of the cave seemed gone; and daisy beheld the stars, not far off and still, as they had always seemed, but close about her, whirling, waltzing, chasing each other in circles, with such tremendous speed that it made one dizzy to watch. and they were no longer little points of light, but worlds like ours--many of them larger than our earth, which was whirling too, and seemed so small that daisy hardly noticed it amidst the beaming suns. there were no handles, no fastenings, no beams, or ropes, or anchors to those flying worlds, that dashed along at such mad speed; she wondered they did not strike against each other, and shatter, and fall. "o, no," said the dame; "the hand which made these worlds can keep them in their places. but how many stars do you suppose there are?" "o, i could not count them in a week." "no, nor in a lifetime. it takes more than that to count one million; and there are more than twenty million worlds." "there will be no use in telling that to maud," thought daisy; "she'll never believe me." and again the fairy saw into her heart, and answered, "only the pure in heart can see god, and believe in him. maud thinks there is no truth, because her weak mind cannot grasp it. "now, daisy, think that all these worlds are god's--made, and watched, and loved by him. you see in many of them mountains such as the piece of stone you looked into; you see rivers, earth, and sky; and i tell you the truth when i say, that all of these are crowded, fuller than you can dream, with creatures he has made. and cannot he who made the lightning govern it? so, do not fear the howling of the storm again; it is your father's voice." "how great he is! i am afraid of him!" said daisy. "you may well be afraid to offend him, but only that; for god is a gentle, loving father. he feels when the tiniest insect in this stone is hurt; and the same mighty hand that guides the stars, and roofs over the fires that might burn up our earth,--the same hand led you through the storm to-night, or, daisy, you would not have found my cave." the dame's last words reminded daisy that she had left her sister alone; and though maud had surprised her by saying that she need not hurry back, maud might have changed her mind, and complain of the very thing she asked an hour before. she flew home, therefore--falling many a time, and wounding her hands with the sharp sticks in her path. great trees were torn up by the roots, and came crashing down, in the dark, scattering earth and pebbles far and wide; but daisy walked among them all unharmed, and was not even frightened; for she knew some kind hand must be guiding her, and thought of the watchman who never sleeps. reaching the cabin, she found maud in a quiet slumber; and, lying down beside her, daisy was soon dreaming over again all she had seen through the spectacles. chapter xviii. daisy alone. the sisters lived together comfortably enough in the wood, for the old dame still supplied their wants; and daisy grew so accustomed to maud's complaints and reproaches, that she did not mind them so much as at first. then it was such a joy when, sometimes, maud would be pleased and satisfied, and speak a kind word or two, that her sister forgot all the rest. the fairy had been in the habit, after susan's death, of taking maud to the fair sometimes, where she could see the people, and choose handsome gowns for herself, and hear what was going on in the world. meantime daisy would remain at home, cleaning the house and washing maud's dresses, and baking some nice thing for her to eat when she should come home tired from the fair. you may think this hard for daisy; but you are mistaken, this time, for she was never so merry as when working thus alone. there was no one to meddle and complain when she was trying to do her best. let maud depart, and all was peace in daisy's home. maud seemed to think that daisy was made for her servant; and when she wished to enjoy herself alone, or to do some kind deed,--for other people lived, now, in the neighborhood of the cabin,--her sister would always interfere, and complain and whine so grievously that daisy yielded to her. but maud away, and her work all finished in the house, daisy would clap on her spectacles, and then such a wonderful world as stretched around her! nothing was common, or mean, or dead; all things were full of beauty and surprise, when she looked into them. the insects that stung maud, and made her so impatient, would settle quietly on daisy's hand, and let her find out how their gauzy, glittering wings were made, and see all the strange machinery by which they could rise and fly, and the little beating hearts and busy heads they had. then they would go slowly circling to their homes; and daisy would softly follow, and find how they lived, and what they ate, and what became of them in winter time, and all about their young. the birds, meantime, would come and sing to her about their joy, their young, their fairy nests, their homes among the shady summer leaves; the poorest worm, the ugliest spider, had something in him curious and beautiful. then she would study the plants and trees, see the sap rising out of the ground, and slowly creeping into every branch and leaf, and the little buds come forth, and swell, and burst, at length, into lovely flowers. she would sit upon the mossy rocks, and think how far down under the earth they had been, and how full they might be of living creatures now; and then bending over the violets that had grown in their crevices, would count their tiny veins, and find how air and sunshine had mixed with the sap to color and perfume them. all these works of his hands made daisy feel how near the great god was to her, and that she could never go where he had not been before, and where his eye would not follow her. and then, amidst her troubles and toils, she had but to think of the beautiful city above, where peter and susan were waiting for her, where the spirits clothed in light would be her teachers and friends, and she would see as far, perhaps, as they, and learn more a thousand times than even her wonderful spectacles could teach her now. but, one day, the dame took a fancy in her head that she was too old to go to the fair again, and, in future, daisy must go instead, and take care of maud. this pleased neither of the sisters; for daisy now must lose her only hours of quiet; and maud, instead of the old crone who had passed for her servant, must appear with the shabby little daisy, of whose meek, serious face, and country manners, she was very much ashamed. then there was the mark of the spectacles to attract attention, and make every one ask who it could be that had such a wise look on a face so young. but the two sisters started, one morning, for the fair, on the selfsame road on which peter had met his wife, and along which he had led her home, to make his cabin such a happy place. it was not so bad for maud to have daisy with her as she had feared; for the good natured sister carried all her parcels, found out cool springs where they could drink, and pleasant spots where they could sit in the cool grass and rest sometimes, instead of hurrying on through the dust, as the dame had always done. then daisy had a cheerful heart, and was pleased with every thing she met, and so full of her stories and cheerful songs, that the way seemed not half so long to maud as when she went with the dame. ah, but maud didn't think how much shorter and brighter her sister's path through life would have been had _she_, instead of her selfish temper, a good and gentle heart like that which was cheering her now. daisy took her spectacles along, you may be sure; and besides that she saw through them many a flower, and bird, and stone, and countless other things to which her sister was as good as blind, maud found them very useful at the fair. for the glasses showed things now exactly as they were--in the rich silk, rough places or cotton threads; calicoes, gay enough to the naked eye, through these looked faded and shabby. was any thing shopworn, moth eaten, or out of fashion, the spectacles told it as plainly as if they had spoken aloud. and just so, seen through these magical glasses, the people changed. a man with a smiling face and pleasant words would appear dishonest and cunning, when daisy put on her spectacles. a maiden with a proud and beautiful face looked humbled, all at once, and sad, and dying of a broken heart. people that walked about in splendid clothes, and looked down on the others, seemed suddenly poor beggars, hiding beneath their garments as if they were a mask. the dame would never carry bundles for maud, nor allow herself to be hurried or contradicted in any way; but daisy bore all the burdens of her own accord, and yielded to maud's caprices, however foolish they might be, if they troubled no one except herself. but on their way home, something occurred in which daisy resolved to have her own way; and maud was so angry that she would not walk with her sister, and hurrying on, left her far behind. chapter xix. the quarrel. it was the old dame that caused the sisters' quarrel. a few miles from the cabin she appeared, creeping through the dusty road, with a bundle of sticks three times as big as herself on her head. "pretty well!" exclaimed maud. "the old creature could not find strength enough to walk a little way with me; but she can pick up sticks all day for herself, and carry home more than i could even lift." the dame made no reply; perhaps she did not hear the beauty's words; but maud was so vexed that she brushed roughly past, and upset all her sticks, and the poor old dame in the midst of them. the fairy lifted her wrinkled arm, which was covered with bleeding scratches, and shook her finger angrily at maud, who only laughed, and said, "it is good enough for you; take care, next time, how you stand in my way. i am the one to be angry, after you've scattered your sharp old sticks all over the road to fray my new silk stockings. come, daisy, make a path for me through them." daisy helped the dame to her feet again, and wiped away the dust and blood, and bound the arm up with her own handkerchief, and then began patiently to pick up all the sticks, and fasten them in a bundle. she did this while maud and the fairy were quarrelling and reproaching each other. we could often make up for a fault or accident in the time which we spend mourning over it and deciding whose was the fault. maud, in her heart, was not sorry for what her sister had now done, because she feared the fairy, and knew, if she went too far in offending her, that she might never appear again; and then miss maud would eat coarse food, and wear shabby clothes, like her sister daisy. still she pretended to be angry, and scolded daisy well for undoing what she had done, and comforting the old woman when she chose to punish her. yet more vexed was she when daisy took the sticks on her own head; for the dame seemed tired and faint, and trembled like a leaf from the fright and pain of her fall. maud drew herself up haughtily, and asked if she was expected to walk in a public road in company with a lame old hag and a fagot girl. her eyes flashed, and the color glowed in her delicate cheeks, as she spoke; daisy thought she had never seen her sister look so beautiful, and even took out the glasses that she might look more closely at the handsome face. alas, what a change! serpents seemed coiling and hissing about maud's breast; her eyes were like the eyes of a wolf; the color on her cheeks made daisy think of the fires she had seen burning so far down in the centre of the earth; and the ivory whiteness of her forehead was the dead white of a corpse. it was not strange that, maud's beauty gone, her sister grew less submissive; for daisy, even with her spectacles, had found nothing except beauty to love in her sister. she thought a lovely heart must be hidden somewhere underneath the lovely face. but now she had looked past the outside, and all was deformed and dreadful. "i should like to know if you mean to answer," said maud pettishly; "i told you either to throw down the sticks, or else i would walk home alone." "i must help the poor dame; and as for our walk, we both know the way," was daisy's quiet answer. so they parted; and daisy began to cheer the dame, who groaned dreadfully, by telling of all the fine things at the fair, and the use she had made of her spectacles, and how grateful she must always be for such a wondrous gift. it pleased the dame to have her glasses praised; and so she forgot to limp and grumble about her wounds, and walked on gayly enough by daisy's side, telling sometimes the wisest, and sometimes the drollest, stories she had ever heard. but their mirth was interrupted by the sound of sobs; and daisy's quick eyes discovered, sitting among the bushes by the way, a little girl, all rags and dust, crying as if her heart would break. "never mind her; she will get over it soon enough," said the dame. "i wonder how you would have liked it, had i said that about you, an hour ago," thought daisy, but made no reply, except to turn and ask the child what she could do for her. "o, give me food, for i am starved, and clothes, for i am cold, and take me with you, for i am so lonely," sobbed the child. "then don't cry any more, but take my hand; and here are some wild grapes i picked just now--taste how fresh and sweet they are." the little girl laughed for joy, with the tears still glistening on her face, and soon leaving daisy's hand, skipped about her, flying hither and thither like a butterfly, filling her hands with flowers, and then coming back, to look up curiously in the strange old face of the dame. "you are a good soul, after all," said the fairy, when daisy returned to her side. "see how happy you have made that little wretch!" "yes, and how easily, too! o, why do not all people find out what a cheap comfort it is to help each other? i think, if they only knew this, that every one would grow kind and full of charity." daisy did not dream that the child listened, or would understand what she was saying; but the little girl, tears springing into her eyes again, answered softly, "o, no, not all." "why, have you found so many wicked people, my poor child?" "perhaps they are not wicked; but they are not kind;" and the girl's voice grew sadder. "some time before you came, a beautiful lady passed; she was not dressed like you, but a hundred times handsomer; and i thought she would have ever so much to give away; so i asked her for a penny to buy bread." "and did she give you one?" asked daisy, who saw that the lady must have been her sister maud. "not she; she called me names, and pushed me away so roughly that i fell into a bunch of nettles; and they stung till it seemed as if bees were eating me up. look there!" so she held up her poor little arms, that were pinched with poverty, as the dame's with age; they were mottled, white and red or purple, with the nettle stings; and only looking at them made her cry again. but daisy comforted her. "there, i wouldn't mind; she did not mean to hurt you. and, besides, you must blame me; for i offended her, and made her cross. she is my sister." "o, dear, then i don't want to go home and live with you; let me go back and die, if i must. that lady would beat me, and pull my hair, i know. when you met me, i was not crying for hunger, though i was so hungry, nor for cold, though my clothes were all worn out, but because she was so unkind. don't make me live with her." here the fairy drew the little girl towards her, and whispered, "daisy has to live with her, and be fretted at and worked hard all the time; if you go, maud will have another to torment, and will leave her sister in peace sometimes." then the tears were dried at once; and the child, taking daisy's hand, said firmly, "wherever you lead me i will go." daisy never knew what made her change her mind, for she had not heard the fairy's whisper; but angels in heaven knew it, and saw how, at that moment, the child unconsciously stepped into one of the golden paths that lead to the beautiful city on high. for no good deed, no good thought or intention even, is lost. few, perhaps, behold them here; but hosts of the heavenly people may always be looking on. and even if they were not, it is better to be good and kind: the good deed brings its own reward; it makes our hearts peaceful; it makes us respect ourselves, so that we can look serenely in the face of every one, and, if they blame us, answer, "i have done the best i could." chapter xx. twilight. when maud had gone far enough to lose sight of daisy and the dame, she slackened her pace, and looked about to see how beautiful the path had grown. the trees met in green arches above her head; the road side was sprinkled with lovely flowers, fragrant in the evening air; and the breeze, stirring freshly, gave motion and a sweet, low sound to every thing. insects were chirping merrily, and stars began to twinkle through the boughs. even maud did not feel lonely; she had much to remember about the fair--all her purchases, all the compliments she had heard paid to her beauty, all daisy's usefulness, and how sure she would be to make her go again. but the scene about her grew every moment quieter and more beautiful; so that, leaving her worldly thoughts, a solemn feeling came over maud, and she began to think of the still more beautiful place which was some time to be her home,-and then of that glorious one whom she was to love; mean and coarse seemed her earthly lovers when she thought of him, and their compliments vulgar and idle beside his gracious words. "ah, if i could but see this christ once," thought maud, "so that i might know what would please him, and could always remember him just as he really is! it is strange that he does not come when he must know how i am longing to behold his face." and, in truth, maud had never for an hour forgotten her sister's vision, but was constantly thinking what more she could do to make herself attractive when the beautiful one should come. she would not go out at noon, for fear of tanning her complexion; she hardly ate enough to live, because of a fancy that angels have very poor appetites; she gave up the sweet smile which she had preserved with so much care, and looked serious, and even sad. and the foolish girl made it an excuse for not doing her share of the household work, that she could not go to heaven with the stains of labor on her hands. "what more can he require of me?" thought maud. "let him but say, and i will do any thing to serve this greatest of all the angels--will die--will be his slave!" in the twilight, maud saw, all at once, beside her a being more beautiful than she had even thought her christ. he was thin and pale; he looked tired, and there were drops of blood on his forehead and tears in his eyes. yet was there something noble and good about him, that seemed grander than all the beauty of this earth, and melted the heart of the haughty maud; so that she asked him to come to her cabin for food, and promised to make the old dame give him clothes. he shook his head, and answered, "i have come to you before, naked, and hungry, and tired, and sad; but you drove me away." "o, no, you are mistaken," said maud; "i never saw you in my life before." "when you refused food and shelter to the poor, old, and wretched, you were starving and freezing me." "how could i know that?" said maud, a little peevishly. "but, come, take my hand, and i will lead you where there is shelter and food." he drew back from the hand she offered. "i cannot touch these fingers; wicked words are written over them." "no such thing!" said maud, thoroughly vexed. "there is not a man at the fair but would be proud to take my hand. read the wicked words, if you can." "waste, weakness, indolence, selfishness, scorn, vanity," he read, as if the hand were a book spread out before him. and then the beautiful being disappeared; and maud, never dreaming that she had spoken with christ, and hearing her sister's voice not far behind, hurried on quickly, so as to be in the cabin first. chapter xxi. the fairy letters. maud was so tired of being alone, and so anxious, besides, to ask if daisy had seen the stranger who disappeared from her, that she ran good naturedly enough to the door, to welcome her sister. but when she saw the dame's wretched old face, and the little beggar whom she had thrust away so scornfully, and daisy herself bending under the heavy load of sticks, maud's wrath came back again. "here i shall have to wait an hour for my supper," she complained, "because you chose to lag behind, and tire yourself with bringing burdens for other folks. i should like to know where you will put your precious friends: not in _our_ house--be very sure of that." but the dame quickly silenced her by asking, "who has fed, and clothed, and taken care of you and all your kith and kin? who gave you the gown on your back and the beauty in your cheeks? and when you found your sister lying half dead by the roadside,--as you would have been but for my care,--what were you willing to do for her? o maud, for shame!" "she is no sister of mine," answered maud, making way; however, as she spoke, for the beggar to enter her door. "ask daisy," was the dame's reply. "o maud, i was so sorry that you left us," daisy said; "for the beautiful man i saw in heaven, whom you are to love, came and spoke to me, with a look and words i can never forget in all my life." "where was it?" asked the sister eagerly. "in that part of the road which our father used to call the church, because the trees made such grand arches overhead, and it was so still and holy, with the stars looking through the boughs. you remember the elm, with the grape vine climbing up among its boughs, and hanging full of fruit: i met him there." "but he could not be half so beautiful as the man i saw in that very place," boasted maud. "i talked with him a while; then i suppose he heard you coming, for he went away." the old dame's bright, sharp eyes were fixed upon her; and maud cast her own eyes down in shame, as daisy continued,-"the dame's bundle of wood was very heavy, and this little girl dragged so upon my skirts as we toiled on, that i knew she must be tired. i was feeling glad that i happened to meet them, because i am both young and strong, you know, and used to work, when, as i told you, christ appeared, standing beneath the elm." [illustration: and he looked into my face.] "how ashamed you must have felt! i suppose he thought you the old dame's daughter, or a beggar, perhaps. i'm glad you did not bring him to our cabin; how it would look beside his palace in the golden city above! what did he say to you?" "'blessed, o daisy, are the merciful,' he said; 'i was hungry, and you gave me food; thirsty, and you gave me drink. i was sad, and you cheered me; tired, and i rested on your arm.' "'o, no,' i answered, 'you must be thinking of some one else. i never saw you before, except in my vision once.' "he took my hand, and looked into my face with such a gentle smile that i did not feel afraid, and pointed at the wood: 'this burden was not the old dame's, but mine; the blood you wiped away was mine; when you fed and comforted this little one, you were feeding and comforting me. you never can tell how much good you are doing, daisy; poor girl as you are, you may give joy to my father's angels. look through your spectacles.' "so i looked, and there sat the poor little beggar, (see, she has fallen asleep from weariness!) moaning and sobbing in the grass, as when we found her first; and an angel stood beside her, weeping, too." "an angel beside _her_?" interrupted maud. "yes, a beautiful angel, with the calm, holy look which they all wear in heaven, but i never saw upon this earth; he wept because she had no friend; and, just then, i was so fortunate as to come past, and, not seeing the angel, i asked her to take my hand, and run along beside me. "but now i saw that, when the child began to smile, the angel also smiled, and lifted his white wings and flew--o, faster than lightning--over the tree tops, and past the clouds; and the sky parted where he went, until i saw him stand before the throne, in the wonderful city above. "and christ said, 'he stands there always, watching her, unless she needs him here; and when her earthly life is over, he will lead her back, to dwell in my father's house. for the great god is her father, and yours, and mine; she is my sister: should i not feel her grief?'" maud's heart fell, for she felt that the being whom she had met must also have been christ, and asked daisy if he looked sad and tired, and had wounds in his hands. "o, no--what could tire him, maud? he looked strong, and noble, and glad, and seemed, among the dark trees, like a shining light." "alas! then it was i who tired him, and made him sorrowful," thought maud; then said, aloud, "but, daisy, are you sure he took your hand? see, it is smeared with the old dame's blood, and soiled with tears you wiped from the beggar's face, and stained and roughened with hard work: are you sure he touched it?" "the whole was so strange, that i dare not be sure whether any part of it was real," replied daisy, who was so modest that she did not wish to tell all christ had said. "_i_ am sure, then," outspoke the dame. "he took her hand, and--listen to me, maud!--he said, 'this blood, these tears, these labor stains, will be the brightest jewels you can wear in heaven; have courage, and be patient, daisy--for beautiful words are written here, that never will fade away.'" and when maud asked what they were, the dame replied sharply, "exactly the opposite of words that are written on somebody's fine hands: self-sacrifice, and generosity, and faith, and earnestness, and love. such words as these make daisy's rough hands beautiful." chapter xxii. the face and the heart. "can i give up my beautiful face, and become a poor little drudge, like daisy?" asked maud of herself. "no, it's a great deal too much trouble. i can find plenty of friends at the fair; and so i will forget the sad, sweet face that has haunted me all these months." so maud never told that she had looked upon christ; though every time daisy spoke of him, she felt it could be no other. the winter came on; and the report of maud's beauty had spread so far, that she was invited to balls in the neighboring towns; and she no longer walked, for people sent their elegant carriages for her. the dame took care that she should have dresses and jewels in abundance; and daisy could not but feel proud when she saw her sister look like such a splendid lady; though sometimes she would be frightened by seeing the eyes of a live snake glittering among maud's diamonds, and something that seemed like the teeth of a wolf glistening among her pearls. the beauty had many lovers, but she found some fault with each; until, one day, the handsomest and gayest man in all the country round asked her to marry him. she refused, at first, because he had not quite so much money as the others; but when she saw how many ladies were in love with him, maud felt it would be a fine thing to humble them, and show her own power. the old dame could give them money enough; and so she changed her mind, and began to make ready for her wedding. then you should have seen the splendid things that the old dame brought, day after day, and poured on the cabin floor--velvets, and heavy brocades, gay ribbons and silks, and costly laces; as for the pearls and diamonds, you would think she had found them by handfuls in the river bed, there were so many. meantime daisy had come across a very different jewel, though i am not sure but it was worth a cabin full of such as maud's. once she was walking with the little beggar girl, whom daisy called her own child now, and named susan, after her mother; before them, climbing the hill side, was a man in a coarse blue frock, who seemed like a herdsman. he was driving his cows, and turning back to look for a stray one, susan chanced to see his face; she broke from daisy, and with a cry of joy, ran into the herdsman's arms. his name was joseph; and daisy learned that, when the little girl's mother was sick, joseph had brought her food, and taken the kindest care of her; but his master sent him to buy some cows in a distant town, and before he reached home again, susan's mother did not need any more charity, and the poor child herself was cast out into the streets. they sat on the grass beside joseph; and daisy found that, for all his coarse dress, he loved beautiful things as well as herself, and had sat there, day after day, watching the river and sky, and finding out the secrets of the birds, seeing the insects gather in their stores, and the rabbits burrow, and listening to the whisper of the leaves. and, in cold winter nights, he had watched the stars moving on in their silent paths, so far above his head, and fancied he could find pictures and letters among them, and that they beckoned, and seemed to promise, if he would only try, he might come and live with them. then, out of some young shoots of elder, joseph had made a flute; and daisy was enchanted when he played on this, for, besides that she had never heard a musical instrument before, he seemed to bring every thing she loved around her in his wonderful tunes. she could almost see the dark pine tops gilded with morning light, and the cabin nestling under them; and then the song of a bird, and of many birds, trilled out from amidst the boughs, and the little leaves on the birch trees trembled as with joy, and her rabbits darted through the shade. again, she saw the wide river rolling on, the sky reflected in it, and the flowers on its banks just lifting their sweet faces to the sun, and every thing was wet with dew, and fresh, and silent. and then he played what was like a storm, with lightning, and huge trees crashing down, and the old dame seated before her fire in the cave, and daisy herself creeping alone through the dark, tired, and drenched with rain. daisy told her new friend that she lived in the wood, and what a beautiful sister she had at home, and how she wished that maud could hear his music. but joseph seemed contented to play for her, and could not leave his cows, he said, to look upon a handsome face; he did not care so much for bright eyes and pretty lips as for goodness and gentleness, that would make the ugliest face look beautiful to him. chapter xxiii. joseph. what with joseph's music, and all he had to say to them, daisy and susan sat for hours on the hill side, and promised, at parting, to come very soon again. but they found maud ready, as usual, to spoil all their pleasure, by fretting because they had left her alone, and had not come earlier, and a hundred other foolish things. she wouldn't hear a word about the music, but asked her sister if she was not ashamed to talk with a cow boy, and declared that neither she nor susan should go to the hill again. but it was no strange thing for maud to change her mind; so, one day, she told daisy she had dreamed about joseph's music, and must hear it, and they would all go that very afternoon. daisy was glad, you may be sure; but she had great trouble with her sister on the way, for maud would shriek at an earth worm, and start at a fly, and was afraid of bats, and snakes, and owls, and more other things than daisy ever thought of. then the sharp sticks cut through her satin boots; and when she sat a while to rest, the crickets ate great holes in her new silk gown, and mosquitos kept buzzing about her, and little worms dropped down sometimes from the boughs. when any of these things happened, of course poor daisy had to be scolded, as if it were her fault. if a shadow moved, or a bird flew quickly past, or a bee buzzed by,--thinking of any one except miss maud,--the beauty would fancy that a tiger or rattlesnake was making ready to spring at her, and suffered a great deal more from fright than she would from pain if the creatures she dreaded had really been near, and she had allowed them quietly to eat her up. when, after all this trouble, she found that joseph wore a coarse blue frock, and did not oil his curly hair, and hardly looked at her, while he was overjoyed at seeing daisy again, maud began to pout, and say she must go home. but joseph brought a kind of harp he had made from reeds and corn stalks; and when he began to play, maud started, for it was as if she stood under the arching trees again, and the beautiful being stood beside her, with his sad eyes, saying, "o maud, when you despise my little ones, you are despising me." she thought it must only be a kind of waking dream, however, and tossing her head, asked joseph if he could play any opera airs, and where he bought his harp, and who his teacher could have been. "the trees, and river, and birds, the morning wind and midnight sky, sorrow, and joy, and hope have been my teachers," he answered gravely. "they're an old-fashioned set, then," said maud. "we haven't had any of the tunes you play at our balls this year; and you must find more modern teachers, or else be content to take care of your cows." joseph heard not her sneers; he was talking with daisy; and every thing he said seemed so noble, and wise, and pure, so unlike the words of maud or of the fretful dame, that daisy could not help loving him with all her heart. the more she thought of joseph the less she said of him to maud; but whenever her sister was away, they were sure to meet; and the herdsman grew as fond of daisy as she was of him. in the long winter evenings, when maud was away at her balls, she little dreamed what pleasant times daisy had at home. when floating about in the dance, to the sound of gay, inspiring music, she thought of her sister only to pity her, and did not know that she was listening to sweeter music from joseph's humble harp of reeds. we often pity people who are a great deal better off than ourselves, forgetting that what seems fine to us may be tedious enough to them. then it was such a new thing for daisy to have any one think of _her_ comfort, and plan pleasant surprises for her, and even admire her serious face, and--best of all--appreciate her spectacles. as soon as joseph came, he wanted her to put them on, and tell him about a hundred things which he had looked at only with his naked eyes. daisy found so often that he had seen rightly and clearly, and had in humblest paths picked up most lovely things, and every where found what was best, she told him that he must have borrowed the old dame's lantern. but joseph said, no, he had only taken care that the lantern in his own breast should be free from dust and stains; while that burned clearly, there was no use in borrowing another's light. maud's lover took her to dances and sleigh rides, and gave her jewels and confectionery; daisy's lover took her to see the old sick mother he supported, and to look at his cows in their neat barn, and brought her a new apron sometimes from the fair, or a bag of chestnuts which he had picked up in the fall. but joseph gave the love of a fresh, honest heart; and daisy thought this better than all her sister's bright stones and sugar plums. chapter xxiv. the freshet. the spring came; and maud's wedding day was so near that she and daisy went to the town every week to make purchases. now, the river which they were obliged to cross always overflowed its banks in spring. although, in summer, daisy had often walked across it, by stepping from stone to stone in the rough bed, it had risen now to a height of many feet. then, blocks of ice came down from the mountain streams above, and swept along bridges, and hay ricks, and drift wood with them, just as happened once, you may remember, when susan was alive. a new bridge had been built; but it jarred frightfully when the heaped blocks of ice came down, or some great tree was dashed against it by the rapid stream. things were in this state when the two sisters reached home, one day, from town. when maud felt how the bridge jarred, she ran back screaming, and told daisy to go first, and make sure it was safe. daisy was not a coward; but this time she did think of her own life for once, or rather of joseph--how he would grieve if she were swept away and drowned. her heart beat faster than usual; yet she walked on calmly, and soon gained the other side. then she called back for maud to wait till she could find joseph, and secure his help. but maud, always impatient, grew tired of waiting, and mustering all her courage, stepped upon the bridge alone. she had hardly reached the centre when its foundations gave way; and, with a great crash and whirl, with the trees, and ice, and drift wood whirling after it, the bridge went sweeping down the stream. so joseph and daisy returned only in time to hear maud's shrieks, which sounded louder than the heavy, jolting logs, and creaking beams, and grinding ice. running across the bridge wildly, she beckoned for joseph to come to her--implored him to trust himself upon the blocks of ice, or else send daisy, and not leave her to perish alone. there came new drifts of ice from above, jolting against the bridge, and throwing maud from her feet; and so the heavy structure went whirling, tossing like a straw upon the stream. joseph turned to daisy. "if i go to her help, we both may slip from the unsteady blocks of ice, and drown. yet i may possibly save her; shall i go or stay?" "go," she said instantly. "then good by, daisy; perhaps we never shall look in each other's faces again." "not here, perhaps; but, go." "what's that?" asked the sharp voice of the dame. "foolish children! don't you know that, when maud is drowned, there will be no one to separate you, and, as long as she lives, she will not let you be married?" "she is my sister," said daisy. and joseph, stepping boldly upon the ice, creeping from log to log,--lost now in the branches of a tree, dashed into the water, and struggling out again,--found his way to the bridge, and threw his strong arm about the form of the fainting maud. but here was new trouble; for she declared that she would never venture where joseph had been, not if they both were swept away. finding her so unreasonable, the herdsman took maud, like an infant, in his arms, and, though she shrieked and struggled, stepped from the bridge just as its straining beams parted, and fell, one by one, among the drift wood in the stream. when maud stood safely on the shore, she was so glad to find herself alive, that she took off every one of her jewels and offered them to joseph. but the herdsman told her that he did not wish to be paid for what had cost him nothing, and had he lost his life, the jewels would have been no recompense. "so you want more, perhaps," said maud, the haughty look coming again into her handsome face. "well, what shall i give you for risking your precious life?" "daisy," he answered. "my sister? do you dare tell me that she would marry a cowboy?" "ask her." "yes," said daisy. "nonsense! you will live with me, daisy, in my new great house; and if you marry at all, it will be some rich, elegant man, so that you can entertain us when i and my husband wish to visit you." "i shall marry joseph or no one," daisy answered firmly. "well, then, joseph, cross the river on the ice once more, and daisy shall be your wife." maud thought she had found a way to rid herself of the troublesome herdsman; for it seemed to her the dreadful voyage could not be made again in safety; and then she half believed that joseph would sooner give up daisy than try. but, without a word, he darted upon the ice--slipped, as at first; and when daisy saw him struggling, she flew to his help--slipped where he slipped: a tree came sailing down, and struck them both. maud saw no more. but, all the way home, she heard in her ears the shrill voice of the fairy, saying, "i hope you are satisfied, now you have killed them both." chapter xxv. the fairy's last gift. maud went home to the lonely cabin; there was no one to make a fire, and dry her wet clothes, and comfort her. when little susan heard what had happened, she ran away to live with the mother of joseph; and maud was left alone. wearied with fright, and trouble, and remorse, the beauty sank upon her bed and fell asleep. but hardly were her eyes closed, when she seemed in a damp, cellar-like place herself, but, looking upward, saw the glorious golden city daisy told her about, with its pearly gates and diamond foundations, and the river shaded by beautiful palms, and throngs of angels walking on its banks. the ranks of angels parted, and she saw among them the beautiful one, who had met her in the wood--only he was bright and joyous now, and his wounds shone like stars; and--could it be? yes--he was leading daisy and joseph, not a poor drudge and humble herdsboy now, but, like the other angels, clothed in light, crowned with lilies, and joseph's harp of reeds changed to a golden harp, on which he still made music. she saw two other beautiful ones come forward and embrace her sister: one, she felt, was the father she had never seen, and one was susan, the good and humble mother of whom maud had been ashamed. then she awoke, to find herself alone in the cabin, which was damp and dark as she had dreamed; and she could only hear the night wind sighing, and the voices of the wolves and snakes. as soon as morning came, she hurried to the river bank, in hopes, thus late, to save her sister, or to hear, at least, some news from her. but she saw only floating logs and blocks of ice jarring and whirling down the river. and from that hour maud believed herself a murderer, and would gladly have given her own life to forget the dreadful scene, which kept rising before her, of the good, gentle sister drowning in the flood, and the sound of the dame's shrill voice asking, "now, are you satisfied?" but daisy did not drown. when joseph saw her danger, though almost dead himself, he took fresh courage, and made such bold, brave efforts that both he and daisy reached the shore. long, happy days they spent together on the earth. determined that she should have no more trouble with her sister, joseph took his wife over the sea to a pleasant island, where she had a happier, if not so splendid a home as maud. when he opened the door to show daisy her beautiful little house, who should stand within but the fairy, all dressed in her velvet and pearls, and looking as bright as if she too were glad that daisy's life was to be so happy now. many a gift the fairy brought them: little peters, and susans, and daisies came in her arms, to play before their door, and make the cottage merry with their songs, before _our_ daisy went to wear her crown in heaven. and many a pleasant tune joseph played to his wife and children on the home-made harp of reeds, before it was changed to a harp of gold, and chimed in with the angels' music, in our father's home above. when packing her things, to leave the cabin, maud left daisy's dresses, as they were not fine enough for her, and also some little things which her sister had treasured--among them, the spectacles. but once in her fine new home, and the wedding over, the first things she found, hanging in the fringe of her shawl, were daisy's spectacles. so she thought how queerly daisy used to look in them, and put the glasses on, to amuse her husband; but what was her surprise to find she could see plainly through them now! and, alas! the first thing they told her was, that this man, for whom she had left all her rich suitors, did not love her, but her money; despised her because her mother was so poor, and was much fonder of one of the ladies whom he had forsaken than of her. she told him this angrily; but he only laughed, and said she might have guessed it without spectacles, and asked how he could love any one who thought only of herself. she hoped he might be jesting, yet his words were soon proved true; for he not only neglected, but treated her harshly, and when she was saddest, dragged her to the balls which she no longer enjoyed, and laughed about her spectacles, which began to leave their mark upon her handsome face. "at least," thought maud, "i am very rich; there is no end to my jewelry. i will find out all its value through the spectacles." but though there were pearls and diamonds, emeralds, rubies, and sapphires, set in heavy gold, they seemed only a handful through the glasses; while she saw whole heaps of finer pearls lying neglected under the sea, and rubies, and emeralds, and diamonds scattered about on the sands, or in the heart of rocks, enough to build a house. melted along the veins of the earth she discovered so much gold, too, that her own didn't seem worth keeping; for maud only valued things when she thought others could not have so fine. do you remember what the dame said, when she placed the spectacles on little daisy's breast? "take care of her heart, now, peter, and this gift of mine will be a precious one." here was the trouble: maud, with all her beauty and wealth, had not taken care of her heart; and so, when daisy saw bright, and wise, and pleasant things through the glasses, maud saw only sad and painful ones. the beauty grew tired of life; her husband was so jealous that he would not allow any one to admire her; and she found the palace did not make her any happier than the cabin had done, nor did the open country seem any brighter than the wood. for it isn't whether we _live_ in a palace or a cave, but whether our hearts are cheerful palaces or gloomy caves, that makes the difference between sad lives and merry ones. so, one day, when the dame appeared with her gifts, maud said, "o, take them away--take back all the beauty, the power, and money you ever brought, and give me a heart like daisy's." "pretty likely," said the dame. "you asked for money--you and your mother, both; now make the most of it." but the old woman had hardly left the house when one of maud's servants brought her in, wounded, and weeping bitterly, for a wagon had run over her. "carry her home to her cave; why did you bring her to me?" said maud. but just then she seemed to see the cold, bare cave that daisy had told her about, with nothing except wooden stools and a smoky fireplace--no soft bed, no child to watch over and comfort the poor old dame. so maud called the servants back, and had the woman placed in her own room, and watched with her, and bathed her limbs, and though she was fretful, did not once neglect her through a long and tedious illness. at last, the dame felt well enough to go home, and bade good by to maud, who begged her not to go; "for," she said,--and the tears came into her eyes,--"you make me think of dear daisy, the only one that ever loved me, with this selfish heart." "no, no; i cannot trust you," said the dame, and disappeared. but she came back, with such a bundle in her arms as she had brought to susan once; and when maud looked up to thank her, lo! the dame had changed to a lovely fairy, with a young, sweet face--the same that daisy used to talk about. bending over maud, she wiped the tears from her face, and put the bundle in her arms, and disappeared. and when the little child learned to love her, maud forgot her fears and cares, her cruel husband and her selfish self, and found how much happier it makes us to give joy than to receive it. the little girl was named daisy, and grew up not only beautiful and rich, but wise and good; she spent her money nobly, and gained the love and added to the happiness of all her friends. but the one whom she made happiest was her own mother--maud. chapter xxvi. what it all means. now, dear children, i suppose you have guessed all my riddles, for they are not hard ones; but i will tell you the meaning of one or two. life is the old fairy, that comes sometimes frowning and wretched, sometimes smiling and lovely, but always benevolent, always taking better care of us than we take of ourselves. we should be silent, helpless dust, except for life; and whether we be great or humble, rich or poor, she gives us all we have. though she may seem to smile on you and frown upon your sister, be sure it is not because she loves you best; the fairy may yet change into a wrinkled dame, or the dame to a beautiful fairy. when you remember her, beware how you grieve or slight any one. if you are passing some poor beggar in the street, think, "had i on daisy's spectacles, i should see under all these rags a child of the great god, travelling on, as i am travelling, to live with him in the golden city above. while this man seems humble to me, angels may bow to him as they pass invisibly; for all the titles in this world are not so great as to be a child of god." when you are tempted to vex or laugh at some old woman, think, "under these wrinkles, lo! the great fairy, life, is hid; and she can curse or bless me, as i will." the old dame's lantern, and the light in his breast by which joseph saw, were instinct; which, if we could but keep it undimmed by the dust of earth, would always light our pathway. and the fairy bread is kindness, which alone can comfort the poor and sorrowful. they may use what we give in charity, and still be poor and sad; but an act of kindness makes them feel that they too are children of the same great god, and are therefore happy and rich, though they must walk about for a little while in rags. for they remember how, like us, they have a glorious home awaiting them in the city whose streets are gold; and then it doesn't seem so hard that they have less than we of the poor gold of earth. the spectacles are wisdom, which shows us all things as they are, not as they seem--which we may learn, like daisy, from insects, trees, and clouds, or, easier still, from words that the wise have written. believe me, this wisdom, which may seem but a tedious thing, will show any of you as wonderful visions as those i have told you about. so, when your lessons are hard, and you long to play, and wonder what's the use in books, think, "they are daisy's wondrous spectacles, that change our dull earth into fairy land." wearing these, you need never be lonely or afraid, but will feel god's strong and loving arm around you in the dreariest place. the sun will seem his watchful eye, the wind his breath, the flowers his messages. you will know that all good and lovely things are gifts from him. and you will not forget that the fairy, life, is still on earth, and, if we ask her, will lead us all to the wonderful city which daisy saw far up above the pines--where you, too, may be good and peaceful, like the rest, and wear a crown of lilies and a robe of light. phillips, sampson, & company publish peep at "number five;" or, a chapter in the life of a city pastor. by h. trusta, _author of_ "the sunny side," &c., &c. _twenty-fifth thousand._ the telltale; or, home secrets told by old travellers. by h. trusta, _author of_ "peep at number five," "sunny side," &c., &c. _tenth thousand._ the "last leaf from sunny side;" by h. trusta, _author of_ "peep at number five," "telltale," &c., &c. _thirteenth thousand._ father brighthopes; or, an old clergyman's vacation. by paul creyton. _uniform with "peep at number five," "last leaf,"_ &c. hearts and faces; or, home life unveiled. by paul creyton, _author of_ "father brighthopes," &c. _uniform with the above._ phillips, sampson, & co. publish the following juvenile works estelle's stories about dogs; containing six beautiful illustrations; being original portraits from life. printed on superfine paper. 16mo, colored engravings, 75 cents; plain, 50 cents. little mary; or, talks and tales. by h. trusta, author of "sunny side," "peep at number five," &c., &c. this little book is charmingly illustrated, and is a very beautiful book. it is made up of short lessons, and was originally written for the practical use of children from five to ten years of age. little blossom's reward; a christmas book for children by mrs. emily hare. beautifully illustrated from original designs, and a charming presentation book for young people. phillips, sampson, & co. publish the following juvenile works. by francis c. woodworth. editor of "woodworth's youth's cabinet," author of "the willow lane budget," "the strawberry girl," "the miller of our village," "theodore thinker's tales," etc., etc. uncle frank's boys' and girls' library _a beautiful series, comprising six volumes, square 12mo, with eight tinted engravings in each volume. the following are their titles respectively_:- i. the peddler's boy; or, i'll be somebody. ii. the diving bell; or, pearls to be sought for. iii. the poor organ grinder, and other stories. iv. our sue: her motto and its uses. v. mike marble: his crotchets and oddities. vi. the wonderful letter bag of kit curious. "woodworth is unquestionably and immeasurably the best writer for children that we know of; for he combines a sturdy common sense and varied information with a most childlike and loveful spirit, that finds its way at once to the child's heart. we regard him as one of the truest benefactors of his race; for he is as wise as he is gentle, and never uses his power over the child-heart to instil into it the poison of false teaching, or to cramp it with unlovely bigotry. the publishers have done their part, as well as the author, to make these volumes attractive. altogether we regard them as one of the pleasantest series of juvenile books extant, both in their literary character and mechanical execution."--_syracuse (n. y.) daily standard._ phillips, sampson, & co. publish the following juvenile works christmas holidays at chestnut hill. by cousin mary. containing fine engravings from original designs, and printed very neatly. it will be found to be a charming little book for a present for all seasons. estelle's stories about dogs; containing six beautiful illustrations; being original portraits from life. printed on superfine paper. 16mo, colored engravings, 75 cents; plain, 50 cents. little mary; or, talks and tales. by h. trusta, author of "sunny side," "peep at number five," &c., &c. this little book is charmingly illustrated, and is a very beautiful book. it is made up of short lessons, and was originally written for the practical use of children from five to ten years of age. [transcriber's note: bold text is surrounded by =equal signs= and italic text is surrounded by _underscores_.] [illustration: at last there came a grave man to the gate, whose name was goodwill. (_page 15_) (_the pilgrim's progress._)] bunyan's pilgrim's progress. in words of one syllable. by samuel phillips day, author of "the rare romance of reynard the fox," in words of one syllable. _illustrated._ a. l. burt company, publishers, new york. copyright, 1895, by the cassell publishing co. _all rights reserved._ contents i. the den and the dream 5 ii. the slough of despond 8 iii. worldly-wiseman 10 iv. the wicket-gate 15 v. the interpreter's house 18 vi. the cross and the contrast 19 vii. the hill difficulty 28 viii. the palace beautiful 30 ix. apollyon 39 x. the valley of the shadow of death 42 xi. christian and faithful 44 xii. talkative 50 xiii. vanity fair 56 xiv. christian and hopeful 64 xv. doubting castle and giant despair 69 xvi. the delectable mountains 77 xvii. the enchanted ground and the way down to it 81 xviii. the land of beulah--the fords of the river--at home 87 the pilgrim's progress. chapter i. the den and the dream. as i went through the wilds of this world, i came to a place where was a den, and i laid me down in that place to sleep; and as i slept i dreamt a dream; and lo, i saw a man clad in rags, with a book in his hand, and a great load on his back! i saw him read in the book, and as he read, he wept and shook. in this plight, then, he went home, and kept calm as long as he could, that his wife and bairns should not see his grief; but he could not long hold his speech, for that his woe grew more hard to bear. "oh, my dear wife," said he, "and you, the bairns of my heart, i am quite lost, for a load lies hard on me. more than this, i am told that this our town will be burnt with fire from the skies, and you, my sweet babes, shall come to grief, save some way can be found to get clear of harm." at this his kin were in sore fear; for that they had just cause to dread some dire ill had got hold of his head. so, when morn was come, they would know how he did: and he told them, "worse and worse." he spoke to them once more, but they gave no heed to his words. hence he went to his room to pray for them, and to ease his grief. he would, too, take long walks in the fields, and read and pray at times: and thus for some days he spent his time. now i saw on a time, when he took a stray walk in the fields, that he was bent on his book and in deep grief of mind; and as he read he burst out, "what shall i do?" i saw, too, that his eyes went this way and that way, as if he would run: yet he could not tell which way to go. i then saw a man whose name was evangelist come to him and ask, "why dost thou cry?" quoth he, "sir, i see by the book in my hand that death is my doom, and that i am then to meet my judge: and i find that i do not will to do the first, while i dread the last." then said evangelist, "why not will to die, since this life is full of ills?" the man said, "the cause is i fear that this load that is on my back will sink me more low than the grave, and i shall go down to hell." then said evangelist, "if this be thy state, why dost thou stand still?" said he, "it is for that i know not where to go." then he gave him a roll of smooth skin, on which were writ the plain words, "flee from the wrath to come." the man read it, and said, "to what place must i flee?" then said evangelist, "do you see yon small gate?" the man said, "i think i do." then said his guide, "go up at once to it; at which, when thou dost knock, it shall be told thee what thou shalt do." so i saw in my dream that the man did run. now he had not run far from his own door, but his wife and bairns saw it, and in a loud voice they strove to get him to come back; but the man put the tips of his thumbs in his ears and ran on. his friends also came out, and some bade him haste back. of those who did so, there were two that sought to fetch him back by force. the name of the one was obstinate; and the name of the next, pliable. now by this time the man was a good way off; but they went in quest of him, and in a short time came up with him. then said he, "friends, for what are ye come?" quoth they, "to urge you to go back with us": but he said, "that can by no means be. you dwell in the city of destruction: and when you die there, you will sink down to a place that burns with fire. take heed, good friends, and go with me." [illustration: obstinate goes back to the city of destruction.] "what!" said obstinate, "and leave our friends and all that brings us joy and ease?" "yes," said christian (for that was his name); "i seek a life that fades not. read it so, if you will, in my book." "tush!" said obstinate, "i heed not your book: will you go back with us or no?" "no, not i," said christian. _obs._--"come then, friend pliable, let us go home." then said pliable, "the things he looks for are of more worth than ours. my heart urges me to go with him." _obs._--"what! be led by me and go back." _chr._--"come with me, friend pliable; there are such things to be had which i spoke of, and much more bliss. if you heed not what i say, read here in this book." "well, friend obstinate," said pliable, "i mean to go with this good man, and to cast in my lot with him. but, my good mate, do you know the way to this place?" _chr._--"i am told by a man, whose name is evangelist, to speed me to a small gate that is in front of us, where we shall be put in the right way." "and i will go back to my place," said obstinate. "i will not make one of such flat fools." chapter ii. the slough of despond. now christian and pliable spoke as they did walk on the plain; and this was what they said: _chr._--"come, friend pliable. i am glad you have been led to go with me. had but obstinate felt what i have felt, he would not have set his back on us." _pli._--"and do you think that your book is true?" _chr._--"yes: there is a realm where we shall not taste of death, that we may dwell in it for aye." _pli._--"this is right good; and what else?" _chr._--"there we shall not weep or grieve more; for he that owns the place will wipe all tears from our eyes." _pli._--"to hear this doth fill one's heart with joy. but are these things to form our bliss? how shall we get to share in them?" _chr._--"the lord hath set down _that_ in this book, the pith of which is, if we in truth seek to have it, he will, of his free grace, grant it to us." _pli._--"well, my good friend, glad am i to hear of these things. come on, let us mend our pace." now i saw in my dream that just as they had put an end to this talk they drew up nigh to a deep slough that was in the midst of the plain; and as they did not heed it, both fell swap in the bog. the name of the slough was despond. then said pliable, "ah, friend christian, where are you now?" "in sooth," said christian, "i do not know." at this pliable said in sharp tones, "is this the bliss you have told me all this while of? if we have such ill speed as we first set out, what may we not look for ere the time we get to the end of our road? may i once get out with my life, you shall hold the brave land for me." and with that he gave a bold stride or two, and got out of the mire on that side of the slough which was next his own house. so off he went, and christian saw him no more. hence christian was left to sprawl in the slough of despond. but i saw in my dream that a man came to him whose name was help, and did ask him what he did there. "sir," said christian, "i was bade go this way by a man known as evangelist, who sent me in like way to yon gate, that i might scape the wrath to come." so he gave him his hand, and drew him out, and set him on sound ground, and let him go on his way. then i went to him that did pluck him out, and said, "sir, whence is it that this plat is not made whole, that those who pass this way may run no risk?" and he said to me, "this slough is such a place that none can mend it. it goes by the name of the slough of despond; for still, as he who sins is wrought up to a sense of his lost state, there spring forth in his soul fears, and doubts, and dark thoughts that scare, which all of them form in a heap and fix in this place; and this is the cause why the road is so bad. true, there are, by the help of him who frames the laws, some stout and firm steps found through the midst of this slough; these steps are all but hid, or if they be seen, men step on one side, and then they get all grime with mire, though the steps be there; but the ground is good when they are once got in at the gate." chapter iii. worldly-wiseman. as christian took his lone walk he saw one cross the field to meet him, and their hap was to meet just as they did cross the same way. the man's name was mr. worldly-wiseman. hence mr. worldly-wiseman thus held some talk with christian. _wor._--"how now, good friend; where dost thou go bent down with such a weight?" [illustration: christian and worldly-wiseman] _chr._--"as big a load, in sooth, as i think a poor wight had in his life! i am bound for yon small gate in front of me; for there, as i am told, i shall be put in a way to be rid of my huge load." _wor._--"wilt thou give heed to me, if i tell thee what course to take?" _chr._--"if what you say be good, i will; for i stand in need of a wise guide." _wor._--"who bid thee go this way to be rid of thy load?" _chr._--"a man that i thought was high and great; his name, as my mind serves me, is evangelist." _wor._--"there is not a more rough way to be found in the world than is that he hath bade thee take; and that thou shalt find if thou wilt be led by him. hear me: i have seen more years than thou. thou art like to meet with, on the way which thou dost go, great griefs, pain, lack of food and clothes, sword, fierce beasts, gloom, and, in a word, death, and what not! and why should a man run such risks, just on the word of a strange guide?" _chr._--"why, sir, i think i care not what things i meet with in the way, if so be i can get ease from my pack." _wor._--"but why wilt thou seek for ease this way, as such dire ills go with it? the more so, hadst thou but borne with me, i could aid thee to get what thou dost wish, free from the risks that thou in this way wilt run." _chr._--"pray, sir, make known this boon to me." _wor._--"why, in yon town (the town is known as morality) there dwells a squire whose name is legality, a man of good name, that has skill to help men off with such loads as thine from their backs. to him, as i said, thou canst go and get help in a trice; and if he should not be at home, he hath a fair young son, whose name is civility, that can do it as well as his sage sire." now was christian at a stand what to do; but soon he thought, "if this be true which this squire hath said, my best course is to be led by him"; and with that he thus spake more. _chr._--"sir, which is the way to this good man's house?" _wor._--"by that hill you must go, and the first house you come at is his." so christian went out of his way to go to mr. legality's house for help. but lo, when he was got now hard by the hill, that side of it that was next the path did hang so much, that christian durst not move on, lest the hill should fall on his head: for which cause there he stood still, and he wot not what to do. but soon there came fierce flames of fire out of the hill, each flash of which made christian dread he should be burnt. and now he was wroth for the heed he gave to mr. worldly-wiseman's words. and with that he saw evangelist come forth to meet him; and thus did he speak with christian: "what dost thou here?" said he. at which words christian knew not what to say. then said evangelist to him, "art not thou the man that i found in tears back of the walls of the city of destruction?" _chr._--"yes, dear sir, i am the man. i met with a squire, so soon as i had got clear of the slough of despond, who made me think that i might, in the town which did face me, find a man that could take off my load." _evan._--"what said that squire to you?" _chr._--"he bid me with speed get rid of my load; and said i, 'i am hence bound for yon gate to gain more news how i may get to the place where my load may be cast off.' so he said that he would show me the best way: 'which way,' said he, 'will take you to a squire's house that hath skill to take off these loads.' so i put faith in him, and set out of that way till i came to this, if so be i might soon get ease from my load." then said evangelist, "stand still a short time, that i may show thee the words of god." then christian fell down at his feet as dead, and did cry, "woe is me, for i am lost!" at the sight of which evangelist caught him by the right hand, and said, "be not frail, but have faith." then evangelist went on, and said, "give heed to the things that i shall tell thee of. the man that met thee is one worldly-wiseman, and he bears a fit name; in part, for that his creed is what the world holds; and in part, for that he loves such faith best, for it saves him from the cross. now, there are three things in this man's words that thou must be sure and shun--his scheme to turn thee out of the way; his wish to make the cross a shame to thee; and his guile, which did tempt thee to set thy feet in that way that leads to death. "and for this thou must bear in mind to whom he sent thee, no less than his lack of skill to rid thee of thy load. he to whom thou wast sent for ease, by name legality, has not the gift to set thee free from thy load. no man, as yet, got rid of his load by him: no, nor till the end of time is like to be. 'by the works of the law none can be made just,' for by the deeds of the law no man that lives can be rid of his load; and as for his son, civility, though he wears soft looks, he is but a knave, and must fail to help thee. trust me, there is naught else in all this noise that thou hast heard of this spot but a scheme to lure thee of thy soul's bliss." now christian felt sure fear of death, and burst out in a shrill cry, full of woe, as he did curse the time in which he met with mr. worldly-wiseman. still did he say he was the chief of fools for the heed he gave to him. this done, he spoke to evangelist in words and sense thus: _chr._--"sir, what think you? is there hope? may i now go back and go up to the small gate? shall i not be sent back from thence in shame?" then said evangelist to him, "thy sin is most great, for by it thou hast done two bad deeds: thou hast left the way that is good to tread in wrong paths, yet will the man at the gate let thee pass, for he has _good-will_ for men." then did christian make up his mind to go back, and evangelist, when he did kiss his cheek, gave him a smile, and bid him god speed. chapter iv. the wicket-gate. so christian went on with haste, nor spake he to a man by the way; nor if a man spoke to him, would he deign him a word; so in course of time christian got up to the gate. now at the top of the gate there were writ these words: ="knock, and it shall ope to you."= hence he did knock more than once or twice. at last there came a grave man to the gate, whose name was goodwill, who sought to know who was there? and whence he came? and what he would have? _chr._--"here is a poor vile wight; i come from the city of destruction, but am bound for mount zion, that i may get safe from the wrath to come. i would, for this cause, sir, know if you will let me in." "i will, with all my heart," said he; and with that he drew back the gate. so when he was got in, the man of the gate said to him, "who told him to come to that place?" _chr._--"evangelist bid me come here and knock, as i did; and he said that you, sir, would tell me what i must do." _good._--"but how is it that no one came with you?" _chr._--"for that none of those who dwelt near me saw their plight as i saw mine." _good._--"did one or more of them know that you meant to come here?" _chr._--"yes; my wife and bairns saw me at the first, and did call to me to turn round." _good._--"but did none of them go in quest of you, to urge you to go back?" _chr._--"yes, both obstinate and pliable; but when they saw that they could not gain their end, obstinate went back, and did rail the while, but pliable came with me a short way." _good._--"but why did he not come through?" _chr._--"we, in truth, came on side by side till we came to the slough of despond, in the which he fell souse. but as he got out on that side next to his own house, he told me i should hold the brave land for him. so he went his way, and i came mine." then said goodwill, "ah, poor man!" "in sooth," said christian, "i have said the truth of pliable; but i, too, did turn on one side to go in the way of death, and i was led to this by the base arts of one mr. worldly-wiseman." [illustration: christian at the wicket-gate.] _good._--"oh, did he light on you? what! he would have had you seek for ease at the hands of mr. legality: they are both of them true cheats. but were you led by him?" _chr._--"yes, as far as i durst. i went to find out mr. legality, till i thought the mount that stands by his house would have come down on my head." _good._--"that mount has been the death of a host, and will be the death of still more." _chr._--"why, in truth, i do not know what hap had come to me there, had not evangelist by good luck met me once more, while i did muse in the midst of my dumps: but it was god's grace that he came to me twice, for else i could not have got to this place." _good._--"we shut out none, and take no note of what they have done up to the time they come here: 'they in no wise are cast out': and hence, good christian, come a wee way with me, and i will teach thee in what way thou must go. look right in front of thee; dost thou see this strait way? that is the way thou must go." "but," said christian, "are there no turns or bends by which one who has not trod it may lose his way?" _good._--"yes, there are some ways butt down on this; and they are bent and wide: but thus thou canst judge the right from the wrong, that the first is straight and not broad." then christian strove to gird up his loins, and to set out on his way. so he with whom he had held speech told him, "that by that he had gone some way from the gate he would come at the house of the interpreter, at whose door he should knock, and he would show him good things." chapter v. the interpreter's house. then he went on till he came to the house of the interpreter, at which he gave some smart knocks. at last one came to the door, and did ask who was there? "sir," said christian, "i am a man that am come from the city of destruction, and am bound for the mount zion; and i was told by the man that stands at the gate at the head of this way, that if i came here you would show me good things, such as would be a help to one on the road." then said the interpreter, "come in; i will show thee that which will be of use to thee." so he told his man to light the lamp, and bid christian go in his track. then he had him in a room where none else could come, and bid his man fold back the door, the which when he had done christian saw the print of one, most grave of look, hung up on the wall, and this was the style of it: it had eyes that did stare at the sky, the best of books in its hand, and the law of truth was writ on its lips; the world was at its back, it stood as if it did plead with men, and a crown of gold did hang nigh its head. then said christian, "what means this?" _inter._--"i have shown thee this print first for this cause, that the man whose print this is, is the sole man whom the lord of the place where thou dost go hath sent as thy guide through all the twists and turns thou wilt meet with in the way; hence take good heed to what i have shown thee, and bear well in thy mind what thou hast seen, lest, in thy route, thou meet with some that say they can lead thee right; but their way goes down to death." then he took him by the hand, and led him to a large room on the ground floor that was full of dust; the which the interpreter did call for a man to sweep. then said the interpreter to a girl that stood by, "bring hence from yon brook the means to lay this dust." then said christian, "what means this?" the interpreter thus spoke: "this room on the ground floor is the heart of man that has not been made pure by the sweet grace of christ's word. the _dust_ is the sin that cleaves to him through the fall, and the lust that hath made foul the whole man. he who at first swept is the law; but she that brought the means to lay the dust is the gospel." i saw too, in my dream, that the interpreter took him by the hand, and had him in a small room, where sat two youths, each one in his chair. the name of the most grown was passion, and of the next, patience: passion did not seem at rest, but patience was quite still. then i saw that one came to passion and brought him a bag of rich gifts, and did pour it down at his feet; the which he took up and felt joy in it, while at patience he gave a laugh of scorn. but i saw but a time, and he had got rid of all, and had naught left but rags. then said christian to the interpreter, "i would have you make this thing more clear to me." so he said, "these two lads are signs: passion of the men of this world, and patience of the men of that which is to come; for, as here thou dost see, passion will have all now, this year, that is to say in this world, so are the men of this world; they must have all their good things now; they durst not stay till next year, that is till the next world, for their share of good." then said christian, "now i see that patience has the best sense, and that on more grounds than one; for that he stays for the best things, and in like way for that he will have the gain of his when passion has naught but rags." [illustration: interpreter shows christian the room full of dust] _inter._--"nay, you may add one more, to wit, the joys of the next world will not wear out, but these are soon gone." i saw, in like way, that the interpreter took him once more by the hand, and led him to a choice place, where was built a great house, fine to look at; at the sight of which christian felt much joy; he saw, too, on the top of it some folk that did walk to and fro, who were clad all in gold. then the interpreter took him, and led him up nigh to the door of the great house; and lo, at the door stood a host of men as did wish to go in, but durst not. there, too, sat a man a short way from the door, at the side of a board, with a book and his desk in front of him, to take the name of him that should come in. more than this, he saw that in the porch stood groups of men, clad in coats of mail, to keep it, who meant to do all the hurt and harm they could to the man that would go in. now was christian in a sore maze. at last, when all the men did start back for fear of the men who bore arms, christian saw a man of a bold face come up to the man that sat there to write, and say, "set down my name, sir"; the which when he had done, he saw the man draw his sword, and put a casque on his head, and rush to the door on the men who had arms, who laid on him with fierce force; but the man, not at all put out of the way, fell to, and did cut and hack with all his might: so, when he had got and dealt scores of wounds to those that strove to keep him out, he cut his way through them all, and made straight for the great house. "now," said christian, "let me go hence." "nay, stay," said the interpreter, "till i have shown thee some more; and then thou shalt go on thy way." [illustration: just as christian came up with the cross, his load got loose from his neck, and fell from off his back. (_page 25_) (_the pilgrim's progress._)] so he took him by the hand once more, and led him to a room dark as pitch, where there sat a man in a steel cage. now the man to look on was most sad; and he gave sighs as if he would break his heart. the man said, "i once did seem to be what i was not fair in mine own eyes, and in the eyes of those that knew me. i was once, as i thought, fair for the celestial city, and went so far as to have joy at the thoughts that i should get there." _chr._--"well, but what art thou now?" _man._--"i am now a man lost to hope." _chr._--"but how didst thou get in this state?" _man._--"i did sin in face of the light of the world, and the grace of god. i made the spirit grieve, and he is gone." then said christian, "is there no hope, but you must be kept in the steel cage of gloom?" _man._--"none at all." _chr._--"but canst thou not now grieve and turn?" _man._--"god hath not let me; his word gives me no aid to faith; yea, he hath shut me up in this steel cage; nor can all the men in the world let me out." then said the interpreter to christian, "let this man's wails be dwelt on by thee, and cease not to teach thee how to act." so he took christian and led him to a room where one did rise out of bed; and as he put on his clothes he did shake and quake. then said christian, "why doth this man thus shake?" so he spoke and said, "this night as i was in my sleep i dreamt, and lo, the sky grew black as ink, when flame flit from the clouds; on which i heard a dread noise, that put me in throes of pain. so i did lift up my eyes in my dream, and saw a man sit on a cloud, with a huge host near to him. i heard, then, a voice that said, 'come forth, ye dead, and meet your judge!' and with that the rocks rent, the graves did gape, and the dead that were in them came forth. then i saw the man that sat on the cloud fold back the book and bid the world draw near. i heard it, in like way, told to them that were near the man that sat on the cloud, 'bind up the tares, and the chaff, and the stalks, and cast them in the lake that burns with fire.' then said the voice to the same men, 'put up my wheat in the barn!' and with that i saw a host caught up in the clouds, but i was left stay." _chr._--"but what was it that made you so quake at this sight?" _man._--"why, i thought that the day of doom had come, and that i was not fit to meet it. but this made me fear most, that some were caught up while i was left." then said the interpreter to christian, "hast thou thought well on all these things?" _chr._--"yes; and they put me in hope and fear." _inter._--"well, keep all things so in thy mind that they may be as a goad in thy sides, to prick thee on in the way thou must go." then christian girt up his loins, and thought but of the long road he had to tread. [illustration: so i saw that just as christian came up to the cross, his load got loose from his neck, and fell from off his back.--page 25. _pilgrim's progress._] chapter vi. the cross and the contrast. now i saw in my dream that the high road had on each side a wall for a fence, and that wall went by the name of salvation. up this way, then, did christian run with his load, till he came to a place where was a high slope, and on that place stood a cross, and a short way from it in the vale, a tomb. so i saw in my dream that just as christian came up with the cross, his load got loose from his neck, and fell from off his back, and did roll till it came to the mouth of the grave, where it fell in, and i saw it no more. then was christian full glad, and said, with a gay heart, "he hath brought me rest by his grief, and life by his death." then he stood still for a short time to look with awe, for it was a strange thing to him that the sight of the cross should thus ease him of his load. i saw then in my dream that he went on thus till he came to a vale, where he saw three men in deep sleep, with gyves on their heels. the name of the one was simple; the next, sloth; and the third, presumption. christian went to them, if so be he might rouse them; so he said in a loud voice, "you are like them that sleep on the top of a mast, for the dead sea is low down at your feet, a gulf that no plumb line can sound; get up, hence and come on." with this they gave a glum look at him, and spoke in this sort: simple said, "i see no cause for fear"; sloth said, "yet some more sleep"; and presumption said, "each tub must stand on its own end." and so they lay down to sleep once more, and christian went on his way. [illustration: formalist and hypocrisy coming into the way over the wall.] yet felt he grief to think that men in that sad plight should so spurn the kind act of him that of his own free will sought to help them. and as he did grieve from this cause, he saw two men roll off a wall, on the left hand of the strait way. the name of the one was formalist, and the name of the next hypocrisy. so they drew up nigh him, who thus held speech with them: _chr._--"sirs, whence came you, and where do you go?" _form. and hyp._--"we were born in the land of vainglory, and are bent for praise to mount zion." _chr._--"why came you not in at the gate which stands at the head of the way?" they said, "that to go to the gate to get in was by all their horde thought too far round." _chr._--"but will it not be thought a wrong done to the lord of the town where we are bound, thus to break his law which he hath made known to us?" they told him, "that this act of theirs, as it stood for so long a time, would no doubt be thought good in law by a just judge; and more than this," said they, "if we get in the way, what boots it which way we get in? if we are in, we are in. thou art but in the way, who, as we see, came in at the gate; and we too are in the way, that fell from the top of the wall. in what, now, is thy state a whit more good than ours?" _chr._--"i walk by the rule of my lord; you walk by the rude quirks of your vague whims. at this time you count but as thieves in the sight of the lord of the way hence i doubt you will not be found true men at the end of the way. by laws and rules you will not get safe, since you came not in by the door. i have, too, a mark on my brow, which you may not have seen, which one of my lord's most stanch friends put there, in the day that my load fell from off my back. more than this, i will tell you that i then got a roll with a seal on it, to cheer me while i read it, as i go on the way: i was told to give it in at the celestial gate, as a sure sign that i, too, should go in at the right time: all which things i doubt you want, and want them for that you came not in at the gate." chapter vii. the hill difficulty. i saw then that they all went on till they came to the foot of the hill difficulty, at the end of which was a spring. there were in the same place two ways more than that which came straight from the gate: one bent to the left hand, and the next to the right, at the base of the hill; but the strait way lay right up the hill; and the name of that path up the side of the hill is known as difficulty. christian now went to the spring and drank of it to cool his blood and quench his thirst, and then he set forth to go up the hill. the two with whom he had held speech in like way came to the foot of the hill; but when they saw that the hill was steep and high, and that there were two more ways to go, and as they thought that these two ways might meet in the long run with that up which christian went, on the rear side of the hill,--hence they made up their minds to go in those ways. now the name of one of those ways was danger, and the name of the next destruction. so the one took the way which is known as danger, which led him to a great wood; and he who was with him took straight up the way to destruction, which led to a wide field full of dark cliffs, where he made a slip, and fell, and rose no more. i then cast my eyes on christian, and i saw that from a run he came to a walk, and at last had to climb on his hands and his knees, so steep was the place. [illustration: timorous was afraid of wild beasts and ran down the hill.--page 29. _pilgrim's progress._] now half the way to the top of the hill was a nook made of trees, fair to look on, made by the lord of the hill for the good of such as trod that place. there, then, christian got; there, too, he sat down to rest him. thus sought he cheer a while, when he fell to doze, and then went off in a fast sleep. now as he slept there came one to him, who woke him and said, "go to the ant, thou man of sloth; think of her ways, and be wise." and with that christian did start up, and went on till he came to the top of the hill. now when he was got up to the top of the hill, there came two men who ran right up to him so as to push him. the name of the one was timorous, and of the next mistrust; to whom christian said, "sirs, what doth ail you? you run the wrong way." timorous said that they were bound to the city of zion, and had got up to that hard place; "but," said he, "the more we go on the more risks we meet with; hence did we turn, and mean not to go back." "yes," said mistrust, "for just in front of us lie a brace of wild beasts in the way--that they sleep or wake we know not--and we could not think if we came in their reach but they would at once pull us in bits." then mistrust and timorous ran down the hill, and christian went on his way. but as he dwelt on what he heard from the men, the sun went down; and this made him once more think how vain it was for him to have sunk to sleep. now, he brought to mind the tale that mistrust and timorous had told him of how they took fright at the sight of the wild beasts. then did christian muse thus: "these beasts range in the night for their prey; and if they should meet with me in the dark, how should i shift them? how should i get free from their fangs? they would tear me to bits." thus he went on his way. but, while he did mourn his dire hap, he lift up his eyes, and lo, there was a grand house in front of him, the name of which was beautiful, and it stood just on the side of the high road. chapter viii. the palace beautiful. so i saw in my dream that he made haste and went forth, that, if so be, he might get a place to lodge there. now ere he had gone far, he saw two wild beasts in the way. (the beasts were made fast, but he saw not the chains.) then he took fright, and thought to go back; for he thought death of a truth did face him. but when the man at the lodge, whose name is watchful, saw that christian made a halt, he did cry to him and say, "is thy strength so small? fear not the wild beasts, for they are in chains, and are put there for test of faith where it is, and to make known those that have none: keep in the midst of the path, and no hurt shall come to thee." then did he clap his hands, and went on till he came and stood in front of the gate where the porter was. then said christian to the porter, "sir, what house is this? and may i lodge here this night?" the porter said, "this house was built by the lord of the hill, and he built it to aid and guard such as speed this way." the porter, in like way, sought to know whence he was; and to what place he was bound? [illustration: this is mistrust, whom christian met going the wrong way.--page 29. _pilgrim's progress._] _chr._--"i am come from the city of destruction; and am on my way to mount zion; but as the sun is now set, i wish, if i may, to lodge here this night." _por._--"but how doth it hap that you come so late? the sun is set." _chr._--"i had been here ere this, but that, mean man that i am, i slept in the nook that stands on the side of the hill." _por._--"well, i will call out one of the maids of this place, who will, if she likes your talk, bring you in to the rest of the folk, as such are the rules of the house." so watchful rang a bell, at the sound of which came out at the door of the house a grave and fair maid, whose name was discretion, who would know why she had got a call. the porter said, "this man is in the way from the city of destruction to mount zion, but as he doth tire, and as night came on, he sought to know if he might lodge here for the night: so i told him i would call for thee, who, when thou dost speak with him, may do as seems to thee good, and act up to the law of the house." then she would know whence he was, and to what place he was bound, and his name. so he said, "it is christian." so a smile sat on her lips, but the tears stood in her eyes; and, when she gave a short pause, she said, "i will call forth two or three more of those who dwell here." so she ran to the door, and did call out prudence, piety, and charity; and when she had held more speech with him, he was brought in, and made known to all who dwelt in the house, some of whom met him at the porch, and said, "come in, thou whom the lord doth bless; this house was built by the lord of the hill, to give good cheer to such who, like you, grow faint by the way." then he bent his head, and went in with them to the house. so when he was come in and set down, they gave him to drink, and then they thought that till the last meal was brought up, some of them should have some wise talk with christian, so as to make good use of time. [illustration: christian is questioned by discretion.] _pi._--"come, good christian, since we have shown such love for you as to make you our guest this night, let us, if so be we may each get good by it, talk with you of all things that you have met with on your way." [illustration: this is formalist, whom christian saw roll from the top of a wall, as if to go to zion.--page 33. _pilgrim's progress._] _chr._--"with a right good will; and i am glad your mind is so well bent." _pi._--"how was it that you came out of your land in this way?" _chr._--"it was as god would have it; for when i was full of the fears of doom, i did not know where to go; but by chance there came a man then to me, whilst i shook and wept, whose name is evangelist, and he told me how to reach the small gate, which else i should not have found, and so set me in the way that hath led me straight to this house." _pi._--"but did you not come by the house of the interpreter?" _chr._--"yes, and did see such things there, the thoughts of which will stick by me as long as i live; in chief, three things; to wit, how christ, in spite of the foe of man, keeps up his work of grace in the heart; how the man, through sin, had got quite out of hopes of god's ruth; and, in like way, the dream of him that thought in his sleep the day of doom was come." _pi._--"and what saw you else in the way?" _chr._--"saw! why, i went but a wee way and i saw one, as i thought in my mind, hang and bleed on a tree; and the sheer sight of him made my load fall off my back; for i did groan through the great weight, but then it fell down from off me." _pi._--"but you saw more than this, did you not?" _chr._--"the things that i have told you were the best; yet some more things i saw, as, first of all, i saw three men, simple, sloth, and presumption, lie in sleep, not far out of the way as i came, with gyves on their heels; but do you think i could rouse them? i saw, in like way, formalist and hypocrisy come and roll from the top of a wall, to go, as they fain would have me think, to zion; but they were lost in a trice, just as i did tell them; but they would not heed my words." _pr._--"do you think at times of the land from whence you came?" _chr._--"yes, but with much shame and hate." _pr._--"do you not yet bear hence with you some of the things that you well knew there?" _chr._--"yes, but much in strife with my will; the more so the crass thoughts of my heart, with which all the folk of my land, as well as i, would find joy; but now all those things are my grief, and might i but choose mine own things, i would choose not to think of those things more; but when i would do that which is best, that which is worst is with me." _pr._--"and what is it that makes you so long to go to mount zion?" _chr._--"why, there i hope to see him live that did hang dead on the cross; and there i hope to be rid of all those things that to this day are in me and do vex me: there they say there is no death; and there i shall dwell with such folk as i like best." then said charity to christian, "have you bairns, and have you a wife?" _chr._--"i have a wife and four small bairns." _char._--"and why did you not bring them on with you?" then christian wept and said, "oh, fain would i have done it! but they were all of them loath to let me leave them." _char._--"but you should have sought to show them the risks they ran when they held back." [illustration: hypocrisy would fain have christian think he was on the way to zion.--page 34. _pilgrim's progress._] _chr._--"so i did; and told them, too, that god had shown to me how that our town would come to wrack; but they thought i did but mock, and they put no faith in what i said." _char._--"but what could they say to show cause why they came not?" [illustration: christian tells charity and her sisters about his family.] _chr._--"why, my wife was loath to lose this world; and my bairns were bent on the rash joys of youth; so, what by this thing, and what by that thing, they left me to roam in this lone way." _char._--"but did you not with your vain life damp all that you by words made use of as force to bring them off with you?" _chr._--"in sooth, i must not say aught for my life, as i know full well what blurs there are in it. i know, too, that a man by his deeds may soon set at naught what by sound speech and wit of words he doth strive to fix on some for their good. yet this i can say, i took heed not to give them cause, by a false act, to shirk the step i took, and not set out with me. yea, for this sole thing they would tell me i was too nice; and that i would not touch of things in which they saw no guile." _char._--"in truth, cain did hate him who came of the same blood, for that his works were bad, and abel's not so; and if thy wife and bairns have thought ill of thee for this, they show by it that they are foes to good; and thou hast set free thy soul from their blood." now i saw in my dream that thus they sat and spoke each to each till the meal was laid on the board; and all their talk while they ate was of the lord of the hill; as, in sooth, of what he had done, and why it was he did what he did, and why he had built that house. they, in like way, gave prompt proof of what they said, and that was, he had stript him of his rich robes, that he might do this for the poor; and that they heard him say, with stern stress, that he would not dwell in the mount of zion in a lone way. they said, too, that he made a host of poor ones kings, though by the law of their birth they were born to live on bare alms, and their first state had been low and bad. thus they spoke, this one to that one, till late at night; and when they had put them in the lord's care they went to rest. [illustration: then he set forth: but discretion, piety, charity, and prudence would go with him down to the foot of the hill. (_page 38_) (_the pilgrim's progress._)] the next day they took him and had him in the place in which arms were kept, where he was shown all sorts of things which their lord had put there for such as he, as sword, shield, casque, plate for breast, _all-prayer_, and shoes that would not wear out. and there was here as much of this as would fit out a host of men to serve the lord. in like way did they show him some of the means with which some of his friends had done things that strike one with awe. he was shown the jaw-bone of the ass with which samson did such great feats. more than this, he was shown the sling and stone with which david slew goliath of gath. but more things still were shown to him, in all of which christian felt much joy. this done, they went to their rest once more. then i saw in my dream that on the morn he got up to go forth, but they fain would have him stay till the next day; "and then," said they, "we will, if the day be clear, show you the delectable mountains, which," they said, "would yet the more add to his bliss, for that they were yet more nigh the port than the place where at that time he was." so he thought it well to stay. when the morn was up, they had him to the top of the house, and bid him look south; so he did, and lo, a long way off, he saw a fair land, full of high hills, clad with woods, vine grounds, fruits of all sorts, plants as well, with springs and founts, most bright to look on. they said it was immanuel's land; "and it is as free," said they, "as this hill is to and for all that are in the way. and when thou dost come there from thence," said they, "thou canst see to the gate of the celestial city, as those who watch their flocks and live there will show thee." now he thought it was due time to set forth, and they were glad that he should. "but first," said they, "let us go once more to where the arms are kept." so they did. and when he came there they clad him in coat of mail, which was of proof, from head to foot, lest he should chance meet with foes in the way. he then, in this gear, came out with his friends to the gate, and there he would know of the porter "if he saw one pass by?" then the porter said "yes." _chr._--"pray did you know him?" _por._--"i did ask his name, and he told me it was faithful." "oh," said christian, "i know him: he is from the same town, and lives nigh to where i dwell: he comes from the place where i was born. how far do you think he may be on the road?" _por._--"he has got by this time more than to the foot of the hill." then he set forth: but discretion, piety, charity, and prudence would go with him down to the foot of the hill. then said christian, "as it was _hard_ to come up, so, so far as i can see, it is a _risk_ to go down." "yes," said prudence, "so it is; for it is a hard thing for a man to go down in the vale of humiliation, as thou art now, and to catch no slip by the way; hence," said they, "we are come out to see thee safe down the hill." so he strove to go down, but with great heed; yet he caught a slip or two. then i saw in my dream that these good friends, when christian was gone down to the foot of the hill, gave him a loaf of bread, a flask of wine, and a bunch of dry grapes; and then he went on his way. chapter ix. apollyon. but now, in this vale of humiliation, poor christian was hard put to it; for he had gone but a short way, when he saw a foul fiend come through the field to meet him: his name is apollyon. so he went on, and apollyon met him. now the ghoul did shock one's eyes to look on: he was clad with scales like a fish; he had wings like a huge bat, feet like a bear, and out of his throat came fire and smoke, and his mouth was as the mouth of the king of beasts. when he came up to christian he gave him a look of scorn, and thus sought to sift him. _apol._--"whence came you? and to what place are you bound?" _chr._--"i am come from the city of destruction, which is the place of all ill, and am on my way to mount zion." _apol._--"by this i know thou art one of my serfs; for all that land is mine; and i am the prince and god of it. how is it, then, that thou hast run off from thy king? were it not that i hope thou wilt serve me yet more, i would strike thee now at one blow to the ground." _chr._--"i was born, in sooth, in your realm, but to serve thee was hard, and your pay such as a man could not live on; 'for the meed of sin is death': for this cause, when i was come to years, i did, as some who think do, look out if so be i might mend my state. i have let my help to some one else; and to no less than the king of kings." _apol._--"think yet, while thou art in cool blood, what thou art like to meet with in the way that thou dost go. thou art not blind that for the most part those who serve him come to an ill end, for that they spurn my laws and walk not in my paths. what a host of them have been put to deaths of shame! and still thou dost count that to serve him is best; when, in sooth, he has not yet come from the place where he is, to save one that stood by his cause, out of my hands." _chr._--"he does not seek so soon to save them, so as to try their love, and find if they will cleave to him to the end; and as for the ill end thou dost say they come to, that tells for their good: for to be set free now they do not much look for it; for they stay for their meed; and they shall have it when their prince comes in the might of the bright hosts that wait on him." _apol._--"thou hast erst been false in thy turns to serve him; and how dost thou think to get pay of him?" _chr._--"all this is true; but the prince whom i serve and love is sure to show ruth. but, let me say, these faults held hold of me in thy land; for there i did suck them in, and they have made me groan and grieve for them; whence i have got the grace of my prince." then apollyon broke out in a sore rage, and said, "i am a foe to this prince: i hate him, his laws, and they who serve him. i am come out with the view to make thee yield." _chr._--"apollyon, take heed what you do; for i am on the king's high road, the way of grace; for which cause mind how you act." then did christian draw; for he saw it was time for him to stir; and apollyon as fast made at him, and threw darts as thick as hail, by the which, in spite of all that christian could do to shift it, apollyon hit him in his head, his hand, and foot. this made christian give some back: apollyon then went to his work with heart, and christian once more took heart, and met his foe as well as he could. then apollyon, as he saw his time had come, made up close to christian, and as he strove to throw him gave him a dread fall; and with that christian's sword flew out of his hand. then said apollyon, "i am sure of thee now!" and with that he did nigh press him to death; so that christian had slight hope of life. but, as god would have it, while apollyon dealt his last blow, by that means to make a full end of this good man, christian at once put out his hand for his sword, caught it, and said, "when i fall, i shall then rise"; and with that gave him a fierce thrust, which made him give back as one that had got his death wound. christian saw that, and made at him once more, while he said, "nay, in all these things we more than gain the prize through him that loves us"; and with that apollyon spread forth his foul wings and sped him off, that christian saw no more of him. so when the fight came to a close, christian said, "i will here give thanks to him that hath kept me out of the mouth of the chief of beasts, to him that did help me in the strife with apollyon." then there came to him a hand with some of the leaves of the "tree of life," the which christian took and laid them on the wounds that he had got in the strife, and was made whole at once. chapter x. the valley of the shadow of death. now at the end of this vale was one more, known as the vale of the shade of death, and christian must needs go through it, for this cause, that the way to the celestial city lay through the midst of it. i saw then in my dream, so far as the bounds of the vale, there was on the right hand a most deep ditch; that ditch is it to which the blind have led the blind in each age, and have both there lost their lives. once more, lo, on the left hand there was a fell quag, in the which, strange to say, if a good man falls he finds no ground for his foot to stand on. the path was here quite strait, and hence good christian was the more put to it; for when he sought in the dark to shun the ditch on the one hand, he was prone to tip on one side souse in the mire on the next. nigh the midst of the vale i saw the mouth of hell to be, and it stood, too, hard by the side of the way. and at times the flame and smoke would come out so thick and with such force, that he had to put up his sword and seize more fit arms, known as _all-prayer_; so i heard him cry, "o lord, i pray thee save my soul!" thus he went on a great while; and as he came to a place where he thought he heard a band of fiends come forth to meet him, he stopt, and did muse what he had best to do. he brought to mind how he had of late held his foes at bay, and that the risk to go back might be much more than to go on. so he made up his mind to go on: yet the fiends did seem to come near and more near. but when they were come just at him he did cry with a loud voice, "i will walk in the strength of the lord god": so they gave back, and came on no more. when christian had trod on in this lorn state some length of time, he thought he heard the voice of a man, as if in front of him, say thus: "though i walk through the vale of the shade of death i will fear no ill: for thou art with me." then was he glad for that he learnt from thence that some who fear god were in this vale as well as he; that god was with them, though in that dark and dire state. so he went on. and by and by the day broke. then said christian, "he doth turn the shade of death to morn." now as morn had come, he gave a look back to see by the light of the day what risks he had gone through in the dark. so he had a more clear view of the ditch that was on the one hand, and the quag that was on the next; in like way he saw how strait the way was which lay twixt them both. and just at this time the sun rose; and this was one more boon to christian: for, from the place where he now stood as far as to the end of the vale, the way was all through set so full of snares, traps, gins, and nets, here; and so full of pits, falls, deep holes, and slopes, down there; that had it now been dark, as it was when he came the first part of the way, had he had five times ten score souls, they had for this cause been cast off. but, as i said just now, the sun did rise. in this light hence he came to the end of the vale. chapter xi. christian and faithful. now as christian went on his way he came to a small height, which was cast up so that those who came that way might see in front of them. up there, then, christian went: and, with a glance, saw faithful some way on the road. at this christian set out with all his strength, and soon got up with faithful, and did, in sooth, leave him lag, so that the last was first. then did christian wear a proud smile, for that he had got the start of his friend: but as he did not take good heed to his feet, he soon struck some tuft and fell, and could not rise till faithful came up to help him. then i saw in my dream, they went on with good will side by side, and had sweet talk of all things that they had met with on their way: and thus christian first spoke: "my most dear friend faithful, i am glad i have come up with you; and that god hath so made us of one mind that we can walk as friends in this so fair a path. tell me now what you have met with in the way as you came: for i know you have met with some things, or else it may be writ for a strange pass." [illustration: faithful comes to the help of christian] _fai._--"i got clear of the slough that i see you fell in, and came up to the gate free from that risk. when i came to the foot of the hill known as difficulty, i met with an old man, who would know what i was, and to what place i was bound? then said the old man, 'thou dost look like a frank soul: wilt thou stay and dwell with me for the pay that i shall give thee?' then i did ask his name, and where he dwelt? he said, 'his name was adam the first, and he dwelt in the town of deceit.' he told me, 'that his work was fraught with joys, and his pay, that i should be his heir at last.' i then would know what kin he had? he said, 'he had but three maids, "the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life," and that i should wive with one of them, if i would.'" _chr._--"well, and what close came the old man and you to at last?" _fai._--"why, at first i would lief go with the man, for i thought he spake full fair; but when i gave a look in his brow, as i spoke with him, i saw there writ, 'put off the old man with his deeds.' then it came red hot to my mind, that spite of all he said, and his smooth ways, when he got me home to his house he would sell me for a slave. so i went off from him: but just as i set round to go thence, i felt him take hold of my flesh, and give me such a dread twitch back, that i thought he did pull part of me with him. so i went on my way up the hill. "now, when i had got nigh half way up, i gave a look back, and saw one move on in my steps, swift as the wind; so he came up with me just by the place where the bench stands. so soon as the man came up with me, it was but a word and a blow, for down he flung me, and laid me for dead. but, when i got free from the shock, i would know why it was he dealt with me so? he said, 'for that i did in my heart cleave to adam the first': and with that he struck me one more fierce blow on the breast, and beat me down on the back. he had, no doubt, made an end of me, but that one came by and bid him stay his hand." [illustration: this is discontent, who would fain have christian go back with him once more.--page 47. _pilgrim's progress._] _chr._--"who was that that bid him stay his hand?" _fai._--"i did not know him at first, but as he went by i saw the holes in his hands and in his side: then i felt sure that he was our lord. so i went up the hill." _chr._--"that man that came up with you was moses. he spares not, nor knows he how to show grace to those that break his law. but did you not see the house that stood there on the top of the hill, on the side of which moses met you?" _fai._--"yes, and the wild beasts, too, ere i came at it: but, as i had so much of the day to spend, i came by the man at the lodge, and then down the hill." _chr._--"but, pray tell me, did you meet with no one in the vale of humility?" _fai._--"yes, i met with one discontent, who would fain have me to go back once more with him: his cause was, for that the vale did not bear a good name." _chr._--"met you with naught else in that vale?" _fai._--"yes, i met with shame: but of all men that i met with in my way, he, i think, bears the wrong name." _chr._--"why, what did he say to you?" _fai._--"what! why, he did flout at faith. he said it was a poor, low, mean thing for a man to mind faith; he said that a soul that shrinks from sin is not fit for a man. he said, too, that but few of the great, rich, or wise held my views; nor did those till they were led to be fools, and to be of a free mind to run the loss of all for none else knows what. more than this, he said such were of a base and low caste, and knew naught of those things which are the boast of the wise. yea, he did hold me to it that it was a shame to ask grace of folk for slight faults, or to give back that which i did take. he said, too, that faith made a man grow strange to the great, and made him own and prize the base: 'and is not this,' said he, 'a shame?'" _chr._--"and what did you say to him?" [illustration: faithful resists shame.] _fai._--"say! i could not tell what to say at first. yea, he put me so to it that my blood came up in my face; aye, this shame did fetch it up, and had, too, beat me quite off. but at last i thought that that which men prize was base in the sight of god. hence, thought i, what god says is best, _is_ best, though all the men in the world are foes to it. as, then, god likes his faith; as god likes a soul that shrinks from sin; and as they are most wise who wear the guise of fools to gain a crown: and that the poor man that loves christ more rich than the man that sways a world, that hates him; shame, go thy way, thou art a foe to my soul's weal. but, in sooth, this shame was a bold knave; i could scarce shake him out of my way: but at last i told him it was but in vain to strive with me from that time forth. and when i shook him off, then i sang- "the tests that those men meet, with all men else that bow their wills to the high call of god, are great; and well, i wist, do suit the flesh, and come, and come, and come e'en yet once more; that now, or some time else, we by them may be held in thrall, flung down, and cast sheer off: o, let those in the way, let all such, then, be sharp, and quick, and quit them like true men." _chr._--"i am glad, my friend, that thou didst strive with this knave in so brave a way; for he is so bold as to trace our steps in the streets, and to try to put us to shame in the sight of all men; that is, to make us feel shame in that which is good." _fai._--"i think we must cry to him for help in our frays with shame, that would have us 'stand up for truth on the earth.'" _chr._--"you say true: but did you meet none else in that vale?" _fai._--"no, not i; for i had the sun with me all the rest of the way through that, as well as through the vale of the shade of death." _chr._--"it was well for you; i am sure it did fare far worse with me. i thought i should have lost my life there more than once: but at last day broke, and the sun rose, and i went through that which was to the front of me with far more ease and peace." chapter xii. talkative. more than this, i saw in my dream, that as they went on, faithful saw a man whose name is talkative, walk some way off by the side of them: for in this place there was full room for them all to walk. to this man faithful spoke in such wise: "friend, to what place dost thou go? dost thou go to the blest land?" _talk._--"i am bound to that same place." _fai._--"come on then, and let us go side by side, and let us spend our time well, by wise speech that tends to use." _talk._--"to talk of things that are good, i like much, with you or with some one else. for, to speak the truth, there are but few that care thus to spend their time, as they are on their way." _fai._--"that is, in sooth, a thing to mourn; for what thing so meet for the use of the tongue and mouth of men on earth, as are the things of the great god on high?" _talk._--"i like you right well, for what you say is full of force; and, i will add, what thing doth so please or what brings such a boon as to talk of the things of god?" _fai._--"that is true; but to gain good by such things in our talk, should be that which we seek." [illustration: faithful saw a man whose name is talkative, who said, "friend, to what place dost thou go? dost thou go to the blest land?"--page 50. _pilgrim's progress._] _talk._--"that is it that i said; for to talk of such things is of great use: for by this means a man may get to know a fair share of things; as how vain are the things of earth; and how good are the things that fail not. then, by this, a man may learn by talk what it is to mourn for sin, to have faith, to pray, to bear grief, or the like. by this, too, a man may learn what it is that soothes, and what are the high hopes set forth in the word of the grace of god; to his own peace." "well, then," said faithful, "what is that one thing that we shall at this time found our speech on?" _talk._--"what you will: i will talk of things not of earth, or of things of earth; things of life, or things of grace; things pure, or things of the world; so that we but gain good by it." now did faithful think this strange; so he came up to christian, and said to him in a soft voice, "what a brave friend have we got! of a truth, this man will do well in the way." at this christian gave a meek smile, and said, "this man, whom you so take to, will cheat with this tongue of his a score of them that know him not." _fai._--"do you know him then?" _chr._--"know him! yes; his name is talkative; he dwells in our town. i wist not how you should be strange to him." _fai._--"well, he seems to be a man of good looks." _chr._--"that is, to them that know him not through and through: for he is best out of doors; near home his looks are as bad as you could find." _fai._--"but i fain think you do but jest, as i saw you smile." _chr._--"god grant not that i should jest in this case, or that i should speak false of one. i will let you see him in a clear light. this man cares not with whom he picks up, or how he talks: as he talks now with you, so will he talk when he is on the bench, with ale by his side; and the more drink he has in his crown, the more of these things he hath in his mouth." _fai._--"say you so? then am i wrong in my thoughts of this man." _chr._--"wrong! you may be sure of it. he talks of what it is to pray; to mourn for sin; of faith, and of the new birth; but he knows but how to talk of them. i have been in his home, and have seen him both in and out of doors, and i know what i say of him is the truth. his house is as void of the fear of god as the white of an egg is of taste. they pray not there, nor is there a sign of grief for sin: yea, the brute, in his kind, serves god more than he." _fai._--"well, my friend, i am bound to trust you; not for that you say you know him, but in like way, for that, like one who has the mind of christ, you judge of men." _chr._--"had i known him no more than you i might, it may be, have thought of him as at the first you did; but all these things, yea, and much more as bad, which i do bring to mind, i can prove him to have the guilt of." _fai._--"well, i see that _to say_ and _to do_ are two things; and by and by i shall take more note of this." _chr._--"they are two things, in sooth, and are no more like than are the soul and flesh; for, as the flesh void of the soul is but a dead lump: so to _say_, if it stand loose, is but a dead lump too. this talkative does not know. he thinks that to _hear_ and to _say_ will make a good man, and thus he cheats his own soul. to hear is but to sow the seed; to talk is not full proof that fruit is deep in the heart and life; and let us feel sure that at the day of doom men shall reap just as they have sown. it will not be said then, 'did you have faith?' but 'did you _do_ or _talk_?' when they shall have their due meed." _fai._--"well, i was not so fond to be with him at first, but am as sick of him now. what shall we do to be rid of him?" _chr._--"be led by me, and do as i bid you, and you shall find that he will soon be sick of you, too, save god shall touch his heart and turn it." _fai._--"what would you have me to do?" _chr._--"why, go to him, and take up some grave theme on the _might_ of faith." then faithful gave a step forth once more, and said to talkative, "come, what cheer? how is it now?" _talk._--"thank you, well; i thought we should have had a great deal of talk by this time." _fai._--"well, if you will, we will fall to it now; and since you left it with me to state the theme, let it be this: how doth the grace of god that saves, show forth signs when it is in the heart of man?" _talk._--"i see, then, that our talk must be of the _might_ of things. well, it is a right good theme, and i shall try to speak on it; and take what i say in brief, thus: first, where the grace of god is in the heart it makes one cry out on sin. in the next place----" _fai._--"nay, hold; let us dwell on one at once: i think you should say in lieu of this, it shows by the way in which the soul loathes its sin. a man may cry out on sin to aid his own ends, but he fails to loathe it, save god makes him do so. some cry out on sin, just as the dame doth cry out on her child in her lap, when she calls it bad girl, and then falls to hug and kiss it." _talk._--"you lie at the catch, i see." _fai._--"no, not i; i but try to set things right. but what is the next thing by which you would prove to make known the work of grace in the heart?" _talk._--"to know much of the deep things of god." _fai._--"this sign should have been first; but, first or last, it too is false: for to know, and know well, the deep things in god's word, may still be, and yet no work of grace in the soul. yea, if a man know all things he may yet be naught; and so, for this cause, be no child of god. when christ said, 'do you know all these things?' and those who heard him said, 'yes'; he did add, 'blest are ye if ye do them.' he doth not lay the grace in that one _knows_, but in that one _does_ them." _talk._--"you lie at the catch, once more: this is not for good." _fai._--"well, if you please, give one more sign how this work of grace doth show where it is." _talk._--"not i, for i see we shall not be of one mind." _fai._--"well, if you will not, will you give me leave to do it?" _talk._--"you may do just as you like." _fai._--"a work of grace in the soul doth show quite clear to him that hath it or to those that stand by. to him that hath it, thus: it gives him a deep sense of sin, of the ill that dwells in him. this sight and sense of things work in him grief and shame for sin; he finds, too, brought to view the saviour of the world, and he feels he must close with him for life; at the which he finds he craves and thirsts for a pure life, pure at heart, pure with his kin, and pure in speech in the world: which in the broad sense doth teach him in his heart to hate his sin, to spurn it from his home, and to shed his light in the world; not by mere talk, as a false knave, or one with a glib tongue, may do, but by the force of faith and love to the might of the word. and now, sir, as to these brief thoughts on the work of grace, if you have aught to say, say on; if not, then give me leave to ask one thing more of you." _talk._--"nay, my part is not now to say aught, but to hear; let me hence hear what you have got to speak." _fai._--"it is this: do you in your heart feel this first part of what i said of it? and doth your life and walk bear proof of the same?" then talkative at first did blush, but when he got through this phase, thus he said: "you come now to what one feels in his heart, to the soul, and god. but i pray, will you tell me why you ask me such things?" _fai._--"for that i saw you prone to talk, and for that i knew not that you had aught else but vague views. more than this, to tell you all the truth, i have heard of you that you are a man whose faith lies in talk, and that what you do gives the lie to what you say." _talk._--"since you are so quick to take up tales, and to judge in so rash a way as you do, i would lief think that you are some cross or dull mope of a man, not fit to hold talk with; and so, i take my leave." then came up christian, and said to his friend, "i told you how it would hap; your words and his lusts could not suit. he thought it best to leave you, than change his life." _fai._--"but i am glad we had this brief talk; it may hap that he will think of it some time." _chr._--"you did well to talk so plain to him as you did; there is not much of this straight course with men in these days. i wish that all men would deal with such as you have done: then should they have to change their ways, or the guild of saints would be too hot for them." thus they went on and told of what they had seen by the way, and so made that way light which would, were not this the case, no doubt have been slow to them; for now they went through a wild. chapter xiii. vanity fair. now when they were got all but quite out of this wild, faithful by chance cast his eye back, and saw one come in his wake, and he knew him. "oh!" said faithful to his friend, "who comes yon?" then christian did look, and said, "it is my good friend evangelist." "ay, and my good friend, too," said faithful, "for it was he that set me the way to the gate." then said evangelist, "how did it fare with you, my friends, since the time we last did part? what have you met with, and what has been your life?" then christian and faithful told him of all things that did hap to them in the way; and how, and with what toil, they had got to that place. "right glad am i," said evangelist, "not that you met with straits, but that you have come safe through them, and for that you have, in spite of some faults, kept in the way to this day. the crown is in sight of you, and it is one that will not rust; 'so run that you may gain it.' you are not yet out of the range of the foul fiend: let the joy of the lord be not lost sight of, and have a firm faith in things not seen." [illustration: christian and faithful enter the town of vanity] then did christian thank him for his sage words, but told him at the same time, that they would have him speak more to them for their help the rest of the way. so evangelist spoke thus: "my sons, you have heard in the truth of god's word, that you must pass through sharp straits to reach the realm of bliss; for now as you see you are just out of this wild, and hence you will ere long come to a town that you will by and by see in front of you; and in that town you will be set round with foes, who will strain hard but they will kill you: and be you sure that one or both of you must seal the faith, which you hold, with blood. but when you are come to the town, and shall find what i have said come to pass, then think of your friend, and quit you both like men." then i saw in my dream that, when they were got out of the wild, they soon saw a town in front of them; the name of that town is vanity; and at the town there is a fair kept, known as vanity fair; at this fair are all such goods sold as lands, trades, realms, lusts, and gay things of all sorts, as lives, blood, souls, gold, pearls, stones of great worth, and what not. now, as i said, the way to the celestial city lies just through this town where this huge fair is kept: and he that will go there, and yet not go through this town, "must needs go out of the world." the lord of lords, when here, went through this town to his own realm, and that, too, on a day when a fair was held: yea, and as i think, it was beelzebub, the chief lord of this fair, that sought of him to buy of his vain wares. but he had no mind to the goods, and hence left the town, nor did he lay out so much as a mite on these wares. now these folk, as i said, must needs go through this fair. well, so they did; but lo, just as they got to the fair, all the crowd in the fair rose up, and the town, too, as it were, and made much noise and stir for that they came there; they, of course, spoke the tongue of canaan; but they that kept the fair were the men of this world; so that, from end to end of the fair, they did seem strange each to each. but that which made the crowd most laugh was, that these men set quite light by all their wares: they did not care so much as to look on them; and, if they sought for them to buy, they would stop their ears, and cry, "turn off mine eyes, lest they see vain things," and look up, to show that their trade and wares were in the skies. at last things came to a sad pass, which led to great stir in the fair, so that all was noise and din, and law was set at naught. now was word soon brought to the great one of the fair, who at once came down, and sent some of his best friends to sift those men by whom the fair was put in such a state. so the men were brought in their sight. but they that were sent to sift them did not think them to be aught than fools and mad, or else such as came to put all things out of gear in the fair. hence they took them and beat them, and made them grime with dirt, and then put them in the cage, that they might be made a foul sight to all the men of the fair. but as the men bore up well, and gave good words for bad, some men in the fair, that were more just than the rest, sought to check and chide the base sort for the vile acts done by them to the men. one said, "that for aught they could see, the men were mild, and of sound mind, and sought to do harm to no one: and that there were some, that did trade in their fair, that ought far more to be put in the cage, than the men to whom they had done such ill." thus, as soon as hot words did pass on both sides, they fell to some blows, and did harm each to each. then were these two poor men brought up once more, when a charge was made that it was they who had got up the row that had been made at the fair. but christian and faithful bore the shame and the slur that was cast on them in so calm and meek a way that it won to their side some of the men of the fair. this put one part of the crowd in a still more fierce rage, so that they were bent on the death of these two men. then were they sent back to the cage once more, till it was told what should be done with them. so they put them in, and made their feet fast in the stocks. here, then, they once more brought to mind what they had heard from their true friend evangelist, and were the more strong in their way and woes by what he told them would fall out to them. they, too, now sought to cheer the heart of each, that whose lot it was to die that he should have the best of it: hence each man did wish in the depth of his soul that he might have the crown. then in due time they brought them forth to court, so that they might meet their doom. the name of the judge was lord hate-good; their plaint was "that they had made broils and feuds in the town, and had won some to their own most vile views, in scorn of the law of their prince." then faithful said "that he did but spurn that which had set up in face of him that is the most high. and," said he, "as for broils, i make none, as i am a man of peace; those that were won to us were won by their view of our truth and pure lives and they are but gone from the worst to the best." [illustration: then superstition said: "my lord, i know not much of this man; but he is a most vile knave."--page 61. _pilgrim's progress._] then was it made known that they that had aught to say for their lord the king, to prove the guilt of him at the bar, should at once come forth and give in their proof. so there came in three men, to wit, envy, superstition, and pickthank. then stood forth envy and said in this strain: "my lord, this man, in spite of his fair name, is one of the most vile men in our land. he does all that he can to fill all men with some of his wild views, which tend to the bane of our realm, and which he for the most part calls 'grounds of faith and a pure life.' and in chief i heard him once say that the faith of christ and the laws of our town of vanity could not be at one, as they were foes each to each." then did they call superstition, and sware him: so he said: "my lord, i know not much of this man, nor do i care to know more of him; but he is a most vile knave; i heard him say that our faith was naught, and such by which no man could please god. which words of his, my lord, you quite well know what they mean, to wit, that we still work in vain, are yet in our sins, and at last shall be lost. and this is that which i have to say." then was pickthank sworn, and bid say what he knew in the cause of their lord the king to the hurt of the rogue at the bar. _pick._--"my lord, and you great folk all, this wight i have known of a long time, and have heard him speak things that ought not to be said; for he did rail on our great prince, beelzebub, and spoke ill of his firm friends; and he hath said, too, that if all men were of his mind, if so be there is not one of these great men should from that time forth stay in this town. more than this, he hath not felt dread to rail on you, my lord, who are now sent to be his judge." when this pickthank had told his tale, the judge spoke to the man at the bar, and said, "thou vile, base wretch, hast thou heard what those just and true men have sworn to thy bane?" _fai._--"i say then, as a set off to what mr. envy hath said, i spoke not a word but this, 'that what rule, or laws, or rights, or men, are flat down on the word of god, are foes to the faith of christ.' "as to the next, to wit, mr. superstition, and his charge to my hurt, i said but this, 'that to serve god one needs a faith from on high; but there can be no faith from on high void of the will of god made known from the same source. hence, all that is thrust on us that does not square with this will of god, is but of man's faith; which faith will not serve the life that is to come.' "as to what mr. pickthank hath said, 'that the prince of this town, with all the roughs, his slaves, are more fit for one in hell than in this town and land'; and so the lord be good to me." then the judge said to those who were to bind or loose him from the charge: "ye who serve here to weigh this case, you see this man of whom so great a din hath been made in this town. it doth lie now on your souls to hang him, or save his life; but yet i think meet to teach you a few points of our law. [illustration: then stood forth envy and said: "my lord, this man in spite of his fair name, is one of the most vile men in our land."--page 61. _pilgrim's progress._] "there was an act made in the days of pharaoh the great, friend to our prince, that, lest those of a wrong faith should spread and grow too strong for him, their males should be thrown in the stream. there was, in like way, an act made in the days of nebuchadnezzar the great, who, too, did serve him, that such as would not fall down and laud the form he had set up, should be flung in a pit of fire. now the pith of these laws this rogue has set at naught, not in mere thought but in word and deed as well. twice, nay thrice, he speaks of our creed as a thing of naught; and for this, on his own words, he needs must die the death." then went out those who had to weigh the case, whose names were mr. blind-man, mr. no-good, mr. malice, mr. love-lust, mr. live-loose, mr. heady, mr. high-mind, mr. enmity, mr. liar, mr. cruelty, mr. hate-light, and mr. implacable; who each one gave in his voice to faithful's hurt, in his own mind; and then meant to make known his doom in face of the judge. and mr. blind-man, the chief, said, "i see, most plain, that this man is a foe; let us at once doom him to death." and so they did. the judge then put on the black cap, and said, "that he should be led from the place where he was to the place from whence he came, and there to be put to the worst death that could be thought off." they then brought him out to do with him as the law set forth: and first they whipt him; then they did pelt him with stones; and, last of all, they burnt him to dust at the stake. thus came faithful to his end. now i saw that there stood in the rear of the crowd a state car, with two steeds, that did wait for faithful; who, as soon as his foes had got rid of him, was caught up in it and straight sent off through the clouds, with sound of trump, the most near way to the celestial gate. but as for christian, he was put back to jail; so there he lay for a space: but he that rules all things, in whose hand was the might of their rage, so wrought it that christian, for that time got free from them and went his way. chapter xiv. christian and hopeful. now i saw in my dream that christian went not forth with none to cheer him; for there was one whose name was hopeful, who set out with him, and made a grave pact that he would be his friend. so i saw that when they were just got out of the fair they came up with one that had gone on in front of them, whose name was by-ends. he told them that he came from the town of fair-speech, and was bound for the celestial city; but he told them not his name. _chr._--"pray, sir, what may i call you?" _by._--"i know not you, nor you me: if you mean to go this way, i shall be glad to go with you: if not, i must take things as they come." then christian stept on one side to his friend hopeful, and said, "it runs in my mind that this is one by-ends, of fair-speech, and if it be he, we have as keen a knave in our midst as dwells in all these parts." then said hopeful, "ask him; i think he should not blush at his name." so christian came up with him once more, and said, "sir, is not your name mr. by-ends, of fair-speech?" _by._--"this is not my name; but, in sooth, it is a name i got in scorn from some that do not like me." _chr._--"i thought, in sooth, that you were the man that i had heard of; and, to tell you what i think, i fear this name suits you more than you would wish we should think it doth." [illustration: hopeful joins company with christian] _by._--"well, if you will thus think, i durst not help it: you shall find me a fair man, if you will make me one of you." _chr._--"if you will go with us, you must go in the teeth of wind and tide; you must, in like wise, own faith in his rags, as well as when in his sheen shoes; and stand by him, too, when bound in chains, as well as when he walks the streets with praise." _by._--"you must not curb my faith, nor lord it in this way: leave me free to think, and let me go with you." _chr._--"not a step more, save you will do in what i shall speak as we." then said by-ends, "i shall not cast off my old views, since they bring no harm, and are of use. if i may not go with you, i must do as i did ere you came up with me, that is, go on with no one, till some will come on who will be glad to meet me." now i saw in my dream that christian and hopeful left him, and went on in front of him: but one of them did chance to look back, and saw three men in the wake of mr. by-ends, and lo, as they came up with him, he made them quite a low bow. the men's names were mr. hold-the-world, mr. money-love, and mr. save-all; men that mr. by-ends had erst known; for when boys they were mates at school, and were taught by one mr. gripeman, who keeps a school in love-gain, which is a large town in the shire of coveting, in the north. well, when they, as i said, did greet in turn, mr. money-love said to mr. by-ends, "who are they on the road right in front of us?" _by._--"they are a pair from a land far off, that, in their mode, are bent on a long route." [illustration: then christian saw three men in the wake of mr. by-ends, and lo, as they came up with him he made them a very low bow.--page 66. _pilgrim's progress._] _money._--"ah! why did they not stay; that we might have gone on with them? for they, and we, and you, sir, i hope, are all bent on the same road." _by._--"why, they, in their fierce mood, think that they are bound to rush on their way at all times; while i wait for wind and tide. they like to risk all for god at a clap; while i like to seize all means to make safe my life and lands. they are for faith when in rags and scorn; but i am for him when he walks in his sheen shoes in the sun, and with praise." _hold._--"ay, and hold you there still, good mr. by-ends: for my part i can count him but a fool, that with the means to keep what he has, he shall be so lack of sense as to lose it. for my part, i like that faith best that will stand with the pledge of god's good gifts to us. abraham and solomon grew rich in faith: and job says that a good man 'shall lay up gold as dust.' but he must not be such as the men in front of us, if they be as you have said of them." _save._--"i think that we are all of one mind in this thing; and hence there need no more words be said of it." mr. by-ends and his friends did lag and keep back, that christian and hopeful might go on in front of them. then christian and hopeful went till they came to a nice plain known as ease; which did please them much: but that plain was but strait, so they were soon got through it. now at the far side of that plain was a small hill, which went by the name of lucre, and in that hill a gold mine, which some of them that had been that way had gone on one side to see; but, as they got too near the brink of the pit, the ground, as it was not sound, broke when they trod on it, and they were slain. then i saw in my dream that a short way off the road, nigh to the gold mine, stood demas, a man of fair looks, to call to such as went that way to come and see; who said to christian and his friend, "ho! turn hence on this side, and i will show you a thing. here is a gold mine, and some that dig in it for wealth: if you will come, with slight pains you may gain a rich store for your use." [illustration: demas tempts christian and hopeful.] then christian did call to demas, and said, "is not the way rife with risks? hath it not let some in their way?" _dem._--"not so much so, save to those that take no care." but a blush came on his face as he spake. then said christian to hopeful, "let us not stir a step, but still keep on our way." by this time by-ends and those who were with him came once more in sight, and they, at the first beck, went straight to demas. now, that they fell in the pit, as they stood on the brink of it, or that they went down to dig, or that they lost their breath at the base by the damps that, as a rule, rise from it, of these things i am not sure; but this i saw, that from that time forth they were not seen once more in the way. which strange sight gave them cause for grave talk. chapter xv. doubting castle and giant despair. i saw then, that they went on their way to a fair stream. here then christian and his friend did walk with great joy. they drank, too, of the stream, which was sweet to taste, and like balm to their faint hearts. more than this, on the banks of this stream, on each side, were green trees with all kinds of fruit: and the leaves they ate to ward off ills that come of too much food and heat of blood, while on the way. on each side of the stream was a mead, bright with white plants; and it was green all the year long. in this mead they lay down and slept. when they did wake they felt a wish to go on, and set out. now the way from the stream was rough, and their feet soft, for that they came a long road so the souls of the men were sad, from the state of the way. now, not far in front of them, there was on the left hand of the road a mead, and a stile to get right to it: and that mead is known as by-path meadow. then said christian to his friend, "if this mead doth lie close by the side of our way, let us go straight to it." then said christian to his friends, "if this mead doth lie close by the side of our way, let us go straight to it." then he went to the stile to see, and lo, a path lay close by the way on the far off side of the fence. "it is just as i wish," said christian; "come, good hopeful, and let us cross to it." _hope._--"but how if this path should lead us out of the way?" "that is not like to be," said the next. "look, doth it not go straight on by the side of the way?" so hopeful, when he thought on what his friend said, went in his steps, and did cross the stile; and at the same time, while they cast their eyes in front of them, they saw a man that did walk as they did, and his name was vain-confidence: so they did call to him, and ask him to what place that way led. he said, "to the celestial gate." "look," said christian, "did not i tell you so? by this you may see we are right." so they went in his wake, and he went in front of them. but, lo, the night came on, and it grew quite dark; so that they that were in the rear lost the sight of him that went in front. he then that went in front, as he did not see the way clear, fell in a deep pit, which was there made by the prince of those grounds to catch such vain fools with the rest, and was torn in bits by his fall. now christian and his friend heard him fall: so they did call to know the cause: but there was none to speak. then hopeful gave a deep groan, and said, "oh, that i had kept on my way!" [illustration: this is vain-confidence whom christian and hopeful saw in the way as they did walk.--page 70. _pilgrim's progress._] _chr._--"good friend, do not feel hurt. i grieve i have brought thee out of the way, and that i have put thee in no slight strait; pray, my friend, let this pass; i did not do it of a bad will." _hope._--"be of good cheer, my friend, for i give thee shrift; and trust, too, this shall be for our good." then, so as to cheer them, they heard the voice of one that said, "let thine heart be set on the high road; and the way that thou didst go turn once more." but by this time the way that they should go back was rife with risk. then i thought that we get more quick out of the way when we are in it, than in it when we are out. nor could they, with all the skill they had, get once more to the stile that night. for which cause, as they at last did light neath a slight shed, they sat down there till day broke: but as they did tire they fell to sleep. now there was not far from the place where they lay a fort, known as doubting castle, and he who kept it was giant despair: and it was on his grounds that they now slept. hence, as he got up at dawn, and did walk up and down in his fields, he caught christian and hopeful in sound sleep on his grounds. they told him they were poor wights, and that they had lost their way. then said the giant, "you have this night come where you should not; you did tramp in, and lie on, my grounds, and so you must go hence with me." so they were made to go, for that he had more strength than they. they, too, had but few words to say, for they knew they were in a fault. the giant hence drove them in front of him, and put them in his fort, in a dank, dark cell, that was foul and stunk to the souls of these two men. here then they lay for full four days, and had not one bit of bread, or drop of drink, or light, or one to ask how they did: they were, hence, here in bad case, and were far from friends and all who knew them. now in this place christian had more than his own share of grief, for it was through his bad words that they were brought to such dire bale. now giant despair had a wife, and her name was diffidence: so when he was gone to bed he told his wife what he had done. then he did ask her, too, what he had best do more to them. then she said to him that when he got up in the morn he should beat them, and show no ruth. so when he rose he gets him a huge stick of crab, and goes down to the cell to them, and falls on them and beats them in such sort that they could do naught to ward off his blows, or to turn them on the floor. this done, he goes off and leaves them there to soothe each one his friend, and to mourn their grief. the next night, she spoke with her lord more as to their case, and when she found that they were not dead, did urge him to tell them to take their own lives. so when morn was come he told them that since they were not like to come out of that place, their best way would be at once to put an end to their lives, with knife, rope, or drug. but they did pray him to let them go; with that he gave a frown on them, ran at them, and had no doubt made an end of them with his own hand, but that he fell in one of his fits. from which cause he went off, and left them to think what to do. then did the men talk of the best course to take; and thus they spoke: "friend," said christian, "what shall we do? the life that we now live is fraught with ill: for my part, i know not if it be best to live thus, or die out of hand: the grave has more ease for me than this cell." _hope._--"of a truth, our state is most dread, and death would be more of a boon to me than thus hence to stay: but let us not take our own lives." with these words hopeful then did soothe the mind of his friend: so they did stay each with each in the dark that day, in their sad and drear plight. well, as dusk came on the giant goes down to the cell once more, to see if those he held bound there had done as he had bid them: but when he came there he found they still did live, at which he fell in a great rage, and told them that, as he saw they had lent a deaf ear to what he said, it should be worse for them than if they had not been born. at this they shook with dread, and i think that christian fell in a swoon; but as he came round once more, they took up the same strain of speech as to the giant's words, and if it were best give heed to them or no. now christian once more did seem to wish to yield, but hopeful made his next speech in this wise: "my friend," said he, "dost thou not know how brave thou hast been in times past? the foul fiend could not crush thee; nor could all that thou didst hear, or see, or feel in the vale of the shade of death; what wear and tear, grief and fright, hast thou erst gone through, and art thou naught but fears? thou dost see that i am in the cell with thee, and i am a far more weak man to look at than thou art: in like way, this giant did wound me as well as thee, and hath, too, cut off the bread and drink from my mouth, and with thee i mourn void of the light. but let us try and grow more strong: call to mind how thou didst play the man at vanity fair, and wast not made blench at the chain or cage, nor yet at fierce death; for which cause let us, at least to shun the shame that looks not well for a child of god to be found in, bear up with calm strength as well as we can." now night had come once more, and his wife spoke to him of the men, and sought to know if they had done as he had told them. to which he said, "they are stout rogues; they choose the more to bear all hard things than to put an end to their lives." then said she, "take them to the garth next day, and show them the bones and skulls of those that thou hast put to death, and make them think thou wilt tear them in shreds, as thou hast done to folk like to them." so when the morn was come the giant takes them to the garth, and shows them as his wife had bade him: "these," said he, "were wights, as you are, once, and they trod on my ground, as you have done; and when i thought fit i tore them in bits, and so in the space of ten days i will do you: go, get you down to your den once more." and with that he beat them all the way to the place. they lay for this cause all day in a sad state, just as they had done. now, when night was come, and when mrs. diffidence and her spouse the giant were got to bed, they once more spoke of the men; and, with this, the giant thought it strange that he could not by his blows or words bring them to an end. and with that his wife said, "i fear that they live in hopes that some will come to set them free, or that they have things to pick locks with them, by the means of which they hope to scape." "and dost thou say so, my dear?" said the giant; "i will hence search them in the morn." well, in the depth of night they strove hard to pray, and held it up till just break of day. [illustration: christian & hopeful escape from doubting castle] now, not long ere it was day, good christian, as one half wild, brake out in this hot speech: "what a fool," quoth he, "am i, thus to lie in a foul den when i may as well walk in the free air: i have a key in my breast known as promise, that will, i feel sure, pick each lock in doubting castle." then said hopeful, "that is good news, my friend; pluck it out of thy breast and try." then christian took it out of his breast, and did try at the cell door, whose bolt as he did turn the key gave back, and the door flew back with ease, and christian and hopeful both came out. then he went to the front door that leads to the yard of the fort, and with this key did ope that door in like way. then he went to the brass gate (for that he must ope too), but that lock he had hard work to move; yet did the key pick it. then they thrust wide the gate to make their scape with speed. but that gate as it went back did creak so, that it woke giant despair, who, as he rose in haste to go in search of the men, felt his limbs to fail, for his fits took him once more, so that he could by no means go in their track. then they went on, and came to the king's high road once more, and so were safe, for that they were out of his grounds. now, when they had got clear of the stile, they thought in their minds what they should do at that stile, to keep those that should come in their wake from the fell hands of giant despair. so they built there a pile and wrote on the side of it these words: "to cross this stile is the way to doubting castle, which is kept by giant despair, who spurns the king of the good land, and seeks to kill such as serve him." chapter xvi. the delectable mountains. they went then till they came to the delectable mountains, which mounts the lord of that hill doth own of whom we erst did speak: so they went up to the mounts, to see the plants, trees rife with fruit, the vines and founts; where, too, they drank, did wash, and eat of the grapes till no gust was left for more. now there were on the top of these mounts, shepherds that fed their flocks, and they stood by the side of the high road. christian and hopeful then went to them, and while they leant on their staves (as is the case with wights who tire when they stand to talk with folk by the way), they said, "whose delectable mountains are these? and whose be the sheep that fed on them?" _shep._--"these mounts are immanuel's land, and they can be seen from this town: and the sheep in like way are his, and he laid down his life for them." _chr._--"is this the way to the celestial city?" _shep._--"you are just in your way." i saw, too, in my dream that when the shepherds saw that they were men on the road, they in like way did ask them things, to which they spoke, as was their wont: as, "whence came you? and how got you in the way? and by what means have you so held on in it? for but few of them that set out to come hence do show their face on these mounts." but when the shepherds heard their speech, which did please them, they gave them looks of love, and said, "good come with thee to the mounts of joy." the shepherds, i say, whose names were knowledge, experience, watchful, and sincere, took them by the hand and had them to their tents, and made them eat and drink of that which was there at the time. they said, too, "we would that you should stay here a short time, to get known to us, and yet more to cheer your heart with the good of these mounts of joy." they told them that they would much like to stay; and so they went to their rest that night, for that it was so late. then i saw in my dream, that in the morn the shepherds did call on christian and hopeful to walk with them on the mounts. then said the shepherds, each to his friend, "shall we show these wights with staves some strange sights?" so they had them first to the top of a hill, known as error, and bid them look down to the base. so christian and hopeful did look down, and saw at the foot a lot of men rent all to bits, by a fall that they had from the top. then said christian, "what doth this mean?" the shepherds said, "have you not heard of them that were made to err, in that they gave heed to hymeneus and philetus, who held not the faith that the dead shall rise from the grave? those that you see lie rent in bits at the base of this mount are they; and they have lain to this day on the ground as you see, so that those who come this way may take heed how they climb too high, or how they come too near the brink of this mount." then i saw that they had them to the top of the next mount, and the name of that is caution, and bid them look as far off as they could; which when they did they saw, as they thought, a group of men that did walk up and down through the tombs that were there: and they saw that the men were blind, for that they fell at times on the tombs, and for that they could not get out from the midst of them. then said christian, "what means this?" [illustration: the hill error.] the shepherds then said, "did you not see, a short way down these mounts, a stile that leads to a mead on the left hand of this way?" they said, "yes." then said the shepherds, "from that stile there goes a path that leads straight to doubting castle, which is kept by giant despair, and these men (as he did point to them in the midst of the tombs) came once on the way, as you do now--ay, till they came to that same stile! and as they found the right way was rough in that place, they chose to go out of it to that mead, and there were caught by giant despair and shut up in doubting castle; where, when they had a while been kept in a cell, he at last did put out their eyes, and led them in the thick of those tombs, where he has left them to stray till this day: that the words of the wise man might be brought to pass, 'he that strays out of the way of truth shall dwell in the homes of the dead.'" then did christian and hopeful look each on each, while tears came from their eyes; but yet said they not a word to the shepherds. then i saw in my dream, that the shepherds had them to one more place, in a steep, where was a door in the side of a hill; and they flung wide the door and bid them look in. they did look in, hence, and saw that it was dark and full of smoke; they thought, too, that they heard a hoarse noise, as of fire, and a cry of some in pain. then said christian, "what means this?" the shepherds told them, "this is a nigh way to hell; a way that such as seem to be what they are not go in at: to wit, such as sell the right they had at birth, with esau; such as sell their lord, with judas; such as speak ill of god's word, with alexander; and that lie and shift, with ananias, and sapphira his wife." then said hopeful to the shepherds, "i see that these had on them, each one, a show of the road, as we have now, had they not?" _shep._--"yes, and held it a long time too." _hope._--"how far might they go on in the way, in their days, since they, in spite of this, were thus cast off?" _shep._--"some yon, and some not so far as these mounts." by this time christian and hopeful had a wish to go forth, and the shepherds meant that they should: so they sped side by side till they got nigh the end of the mounts. then said the shepherds, each to his friend, "let us here show these wights the gates of the celestial city, if they have skill to look through our kind of glass." the men then did like the hint: so they had them to the top of a high hill, the name of which was clear, and gave them the glass to look. then did they try to look, but the thought of that last thing that the shepherds had shown them made their hands shake; by means of which let they could not look well through the glass; yet they thought they saw a thing like the gate, and, in like way, some of the sheen of the place. just ere they set out, one of the shepherds gave them _a note of the way_; the next bid them _take heed of such as fawn_; the third bid them _take heed that they slept not on ground that had a spell_; and the fourth bid them god speed. so i did wake from my dream. chapter xvii. the enchanted ground and the way down to it. and i slept and dreamt once more, and saw the same two wights go down the mounts, by the high road that led to the town. now nigh the base of these mounts, on the left hand, lies the land of conceit, from which land there comes, right in the way in which the men trod, a small lane with twists and turns. here, then, they met with a brisk lad that came out of that land, and his name was ignorance. so christian would know from what parts he came, and whence he was bound. _ignor._--"sir, i was born in the land that lies off there a short way on the left hand, and i am bound to the celestial city." _chr._--"but how do you think to get in at the gate? for you may find some let there." "as some good folk do," said he. _chr._--"but what have you to show at that gate, that the gate should be flung wide to you?" _ignor._--"i know my lord's will, and have led a good life; i pay each man his own; i pray, fast, pay tithes, and give alms; and have left my land for the place to which i go." _chr._--"but thou didst not come in at the wicket-gate that is at the head of this way; thou didst come in here through that same lane with the twists and turns; and hence, i fear, in spite of what thou dost think of thy right, when the last day shall come, thou wilt have laid to thy charge that thou art a thief, in lieu of a free pass to the town." _ignor._--"sirs, ye be not known to me in the least; i know you not; you be led by the faith of your land, and i will be led by the faith of mine. i hope all will be well. and as for the gate that you talk of, all the world knows that that is a great way off our land. i do not think that one man in all our parts doth so much as know the way to it; nor need they care if they do or no; since we have, as you see, a fine, gay, green lane, that comes down from our land, the next road that leads to the way." [illustration: then christian met with a brisk lad who said his name was ignorance.--page 82. _pilgrim's progress._] when christian saw that the man was wise in his own eyes, he said to hopeful in a soft voice, "'there is more hope of a fool than of him'"; and said, in like way, "'when he that is a fool walks by the way, his sense fails him, and he saith to each one that he is a fool.' what! shall we talk more with him, or move on now, and so leave him to think of what he hath erst heard, and then stop once more for him in a while, and see if by slow steps we can do aught of good to him?" then said hopeful, "it is not good, i think, to say so to him all at once; let us pass him by, if you will, and talk to him by and by, just as he has 'strength to bear it.'" so they both went on, and ignorance came in their track. now, when they had left him a short way, they came to a dark lane, where they met a man whom some fiends had bound with strong cords, and took back to the door that they saw on the side of the hill. now good christian could not help but shake, and so did hopeful, who was with him; yet, as the fiends led off the man, christian did look to see if he knew him; and he thought it might be one turnaway, that dwelt in the town of apostacy. but he did not well see his face, for he did hang his head like a thief that is found. but when he had gone past, hopeful gave a look at him, and saw on his back a card, with these words, "vile cheat, that has left his faith." so they went on, and ignorance went in their track. they went till they came at a place where they saw a way put right in their way, and did seem, at the same time, to lie as straight as the way which they should go. and here they knew not which of the two to take, for both did seem straight in front of them: hence they stood to think. and as they thought of the way, lo, a man black of flesh, but clad with a light robe, came to them, and did ask them why they stood there. they said they were bound to the celestial city, but knew not which of these ways to take. "go with me," said the man; "it is to that place i am bent." so they went with him in the way that but now came to the road, which each step they took did turn and turn them so far from the town that they sought to go to, that in a short time their heads did turn off from it; yet they went with him. but by and by, ere they well knew of it, he led them both in the bounds of a net, in which they were both so caught that they knew not what to do; and with that the white robe fell off the black man's back: then they saw where they were. for which cause there they lay in tears some time, for they could not get their limbs out. then said christian to his friend, "now do i see that i am wrong. did not the shepherds bid us take heed of the flatterer? as are the words of the wise man, so we have found it this day, 'a man that fawns on his friend spreads a net for his feet.'" _hope._--"they, too, gave us some notes as to the way, so that we may be the more sure to find it; but in that we have not thought to read." [illustration: then did hopeful tell christian his experience, and christian said: "let us not sleep, as some do; but let us watch and pray."--page 86. _pilgrim's progress._] thus they lay in sad plight in the net. at last they saw a bright one come nigh to where they were, with a whip of small cords in his hand. when he was come to the place where they were, he did ask them whence they came, and what they did there? they told him they were poor wights bound to zion, but were led out of their way by a black man clad in white, "who bid us," said they, "go with him, for he was bound to that place too." then said he with the whip, "it is one who fawns, a false guide who wore the garb of a sprite of light." so he rent the net, and let the men out. then said he to them, "come with me, that i may set you in your way once more": so he led them back to the way they had left to go with the flatterer. then he did ask them and said, "where did you lie the last night?" they said, "with the shepherds on the mounts of joy." he did ask, then, if they had not of those men a note as a guide for the way. they said, "yes." "but did you not," said he, "when you were at a stand, pluck out and read your note?" quoth they, "no." he did ask them, "why?" they said, "they did not think of it." he would know, too, "if the shepherds did not bid them take heed of the flatterer?" they said, "yes; but we thought not," said they, "that this man of fine speech had been he." then i saw in my dream that he told them to lie down; which when they did, he gave them sore stripes, to teach them the good way in which they should walk. this done, he bids them go on their way, and take good heed to the next hints of the shepherds. i then saw in my dream, that they went on till they came to a land whose air did tend to make one sleep. and here hopeful grew quite dull and nigh fell to sleep: for which cause he said to christian: "i do now grow so dull that i can scarce hold ope mine eyes; let us lie down here and take one nap." "by no means," said christian, "lest if we sleep we wake not more." _hope._--"why, my friend? sleep is sweet to the man that toils: it may give us strength if we take a nap." _chr._--"do you not know that one of the shepherds bid us take heed of the enchanted ground? he meant by that, that we should take care and not go to sleep. 'let us not sleep, as do some; but let us watch and be of sound mind.'" _hope._--"i know i am in fault; and, had not you been with me here, i had gone to sleep and run the risk of death. i see it is true that the wise man saith, 'two are more good than one.' up to this time thou hast been my ruth and thou shalt 'have a good meed for thy pains.'" [illustration: hopeful tells christian his experience.] i saw then in my dream, that hopeful gave a look back, and saw ignorance, whom they had left in their wake, come in their track. "look," said he to christian, "how far yon youth doth lag in the rear." [illustration: "come on, man, why do you stay back so?" said christian. "i like to walk alone," said ignorance.--page 87. _pilgrim's progress._] _chr._--"ay, ay, i see him: he cares not to be with us." _hope._--"but i trow it would not have hurt him had he kept pace with us to this time." _chr._--"that is true: but i wot he doth not think so." _hope._--"that i think he doth: but, be it so or no, let us wait for him." so they did. then christian did call to him, "come you on, man: why do you stay back so?" _ignor._--"i like to walk in this lone way; ay, more a great deal than with folk: that is, save i like them much." then said christian to hopeful (but in a soft voice), "did i not tell you he sought to shirk us? but, be this as it may, come up, and let us talk off the time in this lone place." then, when he had a long speech with ignorance, christian spoke thus to his friend, "well, come, my good hopeful, i see that thou and i must walk side by side once more." so i saw in my dream, that they went on fast in front, and ignorance, he came with lame gait in their track. then said christian to his friend, "i feel much for this poor man: it will of a truth go hard with him at last." chapter xviii. the land of beulah--the fords of the river--at home. now i saw in my dream that by this time the wights had got clear of the enchanted ground, and had come to the land of beulah, whose air was most sweet: as the way did lie straight through it, they took rest there for a while. yea, here they heard at all times "the songs of birds," and saw each day the plants bud forth in the earth, and heard "the voice of the dove" in the land. in this realm the sun shines night and day: for this was far from the vale of the shade of death, and, in like way, out of the reach of giant despair; nor could they from this place so much as see doubting castle. here they were in sight of the city to which they were bound: here, too, met them some of the folk who dwelt there, for in this land the bright ones did walk, for that it was on the verge of bliss. [illustration: christian and hopeful enter the land of beulah.] now as they did walk in this land they had more joy than in parts not so nigh the realm to which they were bound: and as they drew near the city they had yet a more clear view of it. it was built of pearls and rare gems: its streets, too, were of gold: so that, from the sheen of the place, and the glow of the sun on it, christian did long so much that he fell sick. hopeful, in like way, had a fit or two of the same kind. but when they got some strength, and could bear their sick state, they went on their way, and came near and yet more near where were grounds that bore fruits, vines, and plants; and their gates did ope on the high road. now, as they came up to these parts, lo, the gardener stood in the way; to whom the men said, "whose fine vine and fruit grounds are these?" he said, "they are the king's, and are put there for his own joy, as well as to cheer such as come this way." so he took them to where the vines grew, and bid them wet their mouths with the fruit: he, too, did show them there the king's walks, and the shades that he sought: and here they staid and slept. now i saw in my dream that they spoke more in their sleep at this time than erst they did in all their way: and as i did muse on it, the gardener said to me, "why dost thou muse at this? it is a charm in the fruit of the grapes of these grounds 'to go down in so sweet a way as to cause the lips of them that sleep to speak.'" so i saw that when they did wake they girt up their loins to go up to the city. so as they went on, there met them two men in robes that shone like gold, while the face of each was bright as the light. these men did ask them whence they came; and they told them. they would know, too, where they did lodge, and what straits and risks and joys they had met with in the way; and they told them. then said the men that met them, "you have but two straits more to meet with, and then you are in the city." christian then, and his friend, did ask the men to go with them: so they told them that they would; but said they, "you must gain it by your own faith." so i saw in my dream that they went on each with each, till they came in sight of the gate. now i saw still more, that a stream ran in front of them and the gate; but there was no bridge to cross, and the stream was deep. at the sight of this stream, the wights with staves took fright; but the men that went with them said, "thou must go through, or thou canst not come at the gate." the wights then sought to know if there was no way but that to the gate. to which they said, "yes; but none, save two--to wit, enoch and elijah--hath been let to tread that path since the world was made, nor shall till the last trump shall sound." the wights then (and christian in chief) grew as if they would give up hope, and did look this way and that, but no way could be found by which they might get clear of the stream. then they did ask the men if it was all the same depth. they said, "no"; yet they could not help them in that case: "for," said they, "you shall find it more or less deep as you trust in the king of the place." then they did wade in the stream, and as christian sank he did cry to his good friend hopeful, and said, "i sink." [illustration] then said hopeful, "be of good cheer, my friend: i feel the ground, and it is good." then said christian, "ah! my friend, i shall not see the land i seek." and with that all grew dark, and fear fell on christian, so that he could not see in front of him. all the words that he spoke still did tend to show that he had dread of mind and fears of heart that he should die in that stream, and fail to go in at the gate. hopeful, from this cause, had here hard work to hold up the head of his friend; yea, at times he would be quite gone down, and then, ere a while, he would rise up once more half dead. hopeful would try to cheer him, and said, "friend, i see the gate, and men stand by to greet us": but christian would say, "'tis you, 'tis you they wait for; you have had hope since the time i knew you." then said hopeful, "these fears and griefs that you go through are no sign that god has left you, but are sent to try you; if you will call to mind that which of yore you have had from him, and live on him in your griefs." then i saw in my dream that christian was in a muse for a while. to whom, too, hopeful did add these words, "be of good cheer, christ doth make thee whole." and with that christian brake out with a loud voice, "oh, i see him once more! and he tells me, 'when thou dost pass through the stream, i will be with thee.'" then they both took heart, and the foe then grew as still as a stone, till they were gone through. christian then straight found ground to stand on, and so it came to pass that the rest of the stream was but of slight depth: thus they did ford it. now on the bank of the stream, on the far off side, they saw the two bright men once more, who there did wait for them. when they came out of the stream these did greet them, and said: "we are sprites sent forth to aid them who shall be heirs of christ." thus they went on to the gate. now you must note that the city stood on a high hill: but the wights went up that hill with ease, for that they had these two men to lead them up by the arms: more than this, they had left the garb they wore in the stream; for though they went in with them they came out freed from them. they hence went up here with much speed, though the rise on which the city was built was more high than the clouds. they then went up through the realms of air, and held sweet talk as they went, as they felt joy for that they had got safe through the stream, and had such bright ones to wait them. the talk that they had with the bright ones was of the place; who told them that no words could paint it. "you go now," said they, "to the sphere where god dwells, in which you shall see the tree of life, and eat of the fruits of it that fade not: and when you come there you shall have white robes to wear, and your walk and talk shall be each day with the king, while time shall be known no more. there you shall not see such things as you saw when low on earth, to wit, grief, pain, and death; for these things are gone. you now go to abraham, to isaac, and jacob, and to men that god 'took from the woe to come.'" these men then did ask, "what must we do in this pure place?" to whom it was said, "you must there get the meed of all your toil, and have joy for all your grief; you must reap what you have sown, ay, the fruit of all your tears and toils for the king by the way. in that place you must wear crowns of gold, and bask for aye in the sight of the lord of hosts, for there you 'shall see him as he is.' there, too, you shall serve him with praise, with shouts, with joy, whom you sought to serve in the world, though with much pain, for that your flesh was weak. there you shall join with your friends once more that are gone there ere you; and there you shall with joy greet each one that comes in your wake. when the king shall come with sound of trump in the clouds, as on the wings of the wind, you shall come with him; and, when he shall sit on the throne to judge all the realms of the earth, you shall sit by him: yea, and when he shall pass doom on all that did work ill, let them be sprites or men, you shall too have a voice in that doom, for that they are his and your foes. more than this, when he shall go back to the city, you shall go too, with sound of trump, and be for aye with him." now while they thus drew nigh to the gate, lo a troop of the bright host came to meet them; to whom it was said by the first two bright ones, "these are the men that did love our lord, when they were in the world, and that have left all for his name, and he hath sent us to fetch them, and we have brought them thus far on their way, that they may go in and look their lord in the face with joy." there came, too, at this time to meet them a group of the king's men with trumps, clad in white and sheen robes, who, with sweet and loud notes, made the whole arch of the sky full of the sound. these men did greet christian and his friend with much warmth; and this they did with shouts and sound of trump. [illustration: "'tis you, 'tis you they wait for; you have had hope since the time i knew you." (_page 92_) (_the pilgrim's progress._)] this done, they went round them on each side; some went in front, some in the rear, and some on the right hand, some on the left (as it were to guard them through the vast realms), and did sound as they went, with sweet noise, in notes on high; so that the bare sight was to them that could look on it as if all the blest were come down to meet them. thus then did they walk on side by side. and now were these two men, as it were, in bliss ere they came at it. here, too, they had the city in view; and they thought they heard all the bells in it to ring, so as to greet them. but, more than all, the warm and rare thoughts that they had of the place to which they went, and of those that dwelt there, and that for aye; oh! by what tongue or pen can such vast joy be told? thus they came up to the gate. then i saw in my dream that the bright men bid them call at the gate: the which when they did, some from on high did look down, to wit, enoch, moses, and elijah, and so forth, to whom it was said, "these wights are come from the city of destruction, for the love that they bear to the king of this place"; and then the wights gave in to them each man his roll, which they had got at first: those, then, were brought in to the king, who, when he had read them, said, "where are the men?" to whom it was told, "they are at the porch of the gate." then spoke the king, "ope the gate, that the just land that keeps truth may come in." now i saw in my dream, that these two men went in at the gate: and lo! as they did so, a change came on them; and they had robes put on that shone like gold. there were, too, that met them with harps and crowns, and gave them to them; the harps to praise with, the crowns in sign of rank. then i heard in my dream that all the bells of the place rang for joy, and that it was said to them, "come ye to the joy of our lord." now, just as the gates did ope to let in the men, did i peer at them, and lo, the place shone like the sun: the streets, too, were of gold; and in them did walk men with crowns on their heads, palms in their hands, and gold harps to aid in songs of praise. there were some of them that had wings, and they sang, with not a pause, songs to the "lamb that was slain!" then they shut up the gates; which when i had seen i did wish to be with them. now, while i did gaze on all these things, i saw ignorance come up to the side of the stream: but he soon got through, and that void of half the toil which the two men that i of late saw met with. so he did climb the hill to come up to the gate; but none came with him, nor did one man meet or greet him. when he was come up to the gate, he gave a look up at what was writ in front of it, and then gave a knock. so they told the king, but he would not come down to see him; but told the two bright ones, that led christian and hopeful to the city, to go out and take ignorance, and bind him hand and foot, and have him off. then they took him up, and bore him through the air to the door that i saw in the side of the hill, and put him in there. then i saw that there was a way to hell, ay, from the gates of bliss, as well as from the city of destruction! so i did wake, and lo, it was a dream! the end. burt's series of one syllable books 14 titles. handsome illuminated cloth binding. a series of classics, selected specially for young people's reading, and told in simple language for youngest readers. printed from large type, with many illustrations. price 65 cents per volume. aesop's fables. retold in words of one syllable for young people. by mary godolphin. with 41 illustrations. illuminated cloth. alice's adventures in wonderland. retold in words of one syllable for young people. by mrs. j. c. gorham. with many illustrations. illuminated cloth. andersen's fairy tales. 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(_chr._--"they are two) page 76, "their" changed to "they" (so they built there) page 89, "bonnd" changed to "bound" (bound: and as they drew near) allegories of life by mrs. j. s. adams 1872 contents. i. the bells ii. the height iii. the pilgrim iv. faith v. hope vi. joy and sorrow vii. upward viii. the oak ix. truth and error x. the tree xi. the two ways xii. the urns xiii. self-exertion xiv. the vines xv. in the world xvi. faith, hope, and charity xvii. going forth xviii. the feast xix. the lesson of the stone xx. the seeds xxi. only gold xxii. the sacrifice xxiii. strangers i. the bells. in the steeple of an old church was a beautiful chime of bells, which for many years had rung out joyous peals at the touch of the sexton's hand upon the rope. "i'll make the air full of music to-morrow," said the white-haired man, as he lay down to his slumbers. "to-morrow is christmas, and the people shall be glad and gay. ah, yes! right merry will be the chimes i shall ring them." soon sleep gathered him in a close embrace, and visions of the morrow's joy flitted over his brain. at midnight some dark clouds swept over the tower, while darker shadows of discontent fell on the peaceful chime. hark! what was that? a low, discordant sound was heard among the bells. "here we have been ringing for seven long years," murmured the highest bell in the chime. "well, what of it? that's what we are placed here for," said a voice from one of the deeper-toned bells. "but i have rung long enough. besides, i am weary of always singing one tone," answered the high bell, in a clear, sharp voice. "together we make sweetest harmony," returned the bell next the complainer. "i well know that, but i am tired of my one tone, while you can bear monotony. for my part, i do not mean to answer to the call of the rope to-morrow." "what! not ring on christmas day!" exclaimed all the bells together. "no, i don't. you may exclaim as much as you please; but, if you had common sympathy, you would see in a moment how weary i am of singing this one high tone." "but we all have to give our notes," responded a low, sweet-voiced bell. "that's just what i mean to change. we are all weary of our notes, and need change." "but we should have to be recast," said the low-toned bell, sadly. "most certainly we should. _i_ should like the fun of that. now how many of you will be silent in the morning when the old sexton comes to ring us?" "i will," answered the lowest-toned bell, boldly. "if part of us are silent and refuse to ring, of what use will the rest be?" said one who had remained quiet until then. "for a chime all of us are needed," she added, sadly. "that's just the point," remarked the leader. "if all will be still, none will be blamed: the people will think we are worn out and need making over. so we shall be taken down from this tower where we have been so long, and stand a chance of seeing something of the world. for _my_ part, i am tired to death of being up here, and seeing nothing but this quiet valley." a murmur ran from one to another, till all agreed to be silent on the morrow, though many of the chime would have preferred to ring as usual. the man who had presented the bells to the church returned at midnight, after a long journey to his native valley, bringing with him a friend, almost solely to hear the beautiful chime on the morrow. as he passed the church, on his way home, the murmuring of the bells was just ceasing. "the wind moves them--the beautiful bells," he said. "but to-morrow you shall hear how sweet they will sing," he added, casting a loving glance up to the tower where hung the bells. a few miles from the valley, close to the roadside, stood a cottage inhabited by a man and wife whose only child was fast fading from the world. "raise me up a little, mother," said the dying boy, "so i can hear the christmas chime. it will be the last time i shall hear them here, mother. is it almost morning?" the pale mother wiped the death-dew from his brow and kissed him, saying, "yes, dear, it's almost morning. the bells will chime soon as the first ray comes over the hills." patiently the child sat, pillowed in his bed, till the golden arrows of light flashed over the earth. day had come, but no chime. "what can be the matter?" said the anxious mother, as she strained her eyes in the direction of the tower. what if the old sexton were dead? the thought took all her strength away. if death had taken him first, who would lay her boy tenderly away? "is it almost time?" "almost, jimmy, darling. perhaps the old sexton has slept late." "will the bells chime in heaven, mother?" "yes, dear, i hope so." "will they ring them for me if--if--i--mother! hark! the bells _are_ ringing! the good old sexton has gone to the church at last!" the boy's eyes glistened with a strange light. in vain the mother listened. no sound came to _her_ ears. all was still as death. "oh, how beautiful they sing!" he said, and fell back and died. other chimes fell on his ear, sweeter far than the bells of st. auburn. for more than an hour the old sexton had been working at the ropes in vain. no sound come forth from either bell. "what can be the matter?" he exclaimed, nervously. "for seven long years they have not failed to ring out their tones. i'll try once more." and he did so, vigorously. just then the figure of a man stood in the doorway. it was the owner of the chime. he had gone to the sexton's house, not hearing the bells at the usual hour, thinking he had overslept; and, not finding him, had sought him at the church. he tried the ropes himself, but with no more success than the sexton. "what can it mean?" he said, as he turned sorrowfully away. it was a sad christmas in the pleasant valley. to have those sweet sounds missing, and on such a day,--it was a loss to all, and an omen of ill to many. the next day, workmen were sent to the tower to examine the bells. no defect was perceptible. they were sound and whole, and no mischief-making lad, as some had suggested, had stolen their tongues. the bells were taken down and carried to a distant city to be recast. "there! didn't i tell you we should see the world?" said their leader, after they were packed and on their way. "i don't think we are seeing much of it now, in this dark box," answered one of the bells. "wait till we are at our journey's end. we are in a transition state now. haven't i listened to the old pastor many a time, and heard him say those very words? i could not comprehend them then, but i can now. oh, how delightful it is to have the prospect of some change before us!" thus the old bell chatted to the journey's end, while the other bells had but little to say. three days later they were at the end of their long ride, and placed, one by one, in a fiery furnace. instead of murmurs now, their groans filled the air. "oh, for one moment's rest from the heat and the hammer! oh, that we were all at the sweet vale of st. auburn!" said the leader of all their sorrow. "how sweetly would we sing!" echoed all. "it's a terrible thing to be recast!" sighed the deepest-toned bell; and he quivered with fear as they placed him in the furnace. at last, after much suffering, they were pronounced perfect, and repacked for their return. the same tone was given to each, but the quality was finer, softer, and richer than before. the workmen knew not why--none but the suffering bells, and the master hand who put them into the furnace of affliction. they were all hung once more in the tower--wiser and better bells. never again was heard a murmur of discontent from either because but one tone was its mission. in the moonlight they talk among themselves, of their sad but needful experience, and of the lesson which it taught them,--as we hope it has our reader,--that each must be faithful to the quality or tone which the master has given us, and which is needful to the rich and full harmonies of life. ii. the height. there was once an aged man who lived upon an exceeding high mountain for many years; but, as his strength began to decline, he found the ascent so tedious for his feeble steps that he went into the valley to live. it was very hard for him to give up the view from its lofty height of the sun which sank so peacefully to rest. long before the sleepers in the valley awoke, he was watching the golden orb as it broke through the mists and flung its beauties over the hills. "this must be my last day upon the mountain top," he said. "the little strength which is left me i must devote to the culture of fruit and flowers in the valley, and no longer spend it in climbing up and down these hills, whose tops rest their peaks in the fleecy clouds. i have enjoyed many years of repose and grandeur, and must devote the remainder of my life to helping the people in the valley." at sunset the old man descended, with staff in hand, and went slowly down the mountain side. such lovely blossoms, pink, golden, and scarlet, met his eye as he gazed on the gardens of the laborers, that he involuntarily exclaimed, "i fear i have spent my days not wisely on yonder mountain top, taking at least a third of my time in climbing up and down. richer flowers grow here in the valley; the air is softer, and the grass like velvet to the tread. i'll see if there is a vacant cottage for me." saying this, he accosted a laborer who was just returning from his toil: "good man, do you know of any cottage near which i can rent?" "why! you are the old man from the mountain," exclaimed the astonished person addressed. "i am coming to the valley to live. i am now seeking a shelter." "yonder," answered the man, "is a cottage just vacated by a man and wife. would that suit you?" "anything that will shelter me will suit," was the answer. "dost thou know who owns the house?" "von nellser, the gardener. he lives down by the river now, and works for all the rich men in the valley." "i'll see him to-night," said the old man, and, thanking his informant, was moving on. "but, good father, the sun has already set; the night shades appear. come and share my shelter and bread to-night, and in the morning seek von nellser." the old man gladly accepted his kind offer. "the vale makes men kindly of heart and feeling," he said, as he uncovered his head to enter the home of the laborer. a fair woman of forty came forward, and clasped his hand with a warmth of manner which made him feel more at ease than many words of welcome would have done. the three sat together at supper, and refreshed themselves with food and thought. he retired early to the nice apartment assigned him, and lay awake a long time, musing on the past and the present. "ah, i see," he said to himself, "why i am an object of wonder and something of awe to the people of the valley. i have lived apart from human ties, while they have grown old and ripe together. i must be a riddle to them all--a something which they have invested with an air of veneration, because i was not daily in their midst. had it been otherwise, i should have been neither new nor fresh to them. how know i but this is god's reserve force wherewith each may become refreshed, and myself an humble instrument sent in the right moment to vivify those who have been thinking alike too much?" he fell asleep, and awoke just as the sun was throwing its bright rays over his bed. "dear old day-god," he said, with reverence, and arose and dressed himself, still eying the sun's early rays. "one of thy golden messengers must content me now," he said, a little sadly. "i can no longer see thee in all thy majesty marching up the mountain side; no longer can i follow thee walking over the hill-tops, and resting thy head against the crimson sky at evening: but smile on me, sun, while in the vale i tarry, and warm my seeds to life while on thy daily march." the old man went from his room refreshed by sleep, and partook of the bread and honey which the kind woman had ready for him. then, thanking them for their hospitality, he departed. the laborer and wife watched him out of sight, and thought they had never seen anything more beautiful than his white hair waving in the morning breeze. at dusk a light shone in the vacant cottage, and they sent him fresh cakes, milk, and honey for his evening meal. * * * * * ten years passed away. the old man had cultured his land, and no fairer flowers or sweeter fruits grew in the valley than his own. he had taught the people many truths which he had learned in his solitary life on the mountain, and in return had learned much from them. he faded slowly away. the brilliant flowers within his garden grew suddenly distasteful to him. he longed to look once more on a pure white blossom which grew only at the mountain top. with its whiteness no flower could compare. there were others, growing half way up, that approached its purity, but none equaled the flower on the summit. "i should like, of all things," answered the old man, when they desired to know what would most please him,--for he had become a great favorite in the valley,--"to look once more upon my pure white flower ere i die; but it's so far to the mountain top, none will care to climb." "thou _shalt_ see it!" exclaimed a strong youth, who was courageous, but seldom completed anything he undertook, for lack of perseverance. the old man blessed him. he started for the mountain, and walked a long way up its side, often missing his footing, and at one time seeking aid from a rotten branch, which broke in his grasp and nearly threw him to the base. after repeated efforts to reach the summit, he found a sweet, pale blossom growing in a mossy nook by a rock. "ah! here it is--the same, i dare say, as those on the mountain top. so what need of climbing farther? what a lucky fellow i am to save so many steps for myself!" and he went down the mountain side as fast as he could, amid the rank and tangled wood, with the flower in his hand. day was walking over the meadows with golden feet when he entered the cottage and placed the blossom exultingly in the old man's palm. "what! so quick returned?" he said. "thou must have been very swift--but this, my good young man, never grew on the mountain top! thee must have found this half way up. i remember well those little flowers--they grew by the rocks where i used to rest when on my journey up." the crowd who had come to see the strange white flower now laughed aloud, which made the youth withdraw, abashed and much humbled. had he been strong of heart, he would have tried again, and not returned without the blossom from the mountain top. many others tried, but never had the courage to reach its height; while the old man daily grew weaker. "he'll die without setting eyes on his flower," said the good woman who had given him shelter the night he came to the valley. she had not the courage to try the ascent, but she endeavored to stimulate others to go to the top and bring the blossom to cheer his heart. she offered, as reward, choice fruits and linen from her stores; but all had some excuse, although they loved the old man tenderly: none felt equal to the effort. towards noon, a pale, fragile girl, from a distant part of the vale, appeared, who had heard of his desire, and stood at the door of his cottage and knocked. "what dost thou wish?" he asked from within. "to go to the mountain for the flower and place it in thy hand," she answered, as she entered his room and meekly stood before him. "thou art very frail of body," he replied, "but strong of heart. go, try, and my soul will follow and strengthen thee, fair daughter." she kissed his hand, and departed. the morning came, and she returned not. the end of the second day drew nigh, and yet she came not back. "pooh, pooh!" exclaimed one of a group of wood-cutters near by the cottage. "such a fool-hardy errand will only be met by death. the old man ought to be content to die without sight of his flower when it costs so much labor to get it." "so think me," said his comrade, between the puffs of his pipe; "so think me. our flowers are pretty, and good 'nough, too. sure, he orter be content with what grows 'round him, and not be sending folk a-climbing." this said, he resumed his smoking vigorously, and looked very wise. * * * * * the aged man of the mountain was passing rapidly away. the kind neighbors laid him for the last time on his cot, and sat tearfully around the room. some stood in groups outside, looking wistfully towards the mountain; for their kind hearts could not bear to see him depart without the flower to gladden his eyes. "the girl's gone a long time," remarked one of the women. "the longer she's gone, the surer the sign she's reached the mountain top. it's a long way up there, and a weary journey back. my feet have trod it often, and i know all the sharp rocks and the tangled branches in the way. but she will come yet. i hear footsteps not far away." "but too late, we fear, for your eyes to behold the blossom, should she bring it." "then put it on my grave--but hark! she comes--some one approaches!" through the crowd, holding high the spotless flower, came the fair girl, with torn sandals and weary feet, but with beaming eyes. the old man raised himself in bed, while she knelt to receive his blessing. "fair girl,"--he spoke in those clear tones which the dying ever use,--"the whiteness of this blossom is only rivaled by the angels' garments. its spotless purity enters ever into the soul of him who plucks it, making it white as their robes. to all who persevere to the mountain top and pluck this flower, into all does its purity, its essence, enter and remain forever. for is it not the reward of the toiler, who pauses not till the summit is gained?" "oh! good man, the mountain view was so grand, i fain would have lingered to gaze; but, longing to lay the blossom in thy hand, i hastened back." "thou shalt behold all the grandeur thy toil has earned thee. unto those who climb to the mountain summit, who mind not the sharp rocks and loose, rough grass beneath their tread,--unto such shall all the views be given; for they shall some day be lifted in vision, without aid of feet, to grander heights than their weary limbs have reached." the old man lay back and died. they buried him, with the flower on his breast, one day just as the sun was setting. ere the winter snows fell, many of the laborers, both men and women, went up the mountain to its very top, and brought back the white blossoms to deck his grave. * * * * * the summit only has the view, and the white flower of purity grows upon it. shall we ascend and gather it? or, like the youth, climb but half the distance, and cheat our eyes and souls of the view from the height? iii. the pilgrim. one sultry summer day a youthful pilgrim sat by the roadside, weary and dispirited, saying, "i cannot see why i was ordered to tarry beside this hard, unsightly rock, after journeying as many days as i have. something better should have been given me to rest upon after walking so far. if it were only beside some shady tree, i could wait the appearance of the guide. my lot is hard indeed. i do not see any pilgrim here. others are probably resting beneath green trees and by running brooks. i will look at my directions once more;" and she drew the paper from her girdle and read slowly these words: "tarry at the rock, and do not go on till the guide appears to conduct you to your journey's end." she folded and replaced the paper with a sigh, while the murmur still went on: "it's very hard, when beyond i see beautiful green trees, whose long branches would shelter me from the burning sun. how thirsty i am, too! my bread is no longer sweet, for want of water. oh, that i could search for a spring! i am sure i could find one if permitted to go on my journey. if the rock was not so hard i could pillow my head upon it. ah me! i have been so often told that the guide had great wisdom, and knew what was good and best for us pilgrims; but this surely looks very dark." here weariness overcame the pilgrim, and involuntarily she laid her head upon the rock; when, lo! a sudden spring was touched, and the waters leaped, pure and sparkling, from the hard, unsightly spot. this was the guide's provision for his pilgrim. it was no longer mystical why he had ordered her to tarry there. when she had drank, and the parched throat was cool and the whole being refreshed, the guide appeared rounding a gentle curve of the road, and bade her follow him through a dense forest which lay between the rock and the journey's end. the steps of the pilgrim now were more firm, for trust was begotten within her, and the light of hope gleamed on her brow--as it will at last upon us all, when the waters have gushed from the bare rocks which lie in the pathways of our lives. at last we shall learn that our father, the great guide, leads us where flow living waters, and that he never forsakes us in time of need. iv. faith. "children," said a faithful father, one day, to his sons and daughters, "i have a journey to take which will keep me many days, perhaps weeks, from you; and as we have no power over conditions,--such as storms, sickness, or any of the so-called accidents of life,--i may be detained long beyond my appointed time of absence. i trust, however, that you will each have confidence in me; and, should illness to myself or others detain me, that you will all trust and wait." "we will, father!" shouted a chorus of voices, which was music to his ears. with a fond embrace to each, he left them. slowly he walked down the winding path which led from his home. he heard the voices of his children on the air long after he entered the highway--voices which he might not hear, perchance, for many months. sweeter than music to his soul were those sounds floating on the summer air. over the hill and dale he rode till night came on, and then, before reposing, he lifted his soul to heaven for blessings on his household. with the sun he arose and pursued his journey. the summer days went down into autumn; the emerald leaves changed their hues for gold and scarlet; ripe fruits hung in ruby and yellow clusters from their strong boughs; while over the rocks, crimson vines were trailing. slowly the tints of autumn faded. soon the white frosts lay on the meadows like snow-sheets; the days were shorter and the air more crisp and chill. around the evening fire the household of the absent parent began to gather. while summer's beauties abounded they had not missed him so much, but now they talked each to the other, and grew strangely restless at his long delay. "did he not tell us," said the eldest, "that sickness or accident might delay him?" "but he sends us no word, no sign, to make us at rest." "the roads may not be passable," replied the brother, whose faith as yet was not dimmed. "already the snow has blocked them for miles around us, and we know not what greater obstacles lie beyond. no, let us trust our father," he added, with a depth of feeling which touched them all; and for a few days they rested in the faith that he would come and be again in their midst. but, alas! how short-lived is the trust of the human heart! how limited its vision! it cannot pierce the passing clouds, nor stretch forth its hand in darkness. together they sat one evening, in outer and inner darkness,--again in the shadows of distrust. "he will never return," said one of the group, in sad and sorrowing tones. "my father will come," lisped the youngest of them all,--the one on whom the others looked as but a babe in thought and feeling. "i am weary with watching," said another, as she went from the window where she had been looking, for so many days, for the loved form. "our father has forgotten us all," she moaned, and bowed her head and wept. there was no one to comfort; for all were sad, knowing that naught but a few crusts remained for their morrow's food--and who would provide for the coming days? lights and fuel too were wanting, and winter but half gone. even the faith of the eldest had long since departed, and he too had yielded to distrust. "my father will come," still whispered the little one, strong in her child-trust, while the others doubted. "it's because she's so young, and cannot reason like us," they said among themselves. "perhaps god can speak to her because she is so simple," said one of the household with whom words were few. they looked at each other as though a ray of sunlight had flashed through their dwelling. something akin to hope began to spring in their hearts, but died away as the chilling blasts came moaning around them. three days passed, while the storm raged and threatened to bury their home beneath the heavy snows. there was no food now to share between them. the last crumb had been given the child to soften her cries of hunger. "i can stand this no longer," said the eldest, wrapping his garments around him, and preparing to go forth to find labor and bread for his brothers and sisters. "ah, that i should ever have lived to see this day!"--he murmured--"the day in which we are deserted and forgotten by our father." the sound of murmuring within now mingled with the sighing of the winds without. he stepped to the door; but for an instant the fierce blasts drove him back--yet but for an instant. "i will not add cowardice to sorrow," he said to them, in reply to their entreaties not to go in the storm. with one strong effort he faced the chilling sleet, which so blinded him that he could not find the path which led to the highway; yet he went bravely on, till hunger and chill overcame him, and he could no longer see or even feel. he grew strangely dizzy, and would have fallen to the ground, but for a pair of strong arms which at that instant held him fast. he was too much overcome to know who it was that thus enfolded him; but soon a well-known voice rose above the wind and the storm,--he knew that his father's arms were about him, and he feared no more. in the hour of greatest need the father had come. there, in that hour of brave effort, he was spared a long exposure to the wintry blast. a carriage laden with food, fuel, and timely gifts, for each, was already on the road, and would soon deposit its bounties at the door of those whose faith had deserted them. what a happy household gathered around the father that night! there was no need of lamps to reveal the joy on their faces, and the darkness could not hide the tears which coursed down their cheeks. the little one awoke shouting, in her child-trust, "my father has come! me knew him would!" and they called her faith from that hour. the only alloy in the joy of the others was, as the kind father explained to them the causes of his delay, that they had not trusted him with the faith of the little child; and when he told them of the strange people he had been among, who needed counsel and instruction, and their great need of his ministrations, they sorrowed much that doubt had shadowed for a moment their trust in their father. thus do we distrust our heavenly parent; and when our needs rise like mountains before us, and all _seems_ dark, we cry, "alas! he has forgotten us!" and yet in our deepest night a light appears, his strong arm uplifts us, and we are taught how holy a thing is faith. v. hope. darkness had been upon the earth for a long time. it was a period of war and bloodshed, crime and disaster. the old earth seemed draped in habiliments of mourning; and there was cause for aching hearts, for out of many homes had gone unto battle sons, fathers, and husbands, who would return no more. they fell in service; and kind mothers and wives could not take one farewell look at their still, white faces, but must go about their homes as though life had lost none of its helps. * * * * * "the poor, sad earth!" said one of a glad band, belonging to a starry sphere above. "i long to comfort its people; but my mission is given me to guide souls through the death valley, and bear them to their friends in the summer-land. i must not leave my post of duty. who will go?" "i will," said love, in sweet, silvery tones. "you are too frail to descend into such darkness as at present envelops the earth; beside, they need another, a different element just now, to prepare the way for better things." "who shall it be?" they all said, and looked from one to the other. "hope," said their leader, the queen of the starry band. there was to be high festival that night, in a temple dedicated to the muses; and it was quite a sacrifice for any of their number to leave their happy sphere, for one so dark as that of earth. hope came forward at the mention of her name, holding in her hand the half-finished garland which she had been twining for one of the graces. "wilt thou go to earth to-night, fair hope?" asked the queen. the star on her fair brow glittered brighter as she said unhesitatingly, "i will." "your mission will be to carry garlands to every habitation which has a light within. the others you cannot, of course, discern. come now, and let me clasp this strong girdle about thy waist, to which i shall attach a cord, by which to let you down to earth." they filled her arms with garlands, and flung some about her neck, till she was laden and ready to go. "now," said their leader, "descend on this passing cloud; and while you are gone we will sing anthems for you, to keep your heart bright and linked to ours." then she fastened the cord to her golden girdle, and let her down gently from the skies. * * * * * in a little cottage by a roadside sat mary deane and her sister, reading. they were two fair orphans whose father and brother were lost in battle. "let's put out the light, and look at the stars awhile," said the youngest. "not yet, dear, it's too early. there may be some passer-by, and a light is such a comfort to a traveler on the road. many a time our neighbor's light has sent a glow over me which has enabled me to reach home much sooner, if not in better humor." "as you like, sister,--but hark! i thought i heard footsteps." they listened, and, hearing nothing more, finished their reading and retired to rest. on opening their door the next morning, their eyes were gladdened by a lovely garland which hung on the knob. the flowers were rich in, perfume and color--unlike anything they had seen on earth. much they marveled, and wondered from whence they came, and still greater was their joy to find they did not fade. hope found a great many dwellings with lights in them, but had to pass many, as there was no lamp to signal them. at the door of the former she left garlands to gladden the inmates. "it's no use to waste our oil: we have nothing to read or interest us," said one of two lonely women, on the night hope came to the earth. so they sat down gloomily together, the darkness adding to their cheerlessness, while a bright glow within would have gladdened them and all without. hope went by, laden with garlands, just as they took their seats in the shadows. she would gladly have left them, for she had enough and to spare; but, seeing no sign of a habitation, walked on. the two women talked of the dreary world until they went to rest. what was their surprise, in the morning, to find their neighbors rejoicing over their mysterious gifts. "why had we none?" they said again and again. "the poor never have half as much given them as the wealthy," they cried, and went back to their gloom and despair. "did you find a wreath on your doorstep this morning?" inquired a bright, hopeful woman at noon, who had brought them a part of her dinner. "no, indeed!" they answered. "did you find one on yours?" "the handsomest wreath i ever saw. who ever could have made one so lovely? but"--she stopped suddenly, on seeing their sad faces. "you shall have part of mine: i will cut it in two." "never!" said the eldest quickly. "there is some reason why we were omitted; and, until we can know the cause, you must keep your wreath unbroken." it was very noble of her to come out of herself and refuse to accept what she instinctively felt did not belong to her. a week passed away. a child in the village had had strange dreams concerning the gifts, which, in substance, was that a beautiful angel had come from the stars above, and brought flowers to every house in which a light was seen. "we did not have any light that night,--don't you remember?" remarked the eldest of the women, as their neighbor told them of the strange dream. "there must be _something_ in it," answered the little bright-eyed woman. "for all the dwellings had flowers which were lighted." "i suppose we ought always to be more hopeful," said the women together. "the lamps of our houses should typify the light of hope, which should never be dim, nor cease burning." * * * * * hope was taken up, by a golden cord, to her abode. the starry group sang heavenly anthems to refresh her, and love twined a fresh garland for her brow. they held another festival in the temple, in honor of her and her safe return from the earth. ever since she has been the brightest light in the group; and at night, when the clouds rising from the earth obscure all the others, the star on the brow of hope is shining with a heavenly lustre, and seen by all whose gaze is upward. vi. joy and sorrow. many years ago, two visitors were sent from realms above, to enter the homes of earth's inhabitants, and see how much of true happiness and real sorrow there were in their midst. hand in hand they walked together, till they entered a pleasant valley nestled among green hills. at the base of one of these stood a cottage covered with roses and honeysuckles, which looked very inviting; and the external did not belie the interior. the family consisted of a man and wife somewhat advanced in years, an aged and infirm brother, and two lovely young girls, grandchildren of the couple. the pleasant murmur of voices floated on the air,--pleasant to the ear as the perfume of the roses climbing over the door was to the sense of smell. it chimed with the spell of the summer morning, and the sisters knew that harmony was within. "let us enter," said joy. sorrow, who was unwilling to go into any abode, lingered outside. within, all was as clean and orderly as one could desire: the young girls were diligently sewing, while before them lay an open volume, from which they occasionally read a page or so, thus mingling instruction with labor. joy entered, and accosted them with, "a bright morning." "very lovely," answered the girls, and they arose and placed a chair for their visitor. "we have much to be grateful for every day, but very much on such a day as this," remarked the grandmother. "you're a busy family," said joy. "yes, we all labor, and are fond of it," answered the woman, looking fondly at the girls. "we have many blessings, far more than we can be grateful for, i sometimes think." "yes, i tell mother," broke in the husband, "that we must never lose sight of our blessings; in fact, they are all such, though often in disguise." at that moment sorrow looked in at the open door. it was so seldom that _she_ was recognized that she longed to enter. "you have a friend out there: ask her in," said the woman. joy turned and motioned her sister to enter. she came in softly, and sat beside joy, while the woman spoke of her family, at the desire of each of the sisters to know of her causes of happiness. "yes, they are all blessings in disguise," she said, "though i could not think thus when i laid my fair-eyed boy in the grave; nor, later, when my next child was born blind." "had you none other?" asked joy. "one other, and she died of a broken heart." sorrow sighed deeply, and would rather have heard no more; but joy wished to hear the whole, and asked the woman to go on. "yes, she died heart-broken; and these two girls are hers. it was very hard that day to see the hand of god in the cloud when they brought the body of her husband home all mangled, and so torn that not a feature could be recognized; and then to see poor mary, his wife, pine day by day until we laid her beside him." "but the blessing was in it, mother: we have found it so. they have only gone to prepare the way, and we have much left us." the words of the old man were true, and it was beautiful to see the face of his wife as it glowed with recognition. at that moment the sisters threw back their veils. such a radiant face was never seen in that cottage as the beaming countenance of joy; while that of her sister was dark and sad to look upon. "oh, stay with us," exclaimed the girls to joy, as the sisters rose to depart. "most gladly would i, but i have a work to perform in your village; and, beside, i cannot leave my sister." "but she is so dark and sad, why not leave her to go alone?" said the youngest girl, who had never seen sorrow nor heard of her mission to earth before. sorrow was standing in the door and heard her remark. she hoped the day would never come when _she_ should have to carry woe to her young heart; but her life was so uncertain she knew not who would be the next whom she would have to envelop in clouds. she sighed, plucked a rose, and pressed it to her nostrils, as though it was the last sweetness she would ever inhale. "how i pity her!" said the grandmother, her warm, blue eyes filling with tears, as she looked at the bowed form in the doorway. "ah, good woman, she needs it; for few recognize her mission to them. she is sent by our master to administer woes which contain heavenly truths, while i convey glad tidings. i shall never leave my sister save when our labors are divided." thus spoke joy, while tears filled the eyes of all. then the kind woman went and plucked some roses and gave them to sorrow, who was weeping. "i did not half know myself," she said, addressing the sad form; "i thought i could see god's angels everywhere, but this time how have i failed! forgive me," she said to sorrow, "and when you are weary and need rest, come to our cottage." sorrow gave her a sad but heavenly smile, and the sisters departed to the next abode. "did you ever see them before?" asked the children of their grandparents after the sisters had gone. "often: they have been going round the world for ages," answered their grandparents. "but joy looks so young, grandpa." "that's because she has naught to do with trouble. she belongs to the bright side. she carries good tidings and pleasure to all; while sorrow, her sister, administers the woes." "but joy is good not to leave her sister." "she cannot," said the grandparent. "cannot! why?" "because providence has so ordered it that joy and sorrow go hand in hand,--pleasure and pain. no two forces in nature which are alike are coupled. day and night, sunshine and shadow, pleasure and pain, forever." "but i should like to have joy stay with us," said helen, the youngest, to her grandparent. "we shall ever be glad to see her; but we must never treat her sister coldly or with indifference, as though she had no right to be among us; because, though in the external she is unlovely, within she is equally radiant with her sister,--not the same charm of brilliancy, but a softer, diviner radiance shines about her soul." "why, grandpa, you make me almost love her," said marion, the eldest, while helen looked thoughtful and earnest. the seeds of truth were dropped which at some future time would bear fruit. * * * * * it was a large and elegant house at which the sisters stopped next. a beautiful lawn, hedged by hawthorne, sloped to the finely-graded street; while over its surface beds of brilliant flowers were blooming, contrasting finely with the bright green carpet. they ascended the granite steps which led to the portico, and rang the bell. a servant answered the summons, and impatiently awaited their message. "we would see the mistress of the mansion," said joy. they were shown into an elegant drawing-room, so large they could scarcely see the farther end. it was furnished in a most dazzling style, and gave none of that feeling of repose which is so desirable in a home. after what seemed a long time, the lady of the mansion appeared, looking very much as though her visitors were intruders. "a lovely day," said joy. "beautiful for youth and health," she answered curtly; "but all days are the same to me." "you are ill, then," said joy, sympathetically. "ill, and weary of this life. nothing goes well in this world: there is too much sorrow to enjoy anything. but," she added after a brief silence, "you are young, and cannot enter into my griefs." "i have come for the purpose of bringing you comfort and hope if you will but accept it," answered joy, modestly. "a stranger could scarcely show me what i cannot find. be assured, young maiden, if i had the pleasures you suppose i possess, i should not be tardy in seeing them. no, no: my life is a succession of cares and burdens." joy was silent a moment, and then said, "but you have health, a home, and plenty to dispense to the needy, which must be a comfort, at least, in a world of so much need." "my home is large and elegant, i admit; but, believe me, the care of the servants is a burden too great for human flesh." joy thought how much better a cottage was, with just enough to meet the wants of life, than a mansion full of hirelings; and she said, hopefully, "our blessings ever outnumber our woes. if we but look for them, we shall be surprised each day to see how many they are. i am on a visit to earth," continued joy, "to see how much real happiness i can find, and help, if possible, to remove obstacles that hinder its advancement. this is my sister, sorrow," she continued, turning to her, "who, like myself, has a mission, though by no means a pleasant one." the sisters unveiled their faces. a flush of pleasure stole over the sallow face of the woman as she gazed upon the brightness of joy's countenance; but the look quickly faded at the sight of sorrow's worn and weary features. "my sister must tarry here," said joy, as she rose to leave. "here! with me? why! i can scarcely live now. what can i do with her added to my troubles?" "it is thus decreed," answered joy. "you need the discipline which she will bring to you." and she departed, leaving her sister in the elegant but cheerless mansion. the mistress of the luxurious home had one fair daughter, whom she was bringing up to lead a listless, indolent, and selfish life,--a life which would result in no good to herself or others. sorrow grew sadder each day as she saw the girl walking amid all the beauties with which she was surrounded, careless of her own culture. she felt, also, that she must at some time, and it might be soon, be removed from her luxuries, or they from her. each hour the fair girl's step grew heavier, till at last she was too weak to walk, or even rise from her bed. "all this comes of having that sad woman here," exclaimed the weeping mother as she bent over her daughter. "i'll have her sent from the house this day." and she rang for a servant to send sorrow away. after delivering her message to her maid, she felt somewhat relieved. the servant went in search of sorrow, but could not find her either in the house, garden, on the lawn, or among the dark pines where she often walked. whither had she fled? all the servants of the house were summoned to the search; but sorrow was not to be found, and they reported to the mistress their failure to find her. "no matter," she replied, "so long as she is no longer among us. go to your labors now, keep the house very quiet, and be sure, before dark, to lock all the doors, that she may not enter unperceived." they need not have bolted nor barred her out; for her work was done, and she had no cause to return. she was sent to the house of wealth to carry the blight of death. her mission was over, and she was on her way, seeking joy. the young girl faded slowly and died. the mother mourned without hope, and was soon laid beside her daughter. the home passed into the hands of those who felt that none must live for themselves alone; that sorrows must be borne without murmur; and joys appreciated so well that the angel of sorrow may not have to bear some treasure away to uplift the heart and give the vision a higher range. sorrow met joy on the road that night. there was no moon, even the stars were dim; but for the shining face of her sister, she would have passed her. they joined hands, and walked together till morning broke. they came in sight of a low cottage just as the day dawned. "oh, dear!" said sorrow, as they approached the familiar spot, "how often have i been there to carry woe! do you go now, joy, and give them gladness!" "if it is the master's hour i will most gladly," said joy, looking tenderly on the weary face of her sister, who sat by the roadside to rest awhile while she lifted her heart to heaven, asking that she might no more carry woe to that humble home; and her prayer was answered. "i feel to go there," said joy, as sorrow wiped her tears away. "wait here till i return;" and she ran merrily on. she entered the humble home with gladness in her beaming eyes, and, as she bore no resemblance to her sister, they welcomed her with much greeting; nor did they know but for sorrow, joy would not have been among them. she talked with them a long time, and listened patiently to the story of their woes. sickness, death, and adversity had been their part for many years. "but they are passing away," said joy, confidently, "and health and prosperity shall yet be among you." "we shall know their full value," whispered a voice from the corner of the room which joy's eyes had not penetrated. on a low cot lay an invalid, helpless and blind. the tears fell from her own eyes an instant, and then sparkled with a greater brilliancy than before, as she said, "and this, too, shall pass away." the closed eyes, from which all light had been shut out for seven long years, now slowly opened; the palsied limbs relaxed; life leaped through the veins once more; and she arose from her bed, while the household gathered round her. a son, who was supposed to have been lost at sea, after an absence of many years returned at that moment, laden with gold and other treasures far greater, than the glittering ore,--lessons of life, which, through suffering, he had wrought into his mind. joy departed, amid their tumult of rejoicing, and joined her sister. the happy family did not miss her for a time; yet when their great and sudden happiness subsided into realization they sought her, but in vain. they needed her not; for the essence of her life was with them, while she was walking over the earth, carrying pleasure and happiness to thousands; yet doing the work of her father no more than her worn and sad-eyed sister. vii. upward. there was once an aged man who owned and lived in a large house the height of which was three stories. his only child was a daughter, of whom he was very fond, and who listened generally to his words of counsel and instruction; but no amount of persuasion could induce her to ascend to the highest story of their dwelling, where her father spent many hours in watching the varied landscape which it overlooked. it was an alloyed pleasure as he sat there evening after evening alone, looking at the lovely cloud tints, and rivers winding like veins of silver through the meadows. it detracted from his joy to know that the view from the lower window offered naught but trees thickly set and dry hedges. "come up, child," he called, morning and evening, year after year, with the same result. it seemed of no avail. "she will die and never know what beauties lie around her dwelling," he said, as he sat looking at the wealth of beauty. it seemed to him that the clouds were never so brilliant, nor the trees and meadows so strangely gilded by the sun's rays, as on that evening. he longed more than ever to share with his child the pleasure he experienced, and resolved upon a plan by which he hoped to attain his wish. "i will have workmen shut out the light of all the stories below with thick boards, and bar the door that she may not escape. i will give her a harmless drink to-night that will deepen her slumbers while the work is being done; for by these seemingly harsh means alone can i induce my child to ascend." that night, while she slumbered, the work was done, and she awoke not at the sound of the hammer on the nails. when all was completed, the father ascended to await the rays of morning, and listen for the voice of his child, which soon broke in suppliant tones upon his ears:-"father! my father! it's dark! i cannot see!" "come up, my child!" still he cried. "come to me, and behold new glories." she gave no answer; but he heard her weeping, and groped his way below to lead her up. she no longer resisted. her steps, though slow, were willing ones: they were upward now, and the father cared not how slow, so long as they were ascending. many times she wished to go back, but he urged her on with gentle words and a strong, sustaining arm, till the last landing was reached, and the light, now streaming through the open windows, made words no longer needful. with a bound she sprang to the open casement, exclaiming, "father, dear father!" and fell, weeping, on his breast. his wish was granted; his effort was over, and his child could now behold the beauties which had so long thrilled his own soul. thus does our heavenly father call us upward; and when he sees that we will not leave the common view for grander scenes, and will not listen to his voice, however beseeching, he makes all dark and drear below, that we may be led to ascend higher, where the day-beams are longer, the view more extended, and the air more rarified and pure. viii. the oak. an old and experienced gardener had been watching a tree for many days, whose branches and foliage did not seem to repay him for his care. "i see," he said, a little sadly; "the roots are not striking deep enough: they must have a firmer hold in the earth, and only the wind and the fierce blast will do it." it was now sunset, and the faithful gardener put away his tools, closed the garden gates, and went into his cottage. soon a mass of dark clouds began to gather on the horizon. "i am sorry to use such harsh means," he said, waving his hand in the direction of the wind clouds; "but the tree needs to be more firmly rooted, and naught but a violent wind will aid it." a low, moaning sound went through the air, shaking every bush and tree to its foundation. "oh, dear!" sighed the tree. "oh, the cruel gardener, to send this wind! it will surely uproot me!" the tree readied forth its branches like arms for help, and implored the gardener to come and save it from the fearful blasts. the flowers at its feet bowed their heads, while the winds wafted their fragrance over the struggling, tempest-tost tree. "they do not moan, as i do. they cannot be suffering as i am," said the tree, catching its breath at every word. "they do not need the tempest. the rain and the dew are all they want," said a vine, which had been running many years over an old dead oak, once the pride of the garden. "i heard the gardener say this very afternoon," continued the vine, "that you must be rooted more firmly; and he has sent this wind for that purpose." "i wonder if _i_ am the only thing in this garden that needs shaking," spoke the oak, somewhat indignantly. "there's a poor willow over by the pond that is always weeping and--" "but," interrupted the vine, "that's what keeps the beautiful sheet of water full to the brim, and always so sparkling,--the constant dropping of her tears; and we ought to render her gratitude. besides, she is so graceful--" "oh, yes: all the trees are lovely but me. i heard the gardener's praise, the other day, of the elms and the maples, and even the pines; but not one word did he say about the oaks. i didn't care for myself in particular, but for my family, which has always been looked up to. well, i shall die, like my brother, and soon we shall all pass away; but, unlike my brother oak, no one will cling to me as you do, vine, to his old body." "you're mistaken, sir. the gardener said, but a few days ago, that he should plant a vine just like myself at your trunk if your foliage was not better, so that you might present a finer appearance by the mingling of the vine's soft leaves, and be more ornamental to the garden." "i'll save him that trouble if my life is spared. i have no desire to be decked in borrowed leaves. the oaks have always kept up a good appearance; but oh, dear me, vine, didn't that blast take your breath away? i fear i _shall_ die; but, if i do live, i'll show the gardener what i can do. but, vine," and the voice of the oak trembled, "tell the gardener, when he comes in the morning, if--if i am dead--that--that the dreadful tempest killed instead of helped me." the wind made such a roaring sound that the oak could not hear her reply, and he tried now to become reconciled to death. he thought much in that brief space of time and resolved, if his life was spared him, that he would try and put forth his protecting branches over the beds of flowers at his feet, to protect them from the blazing sun, and try to be more kind and friendly to all. deeper and deeper struck the roots into the earth, till a new life-thrill shot through its veins. was it death? the oak raised its head. the clouds were drifting to the south. all was calm, and the stars shone like friendly eyes in the heavens above him. "that oak would have surely died but for the tempest which passed over us," said the gardener, a few weeks later, as he was showing his garden to a friend. the gardener stood beneath the branches, and saw with pleasure new leaves coming forth and the texture of the old ones already finer and softer. "it only needed a firmer hold on the earth. the poor thing could not draw moisture enough from the ground before the storm shook its roots and embedded them deeper. if i had known the philosophy of storms before, i need not have lost the other oak." here the old gardener sat beneath the branches of the oak, and they seemed to rise and fall as if bestowing blessings on his head. that spot became his favorite resting-place amid his labors for many years. the oak lived to a good old age, and was the gardener's pride. maidens gathered its leaves and wove garlands for their lovers. children sported under its boughs. it was blessed and happy in making others so. it had learned the lesson of the storm, and was often heard to say to the young oaks growing up about it, "sunshine and balmy breezes have their part in our growth, but they are not all that is needful for our true development." ix. truth and error. amid the starry realms there lived an old philosopher, a man deep in wisdom, who had two daughters, named truth and error, whom he sent to earth to perform a mission to its people; and though he knew that their labors must be united, he could not explain to them why two so dissimilar should have to roam so many years on earth together. well he knew that, though truth would in the end be accepted by the people, she must suffer greatly. his life experience had taught him that she must go often unhonored and unloved, while error, her sister, would receive smiles, gifts, and welcome from the majority. it was a sacrifice to part with his much-loved daughter truth, and a great grief to be obliged to send error with her. he placed them, with words of cheer and counsel, in the care of hyperion, the father of the sun, moon, and dawn, who accompanied them in his golden chariot to the clouds, where he left the two in charge of zephyr, who wafted them from their fleecy couch to the earth. one bleak, chilly day, the two were walking over a dreary road dotted here and there with dwellings. the most casual observer might have seen their striking dissimilarity, both in dress and manners. truth was clad in garments of the plainest material and finish, while error was decked in costly robes and jewels. the step of the former was firm and slow, while that of the latter was rapid and nervous. the bleak winds penetrated their forms as they turned a sharp angle in the road, when there was revealed to them, on an eminence, a costly and elegant building. "i shall certainly go in there for the night, and escape these biting blasts," said error to her sister. "although, the house is large and grand," answered truth, "it does not look as though its inmates were hospitable. i prefer trying my luck in yonder cottage on the slope of that hill." "and perhaps have your walk for naught," answered error, who bade a hasty good-by to her sister and entered the enclosure, which must have been beautiful in summer with its smooth lawns, fine trees and beds and flowers. she gave the bell a sharp ring, and was summoned into an elegant drawing-room full of gaily dressed people. error was neither timid nor bashful, and she accepted the offered courtesies of the family as one would a right. she seated herself and explained to them the object of her call, dwelling largely on the grandeur of her elegant home amid the stars, and tenderly and feelingly upon her relationship with the gods and goddesses, and the numerous feasts which she had attended, so that at her conclusion her hostess felt that herself and family were receiving rather than bestowing a favor. the evening was spent amid games and pastimes till the hour for retiring, when they conducted her to a warm and elegantly furnished room, so comfortable that it made her long, for a moment, for her sister to share it with her; for, despite the difference in their natures, error loved her sister. the soft couch, however, soon lulled her to sleep. she, slumbered deeply, and dreamed that truth was walking all night, cold and hungry, when suddenly a lovely form came out of the clouds. it was none other than astrea, whom she had seen often in her starry home, talking with truth. she saw her fold a soft, delicate garment about the cold form of her sister, at the same time saying, in reproving tones, to herself, "this is not the only time you have left your sister alone in the cold and cared for yourself. the sin of selfishness is great, and the gods will succor the innocent and punish the offender." she closed, and was rising, with truth in her arms, to the skies, when error gave such a loud shriek that astrea dropped her, and a strong current of air took the goddess out of sight. it was well for the earth, which might have been forever in darkness, that truth was dropped, though hard for her. error awoke from her dream, which seemed more real than her elegant surroundings, and resolved to go in search of truth when the morning came; but a blinding storm of snow and sleet, and the remonstrance of the family, added to her own innate love of ease, left truth uncared for by one whose duty it was to seek her. the days glided into weeks, and yet error remained, much to the wonder of the poorer neighbors around, that mrs. highbred should encourage and keep such a companion for her daughters. they could see at a glance that error was superficial, that she possessed no depth of thought or feeling; and their wonder grew to deep surprise when they saw all the gentry for miles around giving parties in honor of her. everywhere she was flattered and adored, until she became, if possible, more vain and full of her own conceit. "you should see the feasts of the gods in our starry realms," she would say, as each one vied with a preceding festivity to outshine its splendor. after error left her sister, truth walked slowly and thoughtfully towards the cottage on the hill-side. she went slowly up the path, which wound in summer by beds of roses, to the door, and rapped gently. it was opened by a fair and beautiful woman, who bade her "walk in" in tones which matched the kindness of her features. the next moment truth felt her gentle hands removing her hood and cloak, and felt that she was welcome. a table covered with a snowy cloth stood in the centre of the room, on which was an abundant supply of plain, substantial food, more attractive to a hungry traveler than more costly viands. a chair was placed for her by the bright fire, while the air of welcome entered her soul and drew tears from her deep, sad eyes. it was so seldom she was thus entertained--so often that the manner of both high and low made the highway pleasanter than their habitations. how often had she walked alone all night unsheltered, while error, her sister, reposed on beds of down! the sharp contrast of their lives was the great mystery yet unrevealed. it cost her many hours of deep and earnest thought. it was so rare that any one gave her welcome that her gratitude took the form of silence. for an instant the kind woman thought her lacking; but when her grateful look upturned to hers, as she bade her sit at the table and partake of the bounties, all doubt of her gratitude departed. truth slept soundly all night, and arose much refreshed by her slumbers. the storm of the day would not have detained her from continuing her journey; but the warm and truthful appeal of the woman, who felt the need of such a soul as truth possessed with whom to exchange thoughts, induced her to remain that day, and many others, which slipped away so happily, and revealed to her that _rest_ as well as action is needful and right for every worker. truth became a great favorite among the poorer classes of the neighborhood, as she always was whenever they would receive and listen to her words; and it was not long before people of thought, rank, and culture began to notice her and court her acquaintance. mrs. highbred, hearing of her popularity, concluded to give a party and invite her. error had never spoken of the relationship between them until the day the invitations were sent. then, knowing she could no longer conceal the past, she availed herself of the first opportunity to communicate the same to her hostess. great was the surprise of mrs. highbred and her household to learn that the quiet stranger at the cottage was the sister of error. "my sister is very peculiar, and wholly unlike myself," remarked error to her hostess; "and i fear you will find her quite undemonstrative. although it is my parent's wish that i should be with her, you cannot imagine what a relief it has been to a nature like mine to mingle with those more congenial to my tastes, even for a brief period." "it must be," answered mrs. highbred sympathizingly, and error congratulated herself on having become installed in the good graces of so wealthy a person. "now," she said to herself, "i need not go plodding about the world any longer. truth can if she likes to; and, as she feels that she has such a mission to perform to the earth, she of course will not remain in any locality long. but, thanks to the gods, who, i think, favor me always, i shall not be obliged to roam any longer. truth never did appreciate wealth or the value of fine surroundings. she's cast in a rougher mold than i--" "ma sends you this set of garnets, and begs you will do her the favor to wear them on the night of the party," said the bearer of a case of jewels, as she laid them on the table, and bounded out of the room before error could reply. indeed, her surprise was too great for words had the child remained. "i wonder what truth will say when she sees them," thought error, as she glanced again and again at the sparkling gems. nothing could be more striking than the contrast between truth and her sister, both in costume and manner, as they stood apart from the company a moment to exchange a few words. error was decked in a costly robe of satin of a lavender hue, to contrast with her gems; while truth was arrayed in white, with a wreath of ivy on her brow, and the golden girdle around her waist which her father gave her at parting. she wore no gems save an arrow of pearl which astrea gave her when they parted at the gate of clouds, kept by the goddesses named the seasons, which opened to permit the passage of the celestials to earth and to receive them on their return. the simple dress and manners of truth won the admiration of a few, while the majority paid tribute to error, who kept her admirers listening to her wonderful adventures amid the region of the stars. truth spoke but seldom; but what she uttered was food for thought, instead of a constellation of merely dazzling words. a careful observer might have seen that the elder members lingered, attracted by her simple charms, near truth, as did also the youngest portion of the company, while youth and middle age could not divine her sphere of pure and earnest thought. the few who sought her would gladly have continued the acquaintance, and they invited her to their dwellings; but on the morrow she would set forth on her journey, feeling that she had implanted in the minds of a few the love of something beyond externals and mere materialisms. her earthly mission was to traverse hill and plain throughout the land, and sow seeds of righteousness which would spring up in blossoms of pearl long after her weary feet had traversed other lands and sown again in the rough places the finer seeds. at early dawn truth went forth from the cottage and the kind woman who had sheltered her. they had enjoyed much together in their mutual relation. trust met trust, hope clasped hope, and each was stronger for the soul exchange. when the sun rose in the heavens truth was on her way, while error, tossed in feverish dreams upon her bed, thought the sun was angry with her, and was sending his fierce rays upon her head to censure or madden her. but he was only trying to waken her and urge her to go on with her sister. a sense of relief came when she opened her eyes and found it was, after all, only a dream. yet the pleasure was brief; for a sharp pain shot through her temples, her brow was feverish, and her pulses throbbed wildly. "oh, for the pure air and the cool, refreshing grass!" she cried. "oh, better the highway with its friendly blossoms than this couch of down and this stifled atmosphere which i am breathing!" how she longed for truth then, to cool her brow with the touch of her gentle hand. "come back, oh, come to me, truth!" she cried, so hard that the whole household heard and came to her bedside. "she is ill and delirious!" they cried in one voice. the family physician was summoned, who pronounced the case fearful and her life fast ebbing. "for whom shall we send?" said mrs. highbred, who was unused to scenes of distress and now longed to have her guest far from her dwelling. "for her sister truth," said one. "truth--truth," said the physician. "is it possible?" and he gazed from one to another for revelation. "truth is her sister," said one of the younger members, and added, "i think she is far better and prettier than error,--" "far better, far better," continued the physician, looking only at the child, and inwardly saying, "out of the mouths of babes and sucklings come words of wisdom." "i met her on the hill,--the one you call truth," he said, in answer to the searching look of mrs. highbred, who by manner and inquiry plainly manifested her desire to have an end of the unusual state of things. "i will go for her. she will return with me," continued the doctor, "and soon we will find some spot to which we can remove error." a look of relief came over the face of the lady as he departed. truth heard not the sound of the horses, nor the rumbling of wheels as they approached, so intent were her thoughts on separation from her sister and her own strange mission to earth; and she scarce sensed whither she was going, when the kind man courteously lifted her into his carriage. but when she stood by the fevered, unconscious form of error, a few moments later, all her clearness of thought was at her command. "carry her to the cottage on the hill-side," she said, as she bound a cool bandage on her sister's brow. they bore her there, and, as though in mercy, a dark cloud shut off the sun's rays, and their fierce glare was obscured during transit from the home of splendor to the humble cottage. there for many weeks truth nursed her sister, while the kind hostess and kind neighbors aided by words and deeds through the long night watches. error arose from her illness somewhat wiser, and firmly fixed in her determination to follow truth and share her fate to their journey's end. thus, reader, shall we ever find them together while we dwell on earth, and perchance in the regions above. let us trust that they are wisely related; and, while we love, reverence, and admire the purity of truth, let us seek also courteously to endure error as an opposing force, which, though it may seem for a time to work our discomfort and hinder us in our progress, yet gives us strength, as the rower on the stream is made stronger by the counter currents and eddies with which he has to contend. x. the tree. a large shade-tree grew near a house, and under its branches the children played every summer day. it seemed to take great delight in their voices, and shook its green boughs over their heads, as though it would join in their sports and laughter. but, alas! one day it got a foolish idea into its head--it grew discontented, and felt that its sphere of usefulness was too limited. at that moment dark clouds gathered, a fearful tempest arose, and a strong current of wind, soon set the giant tree swinging with such violence that it was torn from the earth and lay like a broken column on the ground. "now i shall be something: i've got my roots out of the old earth. bah! such a heap of old black loam, to be sure, as i have been in! i'll soon shake it off, however, and then the world will see that _i_ can soar as well as other things." there was a terrible quaking and noise as the old tree tried to rise from its recumbent position. the sun's rays were fast parching its roots, causing sharp pains to shoot through its branches. "oh, dear!" said the tree. "i hope i shall be able to get on my feet soon, else people will be laughing at me for lying here so helpless." the golden sun went down behind the hills. its rays could not gild the top of its branches now, and the tree missed the benediction of its parting rays. a feeling akin to homesickness came over it, and a longing, as the dews of evening came, to be once more rooted to the earth. a wild wind sang a dirge all through the night, and ceased not till day darted over the hills. it was not very pleasant for the old tree to hear the children's regrets and words of grief as they came around it in the morning to play and sit as usual under its pleasant shade. it had hoped to have been far away by dawn, and thus have escaped the sound of their voices. "i'll wait till they are gone, and then i must be off," said the tree softly. "papa will cut it all up into wood, i know," said the youngest of the group, a bright, three-year-old boy. "i am going to have a piece of one of the boughs to make a cane of," said another. "and oh, dear me!" sighed little blue-eyed may. "i can't have any more autumn leaves to make pretty wreaths of for mamma." poor old tree! how it had mistaken its mission and its relation to the earth! so it is with people who lament the position in which providence has placed them. in vain the old tree tried to rise: its branches withered, its leaves dropped one by one away, and rustled on the lawn. it found, to its sorrow, that it was not made for the air, and that the once despised earth from which it drew its nourishment was its true parent and source of life. out of respect to its former protection and beauty, its owner had its wood made into handsome ornaments and seats for the garden to keep its memory alive in the minds of the children. when any of them repined in after years at the lot which god had assigned them, the folly of the tree was alluded to, and all restlessness was allayed. over the spot where it stood a beautiful rustic basket made of its own wood was set, from which bright flowers blossomed throughout the summer day. xi. the two ways. two men were informed, as they were listlessly standing and gazing into a dense forest one day, that beyond it lay a fertile and beautiful valley, reached only through the dark and close woods; but, when reached, it would repay them for all their efforts. they started one morning, entering the forest together, and forced their way for a while through the tangled woods. they held the branches for each other to pass, and walked along in social converse. soon one began to grow restless and impatient of the slow progress made. "i must get on faster than this," he exclaimed, and began to quicken his pace, regardless of overhanging boughs and thorny branches, which pierced his flesh at every step. he rushed forward, leaving his companion; and, so intent did he become on reaching the valley with all possible speed, that he no longer noticed the briers which pierced him or the underbrush which entangled and made his feet sore. in a few days he reached the valley, tired, worn, and bleeding from head to feet. the laborers who were working in their gardens looked on him with pity, and several, at the command of a leader, carried him to a house (for he could no longer walk), where he was cared for and nursed. his companion, whom he had outrun, took a better and wiser course. finding the wood so dense, he bethought himself of making a pathway as he journeyed. it would take much longer, but the comfort and good to others who might follow could not be told. faithfully he labored, cutting away the branches which impeded his progress, and clearing the underbrush from the ground; while each day, in the valley beyond, the wounded man wondered that he came not, and concluded that he must have perished in the forest. the days passed into weeks, and yet no sign of his companion. if he could only rise from his bed, he would go in search of him; but, alas! he was helpless, lame, and sore in every joint. at the close of a beautiful autumn day, when the laborers had bound their sheaves and were going to their homes, a traveler was seen coming with a firm step from the forest. on his shoulder he carried the axe, whose polished edge glittered strangely in the rays of the setting sun. the laborers wondered why he was not torn and weary like the other. "thee must have had a better path than the one who came before thee," said one of the group to the stranger. "i made a path," was his only answer; and then he glanced around the room, as though he would find him with whom he started: for the interest felt for any companionship, however brief, is not easily laid aside. the laborers told him of his companion's inability to work, and of his days of pain. "let me see him," he said; and they went with him. the next day the traveler who had slowly journeyed, and made a path for those who would come after, was able to go to his labors; while his companion was disabled for many days longer. soon after, many others came through the forest to the valley, and their first remark was, "show us the traveler who made for us such a comfortable path;" and, seeing him, they all blessed him in word and deed for his nobleness in making their way so easy for them. "but for that path," said many to him, "i should never have come to this lovely valley." there are two ways of journeying through life: one, like the first pilgrim, who thought only of self and of speedily reaching the vale and the journey's end; the other better and wiser one, productive of greater good to all, of making a path, that all who come after us may be blessed by our labors. xii. the urns. in a peaceful valley there lived a number of people whose leader dwelt on the hill and guided the tillers of the soil, weaving into their lives many lessons of truth. they were supplied with water from the mountain, which was sent them every morning by a carrier. it was the master's rule that each should have his urn clean, that the fresh supply might not be mingled with the old. for a time all were faithful: as each day's supply was used the urn was made clean for the new. but, alas for human weakness! so prone to fall from the line of duty--soon a murmur was heard among the people. "i have had no fresh water for days," said one of the group standing idly by the roadside. "neither have i," said another. "it's no use for the master to expect us to labor," remarked a third, "if we are not supplied with fresh water. life is hard enough to bear with all we can have to help us," he continued. "now there's our neighbor, cheerful, over the way--his urn is full of pure, sparkling water each morning." "and why?" broke in a voice in tones of remonstrance. the idlers looked at each other, and then at the face of old faithful, who was just returning from his evening walk and had heard their words of complaint. "let me assure you, my neighbors," he said mildly, yet with force, "it's all your own fault that your urns are not filled. you each know the master's command, that they should be kept clean and ready for the fresh supply. have you all been faithful to the command?" they thought among themselves, and answered with but partial truth, saying, "we may not always have had our urns clean, but why should they be unfilled for that?" "because the new water would be made unclean and useless by being mixed with the old, as you each can see for yourselves. our master loves all alike; but he cannot supply us with fresh waters and new life if we have not used the old and prepared for the new." "i suppose, if we had them ever so clean now, that the carrier would pass us by," remarked one of the group. "try, and see," said faithful. "we may always rest assured that if our part is done the master will do his; for no one, however kind and merciful, can benefit us if we do not put ourselves in a state to be blessed. if the master sends us fresh water each day, and our urns are impure, is it the fault of the benefactor that they are so? we must prepare to receive." faithful went on his way. the sun sank in its bed of fleecy clouds, the evening dew fell on the earth, and all was still. the lesson must have penetrated the hearts of the listeners; for on the morrow their urns, white and clean, were full of sparkling water. do we look into our hearts each day and see that the life from thence has gone forth for good and made ready for new, or are we idly murmuring that we have no life-waters? can the father's life inflow if we do not _give_? our souls are sacred urns, which he longs to fill to overflowing with pure and heavenly truths if we are willing to receive, and faithful to extend, his mercies. xiii. self-exertion. an aged man who had built for himself a house upon a high elevation of land, and had labored many years, yea, the most of his lifetime, in conveying trees, plants, and flowers with which to decorate his grounds, came one day in his descent upon a youth who sat by the roadside looking greatly dispirited. "hast thou no parents nor home?" inquired the kind man. the youth shook his head, and looked so lonely and sad that the heart of the questioner was touched, and he said, "come with me." the boy looked pleased at the invitation, and, springing to his feet, stood by the stranger. together they commenced the long and toilsome ascent; but the feet of the youth were tender, and ere long the aged man was obliged to carry him on his back to the very summit. he set his burden down at the door of his pleasant home, expecting to see an expression of wonder or pleasure on the boy's face; but only a sensuous look of satisfaction at the comforts which the laborer had gathered about him was visible on his dull features. "i'll let him rest to-night," said the kind man. "to-morrow he shall have his first lesson in weeding the beds and watering the flowers." at dawn the old man arose, dressed himself, and went forth to view the sun as it rose over the hills; while the youth slumbered on till nearly noon, and when he arose manifested no life nor interest till the evening meal was over. he partook largely of the bounties, and seemed so full of animation that the old man took courage, and smiles of satisfaction settled on his features; for he thought he had found a helper for himself and wife. the next day they called him at sunrise, and after many efforts succeeded in arousing him from his sleep. the aged couple went to their garden after the morning meal, and awaited the appearance of the youth. "i sent him to gather ferns to plant beside these rocks: he surely cannot be all this time gathering them," remarked the woman. the husband went to the edge of the wood whither she had sent him, and found him lying upon the ground, looking dreamingly at the skies. the good couple did not succeed in arousing him to a sense of any duty. he was dead to labor, and had no life to contribute to the scene around him. "i fear you have made a mistake," said the wife of the good man when the shadows of evening came and they were alone. "i see the boy can never appreciate the toil of our years. he must return and climb the mount for himself. he has no appreciation of all this accumulation which we have been years in gaining, nor can he have. it is not in the order of life: each must climb the summit himself. a mistake lies in our taking any one in our arms and raising him to the mount." "i see it now," said her husband, who had, like many people, been more kind than wise, and like many foolish parents who injure their offspring by giving them the result of their years of toil. on the morrow, the youth was sent back. a few years after, the aged man saw him toiling up a steep hill, seeking to make a home of his own. it was a beautiful eminence, and overlooked the fields and woods for miles around. "he will know the worth and comfort of it," said the old man to his companion. "toil and sacrifice will make it a sweet spot," she answered; "and after the morning of labor will come the evening of rest." xiv. the vines. they grew side by side. the most casual observer would have said that one was far more beautiful than the other. its height was not only greater, but its foliage was brighter. "i should think," remarked the vine of superior external appearance to the other, "that, for the gardener's sake, you would try and make a better appearance. i heard him remark this morning that he almost despaired of your ever bearing fruit, or looking even presentable. i am sure we each have the same soil to draw our nourishment from, and one hand to prune away our deformities." "i think i can defend myself to the satisfaction of both yourself and the gardener; and if you will listen to me this evening, as i cannot spare any of the moments of the day, i will tell you what labor occupies so much of my time." "both myself and the gardener would be delighted to have an explanation; for it has been a wonder to us both what you can be doing. you certainly have not attained any height, nor put forth foliage of any account for the past year." the full-leaved vine spent the day fluttering her leaves in the wind and listening to the praise of passers-by. "what a difference in these vines!" exclaimed two gentlemen as they walked past the garden. "just what every one remarks," said the good-looking vine to herself; and, raising her head very high in the air, she put forth another shoot. yet, with all her fullness of conceit and vainglory, she grew very impatient for the hour to arrive when her sister would be at leisure to talk with her. at sunset, after the gardener had laid his tools away and closed the garden gates for the evening, her sister announced to her that she was ready to explain her strange life for the past year. "if you can call anything 'life' which has no visible sign of growth or motion," pertly remarked the gay vine. her sister took no notice of the remark, though it wounded her, and some of her leaves fluttered and fell to the ground. had her sister been more sensitive, she could have seen her tremble in every limb, though her voice was sweet and clear as she commenced, saying, "i have been very busy the past year, but in a direction which no one but myself could perceive. knowing that we are subject to periods of drought, i have been, and i think wisely too, occupying all my time in sending fibres into the earth in every direction. i have already got one as far as the brook, the other side of the wall. i heard the gardener say it was never dry, so i struck out in that direction, and expect to bring forth fruit next year for all." "but could you not have put forth some leaves, at least, and made a more pleasing appearance?" inquired her sister. "no: it took all my strength to strike into the earth. i hope to see the time when no one will be ashamed of my appearance." the vain vine grew quite thoughtful. was she, after all, ahead of her sister? was a good external appearance the sure sign of merit? these questions kept her busy for many days. she reasoned them in her mind, but did not act on the lesson they taught. she, too, would like to have made preparation for seasons of drought, but her pride stood in the way. she feared to lose her lovely foliage; and the month sped on. another year came. the earth was parched: no rain fell on the dry plants and leaves. the once lovely vine lost all her foliage, while her sister was full of leaves and promise of fruit. "i declare," said the gardener, "it does seem strange. i expected this vine had lost all its life; yet it is now bright and vigorous, while the one i looked to for much fruit is fast fading. what can be the reason?" later in the season, the vine which had worked so long out of sight had the pleasure of seeing not only the table of its owner supplied with delicious fruits from its branches, but also of hearing the gardener remark to visitors that the sick and feeble of the neighborhood were strengthened and refreshed by the cooling grapes which she had, through so much exertion brought forth. the other vine bore no fruit, and had to be pruned severely; but pride stood no longer in the way of her progress. she began to send forth her fibres into the earth, as her sister had done. it was hard at first for her to be obliged to listen to the praises of one whom she considered her inferior; but she at length attained that glorious height which enables us to rejoice when the earth has been made richer, no matter by whom or by what means. xv. in the world. a parent who loved his son more wisely than most earthly parents, and who longed to see him crowned with the light of wisdom, felt that he must send him afar from himself to gather immortal truth: and his heart was moved with a deeper grief at the thought that he must send him forth alone, and unprovided with means to procure his daily sustenance; for only thus could he learn the lessons which were necessary for his soul's development. the boy lay sleeping upon a soft white bed: his hands were folded peacefully upon his breast. hard was the task the father knew was his,--to break that sleep, that slumber so profound, and send his boy out into a cold and selfish world. but, shaking off the tremor and the weakness of his soul, he said, "arise, my son: i must send you forth upon a long and dangerous journey to gather truths to light your soul; and you must go without the means to procure your bread and shelter. it grieves my heart, my son, that all this must be so; but yet i know the journey must be taken, and all its dangers and privations met. my prayers and blessings will go with you, child, through all your scenes." the astonished son gazed on his father's face. the parent turned and wept; then, wiping away the fast-falling tears, he said, "i do not wonder at your earnest, curious gaze, you who have so long lived in the bosom of my love; but there are lessons that must be learned by every human soul. i cannot tell you what these lessons are: they must be experienced, else gladly would i spare you the toil, and myself the pain of parting." the boy looked sad as he thought of the perils and exposures to which he should be subjected, without means to procure the least comfort. the night shades fell on the earth. only a glimmer of daylight tinged the sky when father and son parted, the one for action, the other to endure and wait his return. the journey for many days lay over cheerless hills and barren plains; and many a tear was brushed from that young cheek by the hand which his father had so warmly pressed at parting. at the close of a dark, stormy day, weary and faint for food, he was about to lie down on the damp grass, overcome with weariness, when he espied an elegant edifice a little way beyond. "i will travel on," he said hopefully; "for surely, in such a mansion, i shall find protection and food for my famished body." it took much longer to reach it than he expected; but at last, with torn and bleeding feet, he came to the broad avenue which led to the dwelling. "what magnificence!" he exclaimed. "how glad i am that my father sent me hither to see such wondrous things!" with hope beaming in every feature, he approached the door and knocked. it was opened by one whose voice and face exhibited no sign of welcome. he cast an impatient glance upon the traveler, who shrank abashed and trembling from so rude a gaze. "can i find food and shelter here?" he asked, his voice tremulous with emotion. the door was shut upon him. it was not the cold of the piercing storm which he felt then, but the chill of an inhospitable soul. it froze the warm current of hope that, a few moments before, had leaped so wildly in his veins; and he went forth from the elegant mansion, and sat upon the ground and wept. "o father! why did you send your child so far away to meet the harsh and cruel treatment of the world when your home abounds with plenty?" said the weary child. the shades of night were gathering fast. the cold, damp ground, which had been his only bed so many nights, offered a poor protection now for his weary form. "i was contented there. why did he send me hither?" was the questioning of his mind as he sat alone and sad. as he was about to lay himself upon the ground, he saw light glimmering through the trees, just as the light of hope breaks on us at the moment of despair. "i would journey thither," he said, despondingly; "but rest and shelter were denied me here. how can i hope to find it elsewhere?" but hope whispered to his weary heart; and he arose, and passed on. it was a small, humble dwelling, but one in which dwelt loving hearts. he turned involuntarily into the little path that wound by fragrant shrubs and flowers to its door, and then checked himself, as though he could not bear again a cold denial. it were far easier to feel the blast and storm than again to hear unwelcome tones fall on his ears. despite his feeble faith, he walked to the door and gave a timid rap. the door flew open wide, as though the hinges were oiled with love; and there stood before him a form all radiant with smiles of welcome. she bade him enter; and the traveler, already warm with her bright smiles and words of welcome, felt a glow pervade his whole being,--a feeling new and unfelt before; for he had never, before this absence from his father's house, known a want or woe. both food and shelter did the woman give unto him; and, when the morning sun came over the eastern hills, another sun of joy and gratitude was shining over his hills of doubt. and when the woman turned from his warm, full thanks, and went about her daily tasks, these words came with a new life and meaning to her mind: "as ye have done it to the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me." years rolled away. the murmur of their deeds was like the distant rumbling of retreating clouds after a great storm. the youth visited strange cities, saw nations at war with each other, and learned the conflict of the human soul, and how it battles in the great life which threatens to bear it down each hour. amid all this strife and selfishness of heart, he found many that were loyal to god and truth. he daily learned rich lessons which he would not have effaced for all the gold and pomp of earth. the light of wisdom began to dawn. "this is the experience which my father saw i needed. had he provided me with means with which to journey through the world, how different would have been my life! i then should have known no value of human love and kindness. o my father! i long to return to thee, and love thee as i never could have loved thee before!" he sat weary, but not sad, by the roadside one day, thinking of his father's love, when the sound of a traveler's approach was heard on the road. he turned his eyes in its direction, and saw one of his father's servants on a beautiful white horse. "your father bids you come," were the welcome words that fell upon his ears. "take thy steed," he said, "and journey quickly home: he waits impatiently for your return." fast over hill and dale he rode; and when day passed from sight, leaving a jeweled sky to mark its absence, the long-absent son rode to his father's door, and wept tears of joy upon his breast. together they stood, father and son, upon the mount of experience, overlooking all the scenes of life. our heavenly father wakes us all from the slumber of infancy and helplessness, and sends us forth alone into the world to learn life's great lessons. when we have learned them well, he sends the pale messenger, death, to take us home. how blessed will be that reunion! with the crown of wisdom on our heads, how sweet it will be to go no more out, but dwell with him forever! xvi. faith, hope, and charity. in one of the dark periods, when shadows lay upon the earth, a beautiful angel was sent to abide there and teach the doubting and weary of a father's love and care. she found it a tedious task, and, after many years of toil, felt that she needed a helper. "if my sister were here," she often said to the people, "she could aid you to greater efforts; for, while i seem to supply a needed element to your souls, i only half succeed in meeting your wants." "if she is but half as good as yourself we will welcome her," answered those to whom she spoke. "i will go for her," said faith, one dark night, after she had been trying to rouse the people to higher states, with what seemed to her but little success. faith was weary, and wept; and, when her tears flowed, her sister, yet in the realms of peace, by a strange law of sympathy, knew it, and ran to her father, saying, "i, too, must go to the earth; for faith needs me." her parent sat awhile in deep thought, and hope waited impatiently for his answer, which came spoken in a firm, clear voice: "we have done faith a great wrong, i fear, in sending her alone where so much light and comfort is needed. it was too much for her. go, hope, and my blessing attend you." she was overjoyed at receiving her father's permission to join her sister; for, since faith had gone, her beautiful home had seemed lonely. faith sat all night with her eyes uplifted to heaven, and, when the morning sun lit the hill-tops, behold! on its beams hope was descending to earth. faith was not long in ascending the hill to meet her sister. their meeting was full of joy. "if my eyes had not been lifted heavenward, i should have missed you, hope: and you must have searched a long time for me; for my journeys are far each day," said faith to her sister. "keep your eyes _ever_ uplifted," answered hope, "and you will see not only the brightness of the heavens, but also the father's angels whom he chooses to send to your aid." "i will," answered faith; and ever after her eyes were raised heavenward. they descended to the valley, hand in hand, and reached it as the people were passing to their daily toils. how light now seemed the labors of faith! what a comfort it was to have hope by her when she walked along the dreary wayside; and hope's bright words, how they cheered the downhearted! "i wonder your parents ever permitted you to come to the earth alone," remarked an old and venerable woman to faith, as the latter was imparting to her some truths which lay almost beyond the grasp of mortals. "my father, as well as myself, had to learn that i needed hope with me to make my work more perfect. we must first feel our own inadequacy before our helpers can be fully appreciated. i think she came in the right time," said faith reverently. "no doubt," replied the woman; "i have often heard you say that all our blessings come at the needful moment; but surely hope looks as though she could endure the rough clime, and still rougher ways of our people, better than yourself, although i do not know what my life would have been without you." "that was why i was sent here. i came to prepare the way for hope. i was needed first; and now, with my sister's brighter element, i expect to do a good work on the earth." "a blessed pair!" exclaimed the woman, as they left her home to go to others more dark and drear. faith was summoned that night to the home of a widow whose only child was passing away; for the clear, far-seeing eyes of faith could see the soul depart and take on its heavenly form. it was a great comfort to the bereaved in hours like those to have her near. "i wonder how we lived without her," were household words, and words which she could hear without any semblance of vainglory; for her soul was too deeply impressed with the magnitude of her mission to allow her to be elated or depressed by any remark that might be made. faith's eyes followed the dying boy far into the realms of light. she wiped the mother's tears away, and disclosed to her sight the way the soul had fled, while hope stood by to assure her that the parting was not forever. the two tarried through the night with the mother, and when friends came to bury the dead form she had learned that "the grave is not the goal." the sisters toiled together many years. they wove beautiful truths into the minds of the people, till the once dark condition of earth seemed passing rapidly away. people grew trustful, and less gloomy: yet, with all the teachings of faith, and the cheering words of hope, they failed to exercise the right feelings at all times towards each other. the sisters sat by the wayside one evening, after a hard day's toil, their eyes lifted to the stars, which seemed to look lovingly on them. they sat without words, while each possessed the same unspoken wish. they both longed for their sister, who at that moment was thinking earnestly of them. faith glanced from the stars to the scarcely less brilliant eyes of hope, and a few tears fell over her face. even hope sighed, and almost wished herself back to her starry home with her father. "are you sorry, hope, that you came to earth?" asked faith, tenderly. "no: but i was thinking--" "i know your thought: it must be the same as my own," said faith. "yes, our sister--" hope ventured thus far. "charity come too." faith finished the sentence. "just my wish," said hope, rejoiced to find they had the same desire. "i see," said faith, "that we are all needed here to make our work complete," while the brilliant eyes of hope spoke more than words. "i have felt for a long time," answered hope, "that another element, softer, sweeter, and finer than ours, was needful for the people." "do you suppose that father would spare charity, too?" asked hope of her sister. "i know he would, if convinced that earth's people would receive her." "why, faith, you speak with such confidence!" "because i know how good our father is, as you do yourself, hope. if needed, she will come," said faith, trustingly, thinking of her own experience that lonely night. "charity is so delicate," said hope, a little doubtfully, "i do not quite see how she could endure this cold clime." "she could not without our presence to sustain her," answered faith. "but, with us to help her, she could; for we can all live wherever we are called to do the work of our father." "let us lift the voices of our souls," said hope; and they offered a silent prayer for their sister. * * * * * that night, in his abode of peace and comfort, the father walked to and fro; for the voices of his children on the earth, pleading for their sister, had reached him. it was not without a struggle that he called the only remaining child to his side to look upon her for the last time for many years. "it must be," he said, "and then will my sacrifice be perfect; and from perfect sacrifice must fullness of good come forth. faith alone could not perfect the work; hope's added brightness was not all that was needed. charity must be added." and he drew the fair, frail form to his side, and told her to go for her mantle. he enveloped her slight figure in the spotless garment, and, placing her in the care of zephyr, the gentle west wind, who was always faithful to her charges, bade her depart, with his prayers and blessings. zephyr was very tender of her charge, and, after what seemed a long journey to charity, she laid her on a soft bed of moss in a pleasant woodland, where her sisters were gathering flowers. she might have lain there some time had not faith's eyes discovered her coming through the clouds. full and joyous was the meeting of the three; and when the sun went to rest they sought shelter among the people. with the uplifted eyes of faith, the clear, soul-speaking face of hope, and the tender, forgiving words of charity, their united force was great. some of the people at first refused to admit the last comer into their dwellings. "faith, with her lovely eyes, and hope, with her bright ways, are good enough," they said; "and why need they bring this pale, fragile one to earth?" but when once she had spoken, either in council or rebuke, to her listeners, there was melody and richness in her tones: such an awakening of their souls' finer powers that they ever after bade her welcome. her strength lay in her gentleness. she always went when called for, but never obtruded herself on others. very often her sisters were invited to the feast of the people without her. it took time for her quality to be known: she was so still and silent. her step, too, was noiseless, and her delicate feet left no prints where she trod. before she grew into favor with the people they used to watch for her footprints to see whose guest she had been; but they found no traces, and learned to entertain her after a long time for the lovely qualities which she possessed. they walk the earth now, each loved and entertained by many, while some sit in the shadows, and know not that earth has the angels of faith, hope, and charity to bless them. xvii. going forth. a wise parent sent his children to a distant country to learn the lessons of life which experience alone can teach. before their departure he called them to him, and, after providing them liberally with means, told them that at their return he would listen to their several experiences; at the same time telling them to use the means which he had given them well--neither to hoard, nor spend them unwisely; above all, not to bring them back in their original form, but a full equivalent therefore, either in spiritual or material things. a year had scarcely passed, when, as the father sat looking at the western sky, the youngest son came running breathlessly up the path. "so soon returned?" asked his father--which caused a look of disappointment to pass over the face of the youth; and his words were shaded with regret as he replied, "i thought you would be glad to see me, and would rejoice that i got through so quickly." "not so, my son," replied the father. "you cannot, in the brief time you have been absent, have performed many, if any, deeds of goodness compared with what you might have done by tarrying longer; and your gold--you surely cannot have used it all in so brief a period." "why, i've brought all the money back you gave me, father. you see, i got through without its costing me a penny." "it grieves me more than all, my son, that you should go through any country and return no equivalent for deeds and kindness given. rest awhile, and in a few days return to the land and the people i sent you among, and come not back again to me till every farthing is wisely spent." the youth murmured within himself, but dared not reply. a few days later he departed, to go over the same ground and do the work he had neglected for the sake of a speedy return. at the end of the second year another returned, looking sad and dispirited. "thou hast soon returned, my son," said the father. "is thy work done in so brief a period?" the youth hung his head, and answered slowly, "i was so weary, father. i saw so much sorrow among those people, i longed to come home where all is rest and peace. surely, i was right in that, was i not?" "far from it, my child. if there was much sorrow there, that was the very reason why you should have remained. dost thou not remember those lines i have so often quoted,-"'rest is not quitting the busy career: rest is the fitting of self to one's sphere'?" "i remember them well, father," the youth replied; "but i never felt their meaning until now." "and if you sense it now, my son, what is your duty?" "to return, i suppose." "but how--cheerfully or otherwise?" "gladly and willingly," said the son, born from the old to the higher self. "i will provide you with more means," remarked his father, while a feeling of joy thrilled his being at the thought that his son was going to give his life to human needs. they parted on the morrow, though that separation was the nearest approach of their lives; for they were united by a truth which is ever the essence of a divine union. many years passed by. the hair of the father grew whiter, and his ears longed to hear the voices of his sons, yet he would not call, in word or feeling, so long as the busy throng was receiving or giving them life. one evening, when his thoughts were taking a somewhat pensive turn, a messenger came to his door with a letter from the long-absent and eldest, who had not returned to his home since the day of his departure. its words were these:-"dear father,--i cannot come to the home i love so well, nor to your side, while this land is so full of need of human words and deeds. with your blessing i shall remain here my lifetime; and when age comes on, and i can no longer serve the people, may i return?" the tears fell over the good man's face. god had blessed him greatly in bestowing on him so worthy a son; and he penned warm and glowing words of encouragement to his child, and sent by the messenger, with gold to alleviate the wants of the needy. "tell him a thousand blessings await him when his work is done," said he to the messenger as the latter mounted his horse to ride away. long after, when the father grew old and helpless, the sons returned laden with rich experiences and abundantly able to care for him. they had learned the great and valuable lesson that all must learn ere they truly live,--that we must give to receive, sow if we would reap, and lose our life to find it. xviii. the feast. there was once a husbandman who had laborers in a valley, clearing it of stones and brush, that it might become fit for culture. he resided near, on a fine hill, where he raised rare fruits and flowers of every variety. the view from the hill-top was extensive and grand beyond description, and it was the kind owner's desire that each day the laborers should ascend and be refreshed by whatever he had to offer them, beside catching the inspiration of the lovely and extensive landscape. some days he had not much to offer them; at other times, the repast would be sumptuous and most tempting: so those who went each day were sure of receiving in their season the delicious fruits which ripened at different periods. there had been a succession of days in which there was nothing but dry food on the hill, with none of the luscious fruits which invigorate and refresh; for they had been slow in ripening, and the kind husbandman would not gather them before they were mellow and fit to spread before his laborers. "_i_ am not going to climb the hill to-day for a few crumbs," said one dissatisfied toiler, as he sat by the roadside at noon-day, looking very unhappy. "nor i!" "nor i!" added a second and a third, until there was quite a chorus of the dissatisfied. the remainder went up as usual. a most tempting repast was before them, of fruits and cake and refreshing wines, while the table was decked with rare and fragrant flowers. how glad was the good man to spread the bounties before them! for well he knew of the murmurs which had gone out of their hearts for a few days past. "are they not all here?" he asked of those who had ascended the hill, while a look of disappointment came over his face. "oh! let us go down and tell them what a nice feast is waiting," said one of the group, as he gazed on the well-filled table. "nay, not so," answered the husbandman, in a gentle but commanding tone. "my people should have faith in me, and know that i spread for them all i can each day. my power, even like that of the infinite, is limited by conditions. it is not my pleasure ever to have them go unrefreshed; but how much better for them, could they be content with whatever comes each day, though sometimes meager. how it cheers me to see those who have come in good courage and faith, _not_ knowing that the feast was here. eat and give thanks," he said; while a band played some lively airs. * * * * * shall we refuse to ascend each day the mount whereon dwells our father? shall we, because some days no feast awaits us, linger in the valley of doubt, and lose the bounties which his hand at other times has ready for us? no: the faithful and believing will go up to the mount each day, and take without murmur the morsel, or the fruits with thanksgiving. xix. the lesson of the stone. it was with feelings of satisfaction and pride that a builder looked upon a large and costly edifice which, after much exertion, was just completed. long had the workmen toiled to place one stone upon another. many hours of thought had the designer spent in perfecting its proportions, and a deep sense of relief came over him as he saw the last stone deposited on the summit of the structure. yet it was only to be followed by one of pain; for, as he walked one evening to enjoy the beautiful symmetry of his building, he heard words of contention and strife among the various stones of which it was composed. "just look at my superior finish," said one of the top pieces to those beneath it. "you are only plain pieces of granite, while i am polished, elegantly carved, and the admiration of all eyes. do i not see all the people, as they pass by, look up at me?" "not so fast," replied one of the foundation stones. "a little less pride would become you; for do you not see that, but for us below, you could not be so high? and it matters very little, it strikes me, what part of the building we are placed in, if we but remain firm and peaceful." the words of the wise stone pleased the owner so much that he resolved to remove a little of the vanity of the top one, and lay awake a long time that night, thinking of some plan by which to effect his purpose. the elements, however, spared him any effort on his part, for the next day a terrible hail-storm swept over the land, and its hard stones defaced all the ornaments which had led the lofty one to boast so loudly of its superiority. "oh, dear! oh, dear!" moaned the vain piece of granite. "how i wish i had been taken for a foundation stone, instead of being here to have all my beauty destroyed by this awful storm! i'd much rather have been in the middle of the building than up here, where all the force of the storm is spent on my head." the stone at the foundation could not help smiling, though he really pitied the vain thing above him. "it will teach her wisdom," he said to himself; "and she may learn that none in life are lowly if they bear their part, and that a lofty position is far more dangerous than a humble one." there was a fearful crash in the air at that instant. the foundation stone thought the building was coming down. something struck him, which he recognized as a part of the top stone; for he had seen the workmen cutting and smoothing it day after day for many weeks prior to its elevation. now she could boast no more of superior finish or position. the following day, the remaining shattered portion was removed and left by the roadside, where it could see another prepared to take its place. "i thought that stone was a little weak when we raised it," said one of the workmen as it was placed aside. it lay by the roadside until it grew to be humble and glad to be of any use,--even delighted when one day the owner of the building took it to finish a wall which was being built around some pasture land. "here i can be of use," she said, as the workmen deposited it on a sunny corner as the place it was to occupy. it was glad to be there and find itself useful and at rest; for it had been obliged to listen to the remarks of the passers-by each day, and to endure their comments on its misfortune. "i suppose i shall never know any other life but this; so now, being firmly set, i can sleep a little:" for the stone was sadly in need of rest. after what seemed to be a long period of repose, the stone awoke, with new pulsations and finer emotions thrilling within it. the sound of children's voices were heard in the air. how sweet and life-giving they were! far more pleasant than the words of admiration which men uttered when she was on the building's top. a new joy was hers also, for soft hands were caressing her. beautiful mosses had grown on her surface, and delighted children were gathering them. useful and beautiful too! and the stone was silent with happiness. she hoped the children would come again; and they did, bringing others with them. "i wonder how this beautiful moss grew on me," she said one day to herself--at least she thought no one heard her. but an older stone beside her replied, "by being perfectly quiet we become covered with this lovely moss, firmer than grasses of any lawn." the once vain stone grew to be perfectly contented, and never longed for her former position. when the storms came, it knew it was close to the earth. it had no fearful height to be pulled from, and the beautiful lichens which grew upon its surface were far more ornamental than its former carved and elegant adornings. xx. the seeds. they lay side by side one morning, while the gardener was preparing the ground in which to plant them and many other varieties. "just think," said the more talkative one of the two, "how sad it is that we are going to be put in that dismal ground! i shall not allow myself to be buried out of sight this lovely morning." "but," answered the more quiet seed by her side, "it is only for a brief period that we shall lie there, and then we shall be far more beautiful." "what care i for beauty for others to look at? i want my freedom, and intend to have it, too. the wind is my friend, and i shall ask her to waft me over to those lovely hills, where i can see something of the world." "i think it would be wiser to remain where we are, and let the gardener care for us: he must know what is for our good," remarked the gentle seed. "you are too prosy by far. i think our own feelings tell us what we need. so good-by," exclaimed the self-reliant seed, as she motioned to the wind to bear her away. she thought her breath was leaving her, as she was borne through the air, and wished she were back in the garden. but when she found herself on the warm hill-side she felt reassured, and nestled herself amid the soft grass, whose waving motion soon lulled her to sleep. now the two seeds which the gardener had laid on the ground were of a very choice and rare kind; and he felt very sad that the wind should have blown one away. he took the remaining one and laid it carefully in the ground, with many hopes that it would spring up and bear rich blossoms, which would yield more seed. that night a cold wind came on; but the little seed in the warm bed did not feel it at all, while her absent sister shook all night with the cold. after what seemed a long time to the seed in the ground, something like a new life came over her. there was a deeper pulsation through her being, and a strong desire to shoot upward to the light and air. this feeling deepened every hour. "at this rate i shall soon be in the air, where i can see all that is going on about me," she said joyfully. then she felt very quiet, and fell asleep. when she awoke she saw the gardener bending over her with a joyful face. "when did this happen? how came i up here in the warm sunlight?" the seed exclaimed to him. "because the wind did not bear you away, and i could put you in the ground, is the reason why you are here. first out of sight, then to the light, my little seed! but," he said sorrowfully, "i wish we had the other one, for your kind is rare." the plant then told the gardener that her sister purposely went away, at which he wondered that she had power of motion until she became a plant. "oh, she asked the wind to carry her," answered the fresh-growing plant. "if i knew where she had gone i'd search for her, and bring her back." "she asked the wind to take her to yonder hill-side," said the plant, hoping, oh, so much! that he would go and find the seed, and plant it beside her, that she, too, might have the pleasure of becoming a plant as beautiful as herself. the gardener went towards the hills; but the seed saw him, and begged the south wind to bear her away. and she took her on her wing and wafted her many miles from home. the gardener searched a long time, and was obliged to return without her. so he took extra care of the plant, and it grew to be the pride of the garden; while the seed that had her own way was roaming over the world. the truant one soon lost all her influence over the winds, who finally refused to carry about a good-for-nothing seed while they had so much needful work to perform. a cold northern blast was the last one she could persuade to bear her, and he dropped her on a rock, where she at last perished from exposure to the rain and cold. the day before her death, a company of people passed by her, bearing in their hands some rare and fragrant blossoms, to which she felt a strange attraction. this gave place to a deep thrill of sorrow as she heard them describe the lovely plant which grew in a beautiful garden, and which by their description she knew was her own home, which she in her folly had left. "had i but accepted the conditions of growth, i too might have been a lovely plant, giving and receiving pleasure," she said, after the people had passed on. "but now, alas!" and her breath grew quick and short, "if i had only some one to profit by my last words, telling of my life of folly, i might not have lived wholly in vain." but there was nothing about her which she could discern save a tuft of moss upon the cold, hard rock which must now be her death-bed. but behind the rock, on the south side, there was growing a family of wild daisies, who were going to migrate to a warmer part of the country to plant their seeds before the winter came on. this was one of the conditions which providence ever has around the most seemingly deserted and desolate, that her words might not only profit them, but that they could convey the benefit of them to all wayward seeds who were unwilling to accept the natural conditions of growth. and thus the seed, though dying with its mission unfulfilled, did not live wholly in vain; for its wasted life saved others from a similar fate. xxi. only gold. a parent sent his children forth one day into a fertile land to gather fruits, flowers, and whatever was beautiful to adorn their homes. they wandered till nightfall, gathering their treasures, while their joyous laughter filled the air, and made music to the listening laborers in the fields. just as the shadows of evening came on they approached an open field: it was barren of verdure, but the ground was covered with golden stones, which glittered strangely in the setting sun. they gathered as many as they could with their other treasures, and then all but one of the group began to prepare for home, while he lingered, eager to gather the shining pebbles. "we must return," they all said in chorus to him. they disliked to leave without him; but darkness was fast coming on, and they must obey their parents' command and return before the shades of evening had covered the earth. one voice after another died away on the air as they pleaded vainly for him to go with them, but he heeded them not: the golden stones were far more precious in his eyes than kindred, home, or friends; and they departed sorrowfully without him, while he remained and added stone to stone, till he was obliged at last, from exhaustion, to lie down on the damp ground. it was not like his warm bed in his pleasant home; and he missed the cheerful voices of his brothers, and more than all his parents' fond goodnight, after the evening prayer. he slept; but his dreams were wild and feverish, and there was no atmosphere of love about him to soothe the weary brain. the next day at noon his parents sent a messenger to him, bidding him return. but the love of his golden stones was paramount to the wishes of kindred, and the unnumbered comforts of a happy home; and his reply to the messenger was, "i will return, when i have enough of these," pointing to a large collection which was already higher than his head. at nightfall hunger seized him. he felt too weary to go in search of food, but the demand of nature asserted its claim, and he dragged himself to a field near by, where grew berries and fruits in abundance. his spirits rose after the cravings of hunger were satisfied, and he lay down again by his precious pile of stones. the days glided into weeks, and still he fed upon the berries and gathered the golden pebbles. his father had ceased to send messengers to him, knowing that nothing but a long experience would teach his child the value of life's many blessings, and that gold _alone_ has no power to bless us. the father suffered much in knowing and realizing that his son must learn the truths of life through such severe lessons; but wisdom told him it could not be otherwise. the chill air of autumn came, and no longer could the fruits and berries ripen for him. he saw some laborers one day in a field near by, eating their meal which they had brought from their homes. oh; what would he not now give for some of their meat and bread! "i will go to them," he said, "and offer some of my golden stores in exchange for just a few morsels." he did so; and they only smiled at his offer, saying, "what would then refresh and fit us for the rest of our day's labor? surely your gold would not." "but it would help you to buy more," he replied. "yes, to-morrow: but we cannot spare a morsel to-day, for we need all our supply to strengthen us for our work." he turned away in deep thought. was he not losing all of life's joys and comforts in living thus alone only to amass such quantities of gold? but as he looked again on the shining treasures his ambition arose with increased power; and he forgot, for a time, his hunger in his toil. then a new thought came to him. "now that the fruits are gone i can go to the forest and gather nuts. they will be better food, too, for these chilly autumn days. surely i am provided for, at least till winter," and he left his labor and repaired to the woods, where he feasted and gathered enough for many days. the household mourned much for their absent brother. they missed him in their daily joys, and every hour they watched, waited, and hoped to see him return. they almost rejoiced when the bleak winds of autumn swept the foliage from the trees, because they could look farther down the road for their brother. "i shall soon be able to travel and see the world," said the youth to himself every day as the pile of gold grew higher; but, alas for human calculation! he awoke one morning to find his huge mountain of gold one solid mass. the action of the light, heat, and atmosphere had fused them together, and no exertion of his could break off even the smallest atom. must he return with not even one golden pebble? for he had gathered them all--not one was in sight, no more were to be found. his golden dream of travel was over, and, worse, the freshness and buoyancy of youth had departed. his limbs, alas! were stiff and sore. he had a mountain of gold, not one atom of which he could use for himself or others. and now he must return to his father's house empty-handed, and void of truths or incidents to relate to his brothers. but some kind angel led him home, where his blessings were yet in store, awaiting his return. one evening when the shadows crept over the earth, he walked up the well-known path. the brothers had long before ceased to watch for his coming; and great was their surprise to see him again among them, although not the brother of that happy, sunny day of long ago. he told them sadly of the result of his long toil, while they related to him the good results of their few golden pebbles, which they brought home, and with which their father had purchased land, which was now yielding them rich returns, aside from the health and pleasure which they derived from its culture, the labor of which they performed with their own hands. "health, wealth, and happiness combined," he murmured sadly, as he felt keenly that his youth and opportunities had departed. are there not too many who seek for gold alone, forgetting the joys which it purchases, and forgetting that its possession alone has no value? rightly acquired and used it alleviates and mediates, but gathered and amassed for itself only it is but a mountain of shining ore, valueless and unsatisfying to its possessor. "fool that i have been thus to waste my time and strength!" said the long-absent son that night as his father bade him welcome. "if wisdom is purchased by the experience, it matters not how great the price," answered his parent. "but i have lost my youth and my strength," responded the son. "which loss will be compensated by more thought and greater ability to labor mentally," said his parent consolingly. in after years the youth who had wasted his bodily strength became a worker in words of cheer and hope to others, and hence he had not wholly lived in vain. he learned to love the angel truth so well that she came to his side each day, and gave him sweet counsel and many lessons for mankind. but he had purchased the light at a cost which few can afford to give. xxii. the sacrifice. a large party of travelers on their way to a distant country were obliged to pass through a dense forest to reach it. their leader went forward, and, seeing the darkness of the dense woods, was convinced of the impossibility of his people going through it, without the aid of a light to guide them. he sat beside the mossy stones at the entrance, trying to devise some means by which to light up the darkness. there seemed but one way, and that almost hopeless, as it involved a sacrifice of life, and he knew too well the nature of the trees to expect any of them to give themselves up for his travelers. how could he ask it, as he stepped into the deep wood, and looked on their grand proportions and rich foliage? his was no enviable position to entreat them to give up the existence which must be dear to themselves,--to pass from the known to the unknown life. vainly he tried to think of another way to accomplish his purpose. none presented itself; so with glowing words he appealed to their nobler selves, telling them all the great need of the travelers who were obliged to pass that way. first he appealed to a fine birch which bordered the forest. "not i, indeed!" answered the tree. "do you think i would give my life to light a few people through this woodland? i prefer to live a few years longer." he next addressed a walnut. she shook a few leaves from her branches, and made a similar reply, preferring to live in her own form, and amid her sister trees, to going she knew not whither. "are there none here," he continued, "who are willing to sacrifice their lives for the needs of others?" he looked around the forest in vain: all were silent, and he was about to return to the people, when a large and stately oak spoke in clear and ringing tones, saying, "i will give my body that the travelers may have light." "what! that grand old body of yours, that has been so many years growing and maturing to its present stately and fair proportions!" exclaimed several of the trees. "you are not only rash, but foolish," remarked a small fir growing by its side. "beside taking away the pride of our grand old forest," said a delicate birch, that had always admired the oak. "just throwing your life away," broke in a tall and rather sickly pine. "when will you be ready for me?" asked the oak of the leader, who had stood admiring its beautiful proportions, and sorrowing within himself that it must be so. at the close of the next day the travelers came to the edge of the forest, and tarried while their leader lit the fire at the roots of the oak. now the flames went upward and flashed in the darkness; for it was evening, and not a star was visible. the flames rose upward and touched not even the bark of another tree, but wound closely around the oak, as though it knew its work and that the light of that tree only was needed to pass the travelers through in safety. it touched their hearts to thus witness that the life of the noble oak must be sacrificed, and they offered, with one accord, a silent prayer that its life might be extended in a higher form. having passed through, they tarried at the end of the forest until the flames died away, and then pursued their journey. * * * * * years passed away. from the pile of ashes left by the departed oak sprang lovely flowers, which charmed the eyes of all the trees in the forest, and atoned, in a great measure, for the loss of their noble companion. after a brief period workmen were seen in the forest felling the trees. "ah!" exclaimed the old pine who had refused to give its life for the travelers, "i don't see as we have gained anything. if our life is to go, it might as well have gone by the fire as by the axe." "just so," answered the beach, "only if we had perished by the fire we might now be coming again into another form of life, as our oak seems to be, from that pile of dust and ashes; for see what lovely blossoms are coming forth from that unsightly heap of dust." "i heard the workmen say that all these trees were to be cleared away, and houses erected on the land," remarked a trembling ash, and her leaves quivered beyond their wont with the terror of this new thought. "and that will surely be the end of us," moaned the pine. "our happy life is all over now," said a small fir, who would have continued bemoaning their destiny had not her attention at that instant been arrested by two forms entering the forest. they went to the spot where once stood the brave oak, and gazed admiringly on the lovely tinted blossoms. they had heard of the sacrifice of the tree, and had come to gaze upon its resurrection. "we will gather some for our festival to-night," they said, and stooped to pluck the fragrant blossoms. the fire had not destroyed the consciousness of the oak: its soul was still alive, enjoying its new form of existence, and it sent forth thrills of gratitude, which took the form of sweetest odor, filling the air around with fragrance. "instead of losing my life it is being extended, even as the good leader of the people said," were its words as the two departed, bearing the flowers, instinct with its oak life, away. many went to the forest while the workmen were there, to gather the seeds of the rare blossoms to plant in their gardens. how much of human life did the soul of the oak learn as it went forth thus amid the throngs of people; and how it rejoiced that it had given its life for the good of others, knowing not that greater bliss was in store for it! it was held in the hands of the aged; it crowned fair brows; it was carried to the bedside of the suffering; it was laid upon the caskets of the dead; it was planted by the door of the cottage and reared in the conservatories of the rich,--everywhere admired and welcomed. was not this life indeed worth all the pain and heat of the flames, and the loss of its once statelier and loftier form? it never sighed for its forest home, but often longed to know of the fate of its brother trees. one day a child, bearing in her hand one of its blossoms, wandered to the ground where once arose the tall trees. the eyes of the oak, through the flower, looked in vain for its kindred. none were standing. they had all been felled and their wood converted into dwellings,--a useful but less beautiful form of existence than that which the oak possessed,--and they learned, after a time, that it is only by apparent destruction that life can be reconstructed. but they could only have the experiences which came within the scope of their life; and the oak was more than ever satisfied with its own, and rejoiced that it had passed through the refining element, losing thereby only its grosser form. it filled the air with the fragrance of its gratitude. whenever it wished to journey, the winds, who were its friends, conveyed its seeds to any portion of the earth it designated. its blossoms were not only bright to the eye, and their odor sweet to the sense of smell, but the leaves of the plant were healing. three forces connected it with human life: so that it was in constant action, and its highest joy lay in the consciousness of its increased usefulness. xxiii. strangers. in a large and elegant mansion dwelt a wealthy man who had three lovely daughters. the house was built on an eminence upon the banks of a river which wound like a thread of silver through the valleys for many miles. afar from the mansion were a large number of cottages, in which dwelt carpenters, shipbuilders, gardeners, and some of every trade. most of them were good and honest people, though tinged with the love of earthly gains, and many of them, too, often crushed many of the soul's finer and better emotions in the greedy love of material things. the owner of the mansion sorrowed over this failing of theirs, and, to rid them of it, devised a plan by which to give those who wished an opportunity to be led by their better nature, and forget, for the time, self and gain. accordingly, he told his daughters to deck themselves in their richest apparel and ornaments, which were rare and choice, and then to throw over the whole large and unsightly cloaks, so that the disguise might be perfect, and conceal all the splendor beneath. to each he gave a purse filled with gold to bestow upon the one who should welcome and give them shelter. at evening he went forth with them to the narrow street, and bade them knock at the doors of the cottages, while he waited outside, and see who would admit and give food and shelter to travelers in need. they obeyed him, and first approached a dimly-lighted cottage. making known their presence by a gentle rap, the door was opened by a woman of large and coarse features, whose eyes had no welcome in their rude stare. she scarcely waited for the words of the travelers to be spoken, ere she gruffly answered, "no: we have neither room nor food for beggars," and closed the door abruptly. they applied next upon the opposite side, saying to the man who opened the door, "can you feed and give shelter to three weary travelers?" "we have no food to waste, and our home is scarcely large enough for ourselves," he replied, and quickly shut the door upon them. the same answer came from all, and they turned to their parent, saying, "shall we try any more?" "there are but two more: try all; see if one at least can be found not wholly selfish; and, as you are not truly in need of their bounties, you can well afford to importune and be denied." he then guided his children to the end of the street. "this one looks quite gay compared with the others," said the eldest of the daughters, as they all looked on the well-lit rooms, and beheld forms flitting to and fro within. "we shall certainly be admitted here," said the others. but the parent kept his council, and was invisible while they rapped at the door, which was opened by a bright and rather stylish-looking girl, who gazed wonderingly on the group. "can you give us shelter for a night, and a little food?" asked the eldest. "not we, indeed: we have just spent all our money for a merry-making for our brother jack, who has just come home from sea. not we: we have not one bit of room to spare; for all our friends are here." "but we are weary, and ask rest and food," pleaded one of the three; and her eyes wandered to the well-filled tables. "yes: but what we have is for our company and ourselves--not for beggars," said the girl, and she closed the door upon them. "shall we try again, father?" they said to their parent. "just this one, which is the last," he answered, leading them to the door of a cot where dwelt a poor and lonely widow. they paused at the threshold, for a voice was heard within, low and sweet; yet they heard the words of the kneeling form, in deep petition, saying, "give me, o father, my daily bread; forgive me my trespasses, and lead me not into temptation. for thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever and forever. amen." she arose at that instant. a gentle knock was heard. without delay she opened it, and smiled upon the strangers, who asked for more than she could give. "i have shelter, but no food; yet enter and be welcome," she said, and opened wide the door. they passed in, and left their parent, whom they knew would soon follow, outside. "i grieve that i have no food to offer thee," said the woman, "but come to my fireside; for the evening air is chilly, and you must need rest." she placed for them her only chairs beside the fire, saying, "i am glad you come to-night; for this is my last fuel, and to-morrow eve it will be all dark and chill within my dwelling." the eldest bowed to the woman gracefully, and threw aside her cloak; and at once the others followed her example. great was the surprise of the widow. she thought her senses had departed, and, for an instant, had no voice, no words, naught but wonder beaming from her eyes, so sudden and great was the surprise. another gentle rap at that instant seemed to help her to find herself, and she was hastening to open it, when the eldest one said, "it is our father, come to thank you for admitting angels in disguise; for, though not angels in form, we hope to prove such by our administration to your needs." and they laid upon her only table the purses of gold. "he will ever give daily bread to those who forget not to entertain strangers," said their father to the widow, as they took their leave of one who had not refused to receive strangers. the next morning there was great commotion in the neighborhood; for the widow had been seen to exchange gold for bread at one of the shops; but greater still was their surprise when she told them, as they flocked around her dwelling, that it was given by three strangers who had asked for bread and shelter the night before. "three strangers!" exclaimed they all. "they must be the same that called at our dwellings. what fools we were that we did not let them in!" "nay: it but shows how dead you were in sympathy for human need," spoke a voice among them, which, as they turned, they found to be that of the owner of the mansion. shame and confusion came over their faces; for he had long been their benefactor, both in words of counsel and deeds of kindness. their eyes fell to the ground, as he in gentle tones chided them for their lack of kindness and want of faith in the father's love. "he who giveth not in another's need shall receive none in his own," he continued; "and let the lesson taught you by the experience you have just had, and the example of the poor widow, last you through all the years of your life; for she refused not the strangers whom you turned from your doors the shelter which they apparently needed." "but they were not cold and hungry," said one of the group. "the demand upon your sympathies was just the same; for you knew not to the contrary," he answered, and they could not but feel the truth of his words. the lesson was not lost; for in after years they grew less mercenary, more kindly of heart, and never again closed their doors to strangers asking aid. transcribed from the 1849 (tenth) francis & john rivington edition by david price, email ccx074@pglaf.org the rocky island, and other similitudes. by samuel wilberforce, d.d. lord bishop of oxford. "fed my lambs."--s. john xxi. 15. tenth edition london: francis & john rivington, st. paul's church yard, and waterloo place. 1849. {the rocky island: p0.jpg} preface. the advertisement to a work of similar character to the present expresses the author's principle and wishes as to this little volume. it is constructed on the same plan, and, like the former, has had the test of the observations of his own children before it was given to the public. the reception of "agathos" has shewn that many parents have felt the want which these little volumes are intended to supply, and leads the author to hope that he has in some measure been able to meet it. it is a peculiar gratification to him to be able thus to enter many a christian household, and fulfil, in some measure, his master's charge, "feed my lambs." may it please god to give his blessing to this new attempt. s. w _winchester_, _sept._ 29, 1840. the rocky island. i saw in my dream a rough rocky island rising straight out of the midst of a roaring sea. in the midst of the island rose a black steep mountain; dark clouds rested gloomily upon its top; and into the midst of the clouds it cast forth ever and anon red flames, which lit them up like the thick curling smoke at the top of a furnace-chimney. peals of loud thunder sounded constantly from these thick clouds; and now and then angry lightning shot its forked tongue, white, and red, and blue, from the midst of them, and fell upon the rocks, or the few trees which just clung to their sides, splitting them violently down, and scattering the broken and shivered pieces on all sides. it was a sad, dreary-looking island at the first view, and i thought that no one could dwell in it; but as i looked closer at its shores, i saw that they were covered with children at play. a soft white sand formed its beach, and there these children played. i saw no grown people among them; but the children were all busy--some picking up shells; some playing with the bright-coloured berries of a prickly dwarf-plant which grew upon those sands; some watching the waves as they ran up and then fell back again on that shore; some running after the sea-birds, which ran with quick light feet along the wet sand, and ever flew off, skimming just along the wave-top, and uttering a quick sharp note as the children came close upon them:--so some sported in one way, and some in another, but all were busily at play. now i wondered in my dream to see these children thus busy whilst the burning mountain lay close behind them, and the thunder made the air ring. sometimes, indeed, when it shone out redder and fiercer than usual, or when the thunder seemed close over their heads, the children would be startled for a little while, and run together, and cry, and scream; but very soon it was all forgotten, and they were as full of their sports as ever. while i was musing upon this, i saw a man appear suddenly amongst the children. he was of a noble and kingly countenance, and yet so gentle withal that there was not a child of them all who seemed afraid to look in his face, or to listen to his kind voice when he opened his mouth, for soon i found that he was speaking to them. "my dear children," i heard him say, "you will all be certainly killed, if you stay upon this rocky island. here no one ever grows up happily. here all play turns into death--the burning mountain, and the forked lightning, and the dreadful breath of the hill-storm,--these sweep down over all that stay here, and slay them all; and if you stay here, for these childish pleasures of yours, you will all perish." then the children grew very grave, and they gazed one upon another, and all looked up into the face of the man, to see if he spoke in earnest. they saw directly that he did, for that kind face looked full of care as well as of love: so from him they looked out upon the waves of the sea, and one whispered to another, "where shall we go? how shall we ever get over that sea? we can never swim across it: had we not better go back, and play and be happy, until the time comes for us to die?" "no," said the man, looking round kindly upon them all; "you cannot swim over; you never could get over of yourselves: but you need not stay here and die; for i have found a way of escape for you. follow me, and you shall see it." so i saw that he led them round a high rough rock, to where the calm waves of the sea ran up into a little bay, upon the white sand of which only a gentle ripple broke with a very pleasant sound. this bay was full of boats, small painted boats, with just room in each for one person, with a small rudder to guide them at the stern, and a little sail as white as snow, and over all a flag, on which a bright red cross was flapping in the gentle sea-breeze. then when the children saw these beautiful boats, they clapped their little hands together for very joy of heart. but the man spoke to them again and said, "you will all have a deep, and dangerous, and stormy sea to pass over in these little boats. they will carry you quite safely, if you are careful to do just as i bid you, for then neither are wind nor the sea can harm them; but they will bear you safely over the foaming waves to a bright and beautiful land--to a country where there is no burning mountain, and no angry lightning, and no bare rocks, and no blasting hill-storm; but where there are trees bearing golden fruits by the side of beautiful rivers, into which they sweep their green boughs. there the trees are always green, and the leaves ever fresh. there the fruit ripens every month, {6} and the very leaves upon the trees are healing. there is always glad and joyful light. there are happy children who have passed this sea; and there are others who have grown old full of happiness; there are some of your fathers, and mothers, and brothers, and sisters; and there am i ever present to keep and to comfort you." now when they heard this, all the children wished to jump into the boats, and he was kindly ready to help them, only he put each one in carefully and slowly; and as he put him in, he gave him his charge. he told them that they must never look round to this island they were leaving, but must be always setting their faces towards the happy land they sought for. he told them that they must leave behind them all the shells and the berries which had pleased them here, for if they tried to take these with them in their boats, some accident would certainly befall them. then some of the children, when they heard all this, drew secretly away, and ran round the point, and gave up the boats and the sea, and began their old idle play again. and some of them, i thought, hid the shells and the berries they had got, and then jumped into the boat, pretending they had left all behind them. then i saw that the man gave different presents to each of them, as they seated themselves in the boat. one was a little compass in a wooden box. "this," he said, "will always shew you which way to steer; you are to follow me, for i shall always be before you on the waters; but often when the darkness of the night comes on, or the thick mist seethes up from the wave's brim, or the calm has fallen upon you so that your boat has stood still,--often at such times as these you may not be able even to mark my track before you: then you must look at the compass, and its finger will always point true and straight to where i am; and if you will follow me there, you will be safe." he gave them, too, a musical instrument, which made a soft murmuring sound when they breathed earnestly into it; "and this," he said, "you must use when you are becalmed and so cannot get on, or when the waves swell into a storm around you and threaten to swallow you up." he gave them, too, bread and water for many days. so i saw that they all set out upon their voyage, and a beautiful sight it was to look upon. their snow-white sails upon the deep sea shone like stars upon the blue of the firmament; and now they all followed close upon the leader's ship, and their little boats danced lightly and joyfully over the trackless waves, which lifted up their breasts to waft them over: and so they started. but i looked again in a little while, and they were beginning to be scattered very widely asunder: here and there three or four of the boats kept well together, and followed steadily in the track of the leader's vessel; then there was a long space of the sea with no boat upon it at all; then came a straggler or two, and then another company; and then, far off on the right and on the left, were other boats, which seemed to be wandering quite away from the leader's path. now, as i watched them closer, i saw that there were many different things which drew them away: one i saw, soon after they started, who turned back to look at the rocky island, forgetting the man's command. he saw the other children playing on the beach; he heard their merry voices; and then looking round again towards the sea, it looked rough and dark before him; and he forgot the burning mountain, and the terrible thunder, and the bright happy land for which he was bound, and the goodly company he was in, and the kind face of the kingly man; and he was like one in a dream, before whose eyes all sorts of shapes and colours fly, and in whose ears all sounds are ringing; and he thought no more of the helm, nor watched the sails; and so the driving swell carried his boat idly along with its long roll; and in a few minutes more i saw it at the top of a white foaming breaker, and then he and it were dashed down upon the rocks which girdled the sandy beach, and he was seen again no more. then i turned my eyes to two other boats, which were going fast away from the true course, for no reason which i could see; but when i looked at them more closely, i saw that they were in a sort of angry race; each wished to get to the wind-side of the other; and they were so busy thinking about this, and looking at one another with angry glances, and calling out to one another with angry words, that they forgot to look for the leader's ship, or to watch the finger of the compass; and so they were going altogether wide of the track along which they should have passed. then i looked closely at another, which was shooting quite away in another direction; and i saw that the poor child had left the rudder, and was playing with something in the bottom of the boat; and as i looked nearer in it, i saw that it was with some of the bright berries of the rocky island which he had brought with him that he was so foolishly busy. foolish, indeed, he was; and kind had been the warning of the man who bade them leave all these behind: for whilst i was watching him, and wondering what would be the end of such a careless voyage, i saw his little boat strike suddenly upon a hidden rock, which broke a hole in its wooden sides, and the water rushed in, and the boat began to sink, and there was no help near, and the poor boy was soon drowned in the midst of the waves. then i turned sadly away to watch the boats which were following their leader; and here, too, i saw strange things; for though the sea when looked at from afar seemed just alike to all, yet when i watched any one, i saw that he had some difficulties, and some frights, and some helps of his own, which i did not see the others have. sometimes it would fall all at once quite dark, like a thick night, all round a boat; and if he that was in it could hear the voice of a companion near him for a little while, that gladdened him greatly; and then oftentimes all sound of voices died away, and all was dark, still, deep night, and he knew not where to steer. now if, when this fell upon him, the child went straight to his compass, and looked close upon it, in spite of the darkness, there came always a faint flashing light out of the darkness, which played just over the compass, so as to shew him its straight blue finger, if he saw no more; and then, if he took up his musical instrument, and blew into it, though the thickness of the heavy air seemed at first to drown its sound, yet, after awhile, if he was but earnest, i could hear its sweet murmuring sound begin; and then directly the child lost his fears, and did not want company; sweet echoes of his music talked with his spirit out of the darkness, and within a little time the gloom would lift itself quite up again, or melt away into the softest light: and lo! he had got on far on his voyage even in this time of darkness, so that sometimes he could see the beloved form just before him; and at times even the wooded shore of the happy land would lift itself up, and shine on his glad eyes, over the level brim of the silver sea. from another boat it would seem that the very air of the heaven died away. there it lay, like a painted sail in a picture--the snow-white canvass drooping lazily, or flapping to and fro, as the long dull swell heaved up the boat, and let it sink again into the trough of the waves: other boats, but a little way off, would sail by with a full breeze; but he could not move; his very flag shewed no sign of life. now if the little sailor began to amuse himself when this happened, it seemed to me that there he lay, and would lie, till the dark night overtook him, and parted him from all his company. but if, instead of this, he took up his musical instrument, and played upon it with all his earnestness, its soft breath, as it whispered to the wind, soon woke up its gentle sighing; the long flag lifted itself on high; the blood-red cross waved over the water; the snowy sails swelled out, and the little boat danced on along its joyful way. i noticed also that before those boats which were passing on the fastest, the sea would every now and then look very dark and threatening. great waves would seem to lift their white heads just before them; whilst every where else the sea looked calm and enticing. then the little sailor would strain his eye after his master's course, or look down at the faithful compass; and by both of these sure signs he saw that his way lay straight through these threatening waves. well was it for him, if, with a bold heart and a faithful hand, he steered right into them. for always did i see, that just as he got where it seemed to be most dangerous, the tossing waves sank, as if to yield him an easy passage; the wind favoured him more than at any part of his voyage; and he got on in the right way faster than ever before. especially was this so, if at first he was somewhat tossed, and yet held straight on; for then he shot into a glassy calm, where tide and wind bore him steadily along unto the desired haven. but sad was it for him, if, instead of then trusting to the compass, he steered for the smoother water. one or two such trembling sailors i especially observed. one of them had long been sailing with the foremost boats; he had met with less darkness, fewer mists or troubled places, than the boats around him; and when he saw the white crests of the threatening waves lift up their strength before him, his heart began to sink; and after wavering for a moment, he turned his little boat aside to seek the calmer water. through it he seemed to be gliding on most happily, when all at once his little boat struck upon a hidden sandbank, and was fixed so firmly on its side, that it could not get afloat again. i saw not his end; but i sadly feared that when next the sea wrought with a troubled motion, and the surf broke upon that bank, his little boat must soon be shivered, and he perish in the waves. the other who turned aside followed closely after him; for this was one thing which i noted through all the voyage. whenever one boat went astray, some thoughtless follower or other would forget his compass, to sail after the unhappy wanderer; and it often happened that these followers of others went the farthest wrong of any. so it was in this case; for when the first boat struck upon the sandbank, the other, thinking to escape it, bore still farther off; and so chancing to pass just where the shoal ended, and an unruly current swept by its farthest edge, the boat was upset in a moment, and the poor child in it drowned. and now i turned to three or four boats which had kept together from the time they left the harbour. few were forwarder than they; few had smoother water or more prosperous gales. i could see, when i looked close into their faces, that they were all children of one family; and that all the voyage through they were helping, cheering, and directing one another. as i watched their ways, i noticed this, too, which seemed wonderful. if one of them had got into some trouble with its tackle, and the others stayed awhile to help it, and to bring it on its way, instead of losing ground by this their kindness, they seemed all to make the greater progress, and press on the further in their course. and now i longed to see the ending of this voyage; and so looking on to those which were most forward, i resolved to trace them to the end. then i found that all, without exception, came into a belt of storms and darkness before they reached the happy land. true, it was much rougher and more dark with some than others; but to every one there was a deep night and a troubled sea. i saw, too, that when they reached this place, they were always parted one from another. even those which had kept most close together all the voyage before, until just upon the edge of this dark part, they, like the rest, were scattered here, and toiled on awhile singly and alone. they seemed to me to fare the best who entered on it with the fullest sails, and had kept hitherto the straightest course. indeed, as a common rule i found this always true--that those who had watched the compass, and held the rudder, and cheered themselves with the appointed music, and eaten the master's bread, and steered straight after him, they passed through this cloud and darkness easily and swiftly. next to these were those who sought most earnestly to cheer its gloom with the sound of their appointed music. the lord of these seas, indeed, had many ways of cheering his followers. even in the thickest of that darkness his face of beaming love would look out upon them; and he seemed nearer to them then than he had done heretofore through all their voyage. then, moreover, it was never long; and bright light lay beyond it. for they passed straight out of it into "the haven where they would be." sweet sounds broke upon their glad ears even as they left that darkness. a great crowd of happy children--parents who had gone before them--friends whom they had loved, and holy persons whose names they had long known--these all lined the banks, waiting to receive and welcome them. amidst these moved up and down shining forms of beautiful beings, such as the children's eyes had seen only in some happy dream; and they, too, were their friends; they, too, waited for them on the bank; they, too, welcomed them with singing, and bore the happy new-comer with songs of triumph into the shining presence of the merciful king. then, on the throne royal, and with the glorious crown upon his head, they saw the same kind face of gentle majesty which had looked upon them when they played on the shores of that far rocky isle. they heard again the voice which had bid them fly the burning mountain. they saw him who had taken them into his convoy; who had given them their boats; who had been near them in the storm; who had given them light in the darkness; who had helped them in the dull calm; who had never left them; but who had kept and guided them across the ocean; and who now received them to his neverending rest. * * * * * _father_. who are the children playing on the shores of the rocky island? _child_. the fallen children of fallen parents, born into this sinful world. f. what does the burning mountain, and the lightning, and the hill-storm, represent? c. the wrath of god ever burning against sinners. f. who is he who warned these thoughtless children? c. the lord jesus, who, by his ministers, warns men to "flee from the wrath to come." f. what are the boats by which they are to escape? c. the "ark of christ's church," into which we are admitted by baptism. f. many of the children who embarked in the boats were lost,--what is shewn by this? c. that it is not enough to be received into the congregation of christ's flock; but that we must always "manfully fight under his banner against the world, the flesh, and the devil, and continue christ's faithful soldiers and servants unto our lives' end." f. what is the compass, and the musical instrument, and the bread, and the water? c. god's word, and the privilege of prayer and holy sacraments, and the other gifts of god to his church. f. what is the gentle wind which the musical instrument awoke? c. the grace of god's holy spirit, promised to the members of his church, to be sought by earnest prayer, and in all the means of grace. f. what means the boy playing with the berries, and so striking on the rock? c. one who having been given up to christ in baptism follows worldly pleasures, and so "makes shipwreck of the faith." f. what are the dark places and calms into which different boats enter? c. the different temptations and dangers of the christian life. f. what are the threatening waves which seemed to be right ahead of the boat? c. the dangers and self-denials which they must meet with who will follow christ. f. what is meant by the boat which turned aside, and ran upon the shoal? c. that they who will turn aside from following christ because danger and self-denials meet them cannot reach heaven. f. what is shewn in the boat which followed this one? c. how ready we are to follow a bad example, and go beyond it. f. what was the little company of boats which kept together? c. a christian family earnestly serving god. f. why did those who helped others find that they got on the fastest? c. because god, who has bid us "bear one another's burdens, and so fulfil the law of christ," will greatly help and bless all such. f. what is the belt of storm and darkness which all must pass through? c. death. f. why were all separated in it? c. because we must die alone. f. who are those that generally passed through it most easily? c. those whose life had been most holy and obedient. "keep innocency, and take heed unto the thing that is right; for that shall bring a man peace at the last" (ps. xxxvii. 38). f. who were the next? c. those who entered on it with much prayer. f. what was their great support in it? c. the presence of jesus christ our lord. f. what declaration have we on this subject in god's word? c. "when thou passest through the waters, i will be with thee." "i am the resurrection and the life; he that believeth on me shall never die." f. what lies beyond this to the faithful christian? c. the blessed rest of paradise and the bright glories of heaven. the vision of the three states. i saw, in my vision, two glorious creatures walking together through a beautiful garden. i thought at first they must be angels, so bright and happy did they seem. the garden, also, in which they were, seemed too beautiful for earth. every flower which i had ever seen, and numbers which my eye had never looked upon, grew in abundance round them. they walked, as it were, upon a carpet of flowers. the breeze was quite full of the rich scent which arose from them. the sun shone upon them with a brightness such as i had never seen before; whilst the air sparkled with myriads of winged things, which flew here and there, as if to shew how happy they were. all through the garden, too, i saw every sort of beast, in all its natural grace and beauty; and all at peace. great lions moved about amongst tender sheep; and striped tigers lay down quietly to sleep amongst the dappled fawns which sported around them. but, amidst all these beautiful sights, my eyes followed more than all, the two glorious forms which were walking together with such a kingly majesty through the happy garden: they were, truly, i could see, beings of this earth; they were talking to each other; they were speaking of one who had made them out of the dust of the earth; who had given to them living souls: who was their father and their friend; who had planted for them this beautiful garden, and made them the rulers of all that was in it. now i marked them as they talked, and i could see that their eyes were often turned from all the beauty round them towards one far end of the garden; and as i watched them, i saw that they were still passing on towards it. then i also fixed my eyes there, and in a while i could see that, at the end of the garden to which they were moving, there was a bright light, brighter and purer than the light of the sun; and i thought that in it i could see here and there heavenly forms moving up and down, flying upon silver wings, or borne along upon the light breath of the sunny air. but as i strained my eyes to pierce into it, it seemed to dazzle and confound them by its great lustre. then, again, i heard the words of the two; and they spake of what was before them; of the bright light, and the heavenly forms: and i found that they were only travellers through this beautiful garden; that the king who had placed them in it dwelt in that light, the brightness of which had so confounded my gaze; that they were on their way to his presence, and that when they reached it, they should be happy for ever; even as those shining spirits were already, whose golden figures i had been just able to discover. now, whilst i was pondering upon these things, and casting my eyes round and round this beautiful garden, i heard all at once a most terrible sound, as of thunder, such as man's ears had never heard. i looked up, and the bright light at the end of the garden seemed to turn itself into angry fire, and to flash red and threatening through thick black clouds, which were forming themselves into terrible shapes all over the garden. then i looked for the two that i had seen before: i could just see them; sorrow sat upon their faces, and fear made them deadly pale; a serpent was gliding from them into the bushes; and their eyes were fixed upon the air, as though voices, which i heard not, were speaking terrible things to their inner ears. then, as i looked, it grew darker and darker--the thunder pealed all round me--cries came forth from every hill, as of fierce and deadly beasts in wild dreadful fight. the flowers round me were withering up, as if a burning blight had passed over them; and soon it was all dark, and dreary, and desolate. then when my heart was very heavy within me, methought there stood by me one of the forms of light whom i had seen at the garden's end; and my knees smote together through fear of his glory; but he looked upon me kindly, and spoke to me in a voice of pity, and he said, "wouldst thou see the end of this sight?" then my heart gathered courage, and i told him, that if it were lawful, i would indeed fain look upon it. with that he lifted me, and we flew through the air, and i knew not where he had borne me; but in a while he set me on my feet, and bade me look right down beneath me. then i looked down at his word, but could see nothing. my eyes seemed to rest upon the thick mantle of the night, and they could not pierce through it. now, while i was striving to pierce through the darkness, strange noises rose from it to my ears. all sounds that ever were, came up from it, so mingled together that i could not say what they were. whether it were a groan, or a cry, or a roaring, or music, or shouting, or the voice of anger or of sorrow; for all of these seemed joined together into one; but the groaning was louder than the laughing, and the voice of crying well nigh drowned the music. then i asked my guide what was this strange noise; and he told me that it was the voice of all the world, as it rose up to the ears of those that were on high. then i begged of him, if it might be, to let me see those from whom it came. with that he touched my eyes; and now methought, though the darkness remained, that i could see in the midst of its thickness, even as in the brightness of the day. it was a strange place into which i looked. instead of the beautiful garden i had seen before, and two glorious creatures passing through it; now i saw a multitude of men, women, and children, passing on through a waste and desolate wilderness. here and there, indeed, there were still flowery spots, but they were soon trodden down by the feet of those who passed along. strange too were their steps. now, instead of passing straight on, they moved round and round, for they were all in the black darkness. the ground was full of pitfalls, in the low bottoms of which i could see red fire burning fierce and hot, and one after another fell over into these pitfalls, and i saw them no more. evil beasts, too, moved amongst them, slaying one, and tearing another; and as if this was not enough, oftentimes they would quarrel and fight with one another, until the ground all around was covered with their bodies strewed upon it. yet for all this, some would sing, and dance, and frolic; and this seemed to me the saddest of all, for they were like mad men; and mad in truth they were, for in the midst of their dancing and their singing, one and another would get near the side of some great pitfall, and step over into its flames, even with the song upon their lips. in vain did i strain my eyes to see any light at the end, as i had seen it in the garden. if it was there, the black clouds had rolled over it so thick and dark that not a ray of it was left. yet i heard one and another offering to lead those that would follow them, safely through this terrible wilderness; and such men never wanted followers: so i watched many of these leaders, to see what they would do for those that trusted them. little help could any of them render. some put their followers on a path which led straight down into the deepest and most frightful pitfalls; some set them on a path which wandered round and round, and brought them at the end back to the same place from which they started; some led them into thorny places, where the poor pilgrims pierced their bleeding feet with many a wound: but not one did i see who brought them into any better place, or took them any nearer to their journey's end. how they found their way at all, was at first my wonder. but as i looked more closely, i saw in all their hands little lanterns, which just threw a feeble light upon the darkness round them. these were always brightest in the young, for they soon grew very dim; and the falls and blows they met with, bruised and shattered them so much, that some had hardly any glimmering left, even of the feeble light which they had seemed to cast of old. i looked at them until my heart was very sad, for there was no peace, no safety, no hope; but all went heavily and sadly, groaning and weeping, or laughing like madmen, until, sooner or later, they seemed all to perish in the fearful pitfalls! then my angel-guide spoke to me again, marking my sadness, and he said, "hast thou well observed this sight?" and i answered, "yes." then he said, "and wouldst thou see more?" so when i had said "yes," methought we were once more flying through the air, until again he set me on my feet, and bid me look down. now here, too, strange noises reached my ears; but as i listened to them, i found that there were mixed with them such sounds as i had not heard before. sweet clear voices came up now from the din, speaking, as it were from one close by me, words of faith, and of hope, and of love; and they sounded to me like the happy talking which i had heard at the first between the glorious beings in the garden. so when my guide touched my eyes, i bent them eagerly down into the darkness below me. at first i thought that it was the same place i had seen last, for there was a busy multitude passing to and fro; and there was music and dancing, and sobbing and crying; there were pitfalls, too, and wild beasts. but as i looked closer, i saw that, in spite of all this, it was not the place that i had seen before. even at a glance i could see that there were many more flowers here than there; and that many amongst the pilgrims were going straight on, with happy faces, by a road which passed safely by all the pitfalls. i could see, too, that at the end of the road was a dim shining of that happy light which had been so bright in the beautiful garden. now, as i looked, i saw that there were but a few who kept to this straight safe road, and that many were scattered all over the plain. i saw many leave this path even as i looked upon it; and very few did i see come back to it: those who did, seemed to me to find it very hard to get into it again; whether it was that its sides were slippery, or its banks so steep, many fainted and gave up, after trying to climb into it again. but it seemed quite easy to leave it; for every one who left it went on at first lightly and pleasantly. sometimes, indeed, they seemed greatly startled after taking their first step out of it, and some of them turned straight back, and after a few struggles, more or less, such always got into it again. but if once after this first check they set out for the plain, they seemed to go easily along, until their path lay straight by the den of some destroying beast, or led them into the midst of the pitfalls, where they wholly lost their reckoning, and knew not how to get on, or how to get back. i saw, too, after a while, that they had got lanterns in their hands, some of which gave a great deal of light. those which were carried along the narrow path shot out bright rays on all sides, until towards the end they quite blazed with light. i could see, too, that these travellers had some way of trimming and dressing their lamps; and that much of their light seemed to come from an open book which they carried in their hands, from the leaves of which there flashed out continually streams of light, which made their lamps burn so brightly that all their road shone with it. but as they got further and further from the path, their lamps began to burn dim. all these travellers, too, had the book of light closed; or if they now and then opened it, they shut it up again, some carelessly, and some as if its light frightened them; and not one could i see who stopped to trim his light: so that just when they got amongst the pitfalls, and wanted light the most, they were all the most nearly in darkness. now, when i had looked at them for a space, and wondered, my guide said to me, "wouldst thou see how they enter on this plain?" then he took me to a fair porch, which came from the wilderness i had looked upon before; and there i saw a man standing in white robes, and speaking good words, and giving good gifts to each one as he came in. there were persons coming in of all nations and people, and some, too, of all ages, though the greatest number were little children, so small that their little hands would not hold the man's gifts, and so he hung them round their necks, for them to use as soon as they were able. then i joined myself to the group, to hear and see the better what was passing. the man in white was speaking with a grave kind voice as i came up. he told the pilgrims that the great lord of the land had built that porch, and set him there to help the poor travellers, who were before without hope or help amongst the beasts, and snares, and pitfalls of the terrible wilderness; he told them that the blood of the king's own son had been shed, that that porch might be built; that the king had prepared them a narrow way to walk in, which led straight from that porch to his own blessed presence, and that they might all pass along it safely if they would; he told them that if they left that path, they would surely get again amongst the pitfalls which they had left in the wilderness; nay, that they would be worse off than they had been even there, for that there was no other porch where they could again be set right, and no other place where the gifts that he was giving them now, could ever be got any more, if they were once thrown quite away. then i looked to see what these gifts were. i saw the man bring forth clear and sparkling water, which shone as if with living light; and with this he washed from them the dirt and the bruises of the terrible wilderness: with this, too, he touched their little lamps, and as it touched them, they grew so bright and clear, that the light within poured freely forth on all around them. then he looked in their faces, and gave them a name, which he wrote down in the king's book; and he told them, that by this name they should be known, not only by their fellow-travellers, but that this would remain written in the king's book here, unless they wholly left his path; and that every name which remained written here, they would find written in another book in letters of gold and of fire, when they reached the other end of the path; and that for every pilgrim, whose name was written there, the golden gate would open of itself, and he would find a place and a crown in the presence of the king. then, as he spoke all these glorious words, my heart burned within me to see how the travellers sped. but he had not yet done with them; for he brought out of his stores a golden vial for each one; and he told them that in it the king had stored the oil of light and beauty for the dressing of their lamps. then he shewed them how to use it: not carelessly or lightly, for then the oil would not flow; but earnestly, and with great care; and then sweet odours issued from the vial, and the flame of the lamp burned brightly and high. he gave them, too, the precious light-book, which i had seen; and he bade them read in it when it was dark, or the way was slippery; and that they should ever find that it was a "lantern unto their feet, and a light unto their paths." he put, too, into the hand of each a trusty staff, suited to their age; and then he told them, while they leant upon it, it would bear them up at many a pinch, and ever grow with their growth, and strengthen with their strength. "church-truth" he called these staffs; and they were made after a marvellous fashion, for they were as if many wands had been woven together to make one; and as i looked, i could see "example," and "experience," and "discipline," and "creeds," written upon some of these wands, which grew together into "church-truth." then i longed greatly to follow forth some of these whom i had seen under the porch; and as i gazed, i saw the man look earnestly into the face of a fair boy, who stood before him: he gave him the name of "gottlieb," {45a} and entered it in the book, and put the staff in his hand, and washed him with living water, and hung the vial at his side, and put the banded staff into his hands; and, bidding him god-speed, set him out upon his journey. then he looked steadily into the face of another, and it, too, was fair to look upon; but it had not the quiet happy peace of the last. the man wrote it down as "irrgeist;" {45b} and i thought a shade of sadness swept over his brow as he gave to him the king's goodly gifts. then he sent forth a third, whose timid eye seemed hardly firm enough for so long a journey; and i heard the name that was given him, and it was "furchtsam." {45c} close to him went another, with a firm step, and an eye of steady gentleness; and i saw, by the king's book, that he bore the name of "gehulfe." {46} so these four set out upon their journey; and i followed them to see how they should fare. now, i saw that at first, when they started, they were so small that they could not read in the goodly book, neither could they use the golden vials; and their little banded sticks would have fallen from their hands, if they had not been small and thin, like the first green shoots of the spring. their lamps, too, cast no light outwardly, yet still they made some way upon the path; and whilst i wondered how this might be, i saw that a loving hand was stretched out of the darkness round them, which held them up and guided them on their way. but, anon, in a while they were grown larger; and i could see gottlieb walking on the first, and his book of light was open in his hand, and his lamp burned bright, for he often refreshed it with oil, and he leant upon his good staff, and strode along the road. then, as he walked on, i saw that there stood upon his path a shadowy figure, as of one in flowing robes, and on her head she seemed to wear a chaplet of many flowers; in her hands was a cup of what seemed to be crystal water, and a basket of what looked like cool and refreshing fruit. a beautiful light played all round her, and half shewed her and her gifts to the boy. she bid him welcome, as he came up to her; so he raised his eyes from his book, and looked to see who spoke to him. then she spoke kindly to him; and she held forth the cup towards him, and asked him if he would not drink. now, the boy was hot with walking, for the air was close, so he stretched out his hand to take the cup; but though it seemed so near to him, he could not reach it. and at the same moment she spake to him again, and asked him to come where these fruits grew, and where the breeze whispered amongst the boughs of yonder trees,--and there to drink and rest, and then go on his way again. then i saw that she had power to call out of the darkness the likeness of all she spoke of. so he looked at the trees to which she pointed; and the sun seemed to shine around them, and the shade looked cool and tempting under them, and the pleasant breeze rustled amongst their fresh leaves; and he thought the road upon which he was travelling was hotter and darker, and more tiring than ever; and he put up his hand to his burning brow, and she said to him, as he lingered, "come." now, the trees to which she pointed him lay off his road, or he would gladly have rested under them; and whilst he doubted what to do, he looked down to the book that was open in his hand; and the light shot out upon it bright and clear, and the words which he read were these, "none that go unto her return again, neither take they hold of the paths of life." {49a} and as he read it, he looked again at the stranger; and now he could see more clearly through the wild light which played around her, and he knew that it was the evil enemy who stood before him; the sparkling cup, too, and the fruit, turned into bitter ashes; and the pleasant shady grass became a thorny and a troublesome brake: so, pushing by her with the help of his staff, he began to mend his pace; and looking down into the book of light, there shone out, as in letters of fire, "wherewithal shall a young man cleanse his way? by taking heed thereto according to thy word." {49b} then i saw that he was feeding his lamp, which had begun to grow dim as he parleyed with the tempter, and that he ceased not till it streamed out as bright and as clear as ever. but still the air was hot and sultry, and no cool breath blew upon him; and if he looked off for a moment from his book, the fair form of the tempter stood again beside him in silver light; the cold water sparkled close to his lips; and trees with shady boughs waving backward and forward over fresh green grass, and full, in every spray, of singing-birds, seemed to spring up around him. for a little moment his step faltered; but as his lamp streamed out its light, all the vain shadows passed away: and i heard him say, as he struck his staff upon the ground, "i have made a covenant with my eyes;" and even as she heard it, the tempter passed away, and left him to himself. scarcely was she gone, before he passed by the door of a beautiful arbour. it was strewn with the softest moss; roses and honeysuckle hung down over its porch; light, as from a living diamond, gleamed from its roof; and in the midst of its floor, a clear, cool, sparkling stream of the purest water bubbled ever up from the deep fountain below it. now, as this lay on the road, gottlieb halted for a moment to look at it; and the light of his lamp waxed not dim, though he thus stayed to see it; the book of fire, too, spoke to him of rest, and of halting by "palm-trees and wells of water;" and as he looked, he read in letters of light over the door-way- faithful pilgrim, banish fear, thou mayst enter safely here: rest for thee thy lord did win; faithful pilgrim, enter in. then gottlieb rejoiced greatly, and cast himself gladly upon the mossy floor, and bent down his parched lips to drink of the cool spring which bubbled up before him. now, whilst he was resting safely here, i turned to see how it fared with the others who had set out with him from the porch, for they had not got as far as gottlieb. the first of them was irrgeist; and when i looked upon him, he was drawing near to the place where gottlieb had fallen in with the tempter. irrgeist was walking quickly on--so quickly that, at the first glance, i thought he would soon be by the side of gottlieb. but, upon looking more closely, i saw that gottlieb's steps had been far more steady and even than those with which irrgeist was pressing on; for irrgeist's lamp burned but dimly, and gave him no sure light to walk in. very near to the place where gottlieb had met with her, the tempter stood beside irrgeist. he was not looking at his book, as the other had been; and he did not wait to be spoken to; for as soon as he saw the light which played round her figure, he began to speak to her, and asked who she was. she told him that her name was "pleasure;" and forthwith she shewed to him her crystal cup and fruits; and she brought before the charmed eyes of the wanderer all the gay show with which she had tried before to mislead the faithful gottlieb. there was the bright sunshine, and the green path, and the waving trees, and the rustling of the wind, and the song of birds, and the sweet resting-shade. irrgeist looked eagerly at all she shewed him, and in his haste to reach out his hand for the cup, he dropped altogether the trusty staff of "church-truth." then the cup seemed to draw away from him, just as it had done from gottlieb; but he followed thoughtlessly after it. and soon i saw that he left the path upon which he had been set; and though he started suddenly as soon as he was off it, yet it was but a moment's start,--the cup was close before him, the shadowy form led him on, the grass was green, and the trees and the sunlight but a little farther. and now i saw him drink some of the enchanted water; and as he drank it, his look grew wild, and his cheek burnt like the cheek of one in a fever; and he walked after the deceitful figure with a quicker step than ever: but i saw that his lamp was almost out, that the book of living light had fallen from his hands, and the golden vial hung down, ready, as it seemed, to fall from him altogether. still he walked on; and a strange flitting light, from the form which was before him, lightened the darkness of the valley, so that he could pass on quickly; the meadow, also, was smooth and even, and there was a rustling breeze, which played around him: so that he got on faster than he had ever done upon the narrow path, and thought that he was getting well on to his journey's end. many times did he put forth his hand for the sparkling cup, and drank of it again and again. but now i saw, as i thought, a strange change which was coming over him; for he drank oftener of the bowl, but appeared each time to find it less refreshing. sometimes it seemed almost bitter, and yet he could not but take it the very moment he had thrust it from him. the shadowy form, also, before him seemed altogether altering; he looked again, and her beautiful features and pleasant countenance had changed into a sharp, stern, and reproachful frown. his own voice, which had been heretofore almost like one singing, grew sad and angry. the very figure of his guide seemed vanishing from his eyes; the light which floated round her grew wilder and more uncertain, and his own lamp was almost out. he felt puzzled and bewildered, and hardly knew which way to go: he had got into a broad beaten path, and he found that many besides himself were going here and there along it. sometimes they sang; and, in very bitterness of heart, he tried to sing too, that he might not think: but every now and then, when a flashing light came, and he saw the look of the travellers amongst whom he was, it made his very heart shiver--they looked so sad and so wretched. now, none went straight on: some turned into this path, some into that; and then he soon lost sight of them altogether. sometimes he heard fearful cries, as if wild beasts had seized them; sometimes a dreadful burst of flame from the horrid pits which i had seen, made him fear that they had fallen over into them: for poor irrgeist had got now into the midst of the deep pits and the ravenous beasts. and soon he found how terrible was his danger. he had been following one who had made him believe that he had light to guide his steps; he had gone with him out of the beaten path; and they were pressing on together, when irrgeist suddenly lost sight of him in the darkness; and whether it was that he had fallen into a pit, or become the prey of some evil beast, irrgeist knew not; only, he found that he was more alone than ever, and near to some great peril. poor irrgeist sprang aside with all his force, thinking only of the danger which he feared; but, feeling his feet slipping under him, he turned, and saw that he had got upon the treacherous brink of a fearful pit; down which, at the very moment, another pilgrim fell. the fierce red flames rose out of it with a roar like thunder, and a blaze like the mouth of a furnace; and the wind blew the flames into the face of irrgeist, so that he was singed and almost blinded. then the poor boy called in the bitterness of his heart upon pleasure, who had led him out of the way, and now had forsaken him; but she came no more--only terrible thoughts troubled him; and he heard the hissing of serpents as they slid along in the bushes near him, and all evil noises sounded in his ears, till he scarcely knew where he was standing. then he thought of his staff, which he had dropped when pleasure had first tempted him, and he grieved that it was gone; and he felt in the folds of his mantle, hoping that he might still have the book of light within it; for he had too often thrust it there at the beginning of his journey; but he could not find it. then he strove to get some light from his little lamp; for, hurt as it was, he had it still in his hand, and he thought there was just a little blue light playing most faintly within it; but this was not enough to direct him on his way, rather did it make his way more dark. then at last he bethought him of the golden vial. few were there of those near him but had lost theirs altogether, and his hung only by a single thread. but it was not gone; and when he had striven long, he just drew from it a single drop of oil, and he trimmed his lamp, and it yielded forth a little trembling light, just enough to shew that it was not altogether dead. with the help of this light he saw that when he had dropped his book of fire, one single leaf had been torn from it, and stuck to his mantle; so he seized it eagerly, and strove to draw light from it; but all that it would yield was red and angry-looking light, and all that he could read was, "the way of transgressors is hard." poor irrgeist! he sat down almost in despair, and wept as if his heart would break. "o, that i had never trusted pleasure;" "o, that i had never left the path;" "o, that i had my book of light, and my lamp's former brightness, and my goodly stick;" "o, that one would lighten my darkness." then did it seem to me as if in the murmur of the air around him two voices were speaking to the boy. one was like the gentle voice of the man whom i had seen at the porch of the valley; and it seemed to whisper, "return," "return;" "mercy," and "forgiveness." and as he listened, something like hope mixed with the bitter tears which ran down the face of the wanderer. but then would sound the other voice, harsh, and loud, and threatening; and it said, "too late," "too late," "despair," "despair." so the poor boy was sadly torn and scattered in his thoughts by these two different voices; but methought, as he guarded his golden vial, and strove to trim his dying lamp, that the gentle voice became more constant, and the voice of terror more dull and distant. then, as i was watching him, all at once the boy sprang up, and he seemed to see a light before him, so straight on did he walk: many crossed his path and jostled against him, but he cared not; he heard the sweet voice plainer and plainer, like the soft murmuring of the cushat dove in the early summer, and he would follow where it led. hitherto his pathway had been smooth, and he had hastened along it; but this did not last, for now it narrowed almost to a line, and ran straight between two horrible pitfalls; so he paused for a moment; but the roaring of a lion was behind him, and forward he pressed. it was a sore passage for irrgeist, for the whole ground was strewed with thorns, which pierced his feet at every step, and the sparks from the fire-pits flew ever round him, and now and then fell in showers over him. neither did he hear now the pleasant sound of the voice of kindness; whether it were that it had died away, he knew not, or whether it were that the crackling and roaring of the fierce flames, and the voice of the beasts behind, and his own groans and crying, drowned its soft music, so that he heard it not. i had looked at him until i could bear it no more; for the path seemed to grow narrower and narrower; the flames from the two pits already almost touched; and i could not endure to see, as i feared i should, the little one, whom i had watched, become the prey of their devouring fierceness. so, with a bitter groan for irrgeist, i turned me back to the road to see how it fared with furchtsam and gehulfe. they had fallen far behind the others from the first. poor little furchtsam had a trembling tottering gait; and as he walked, he looked on this side and on that, as if every step was dangerous. this led him often to look off his book of light, and then it would shut up its leaves, and then his little lamp grew dimmer and dimmer, and his feet stumbled, and he trembled so, that he almost dropped his staff out of his hands. yet still he kept the right path, only he got along it very slowly and with pain. whether it was that gehulfe was too tender spirited to leave him, or why else, i know not, but he kept close by the little trembler, and seemed ever waiting to help him. many a time did he catch him by the hand when he was ready to fall, and speak to him a word of comfort, when without it he would have sunk down through fear. so they got on together, and now they came to the part of the pathway which the evil enchantress haunted. she used all her skill upon them, and brought up before their eyes all the visions she could raise; sunshine, and singing-birds, and waving boughs, and green grass, and sparkling water, they all passed before their eyes,--but they heeded them not: once, indeed, poor furchtsam for a moment looked with a longing eye at the painted sunshine, as if its warm light would have driven off some of his fears; but it was but for a moment. and as for gehulfe, whether it was that he was reading his book of light too closely, or trimming too carefully his lamp, or helping too constantly his trembling friend, for some cause or other he scarcely seemed to see the visions which the sorceress had spread around him. so when she had tried all her skill for a season, and found it in vain, she vanished altogether from them, and they saw her no more. but their dangers were not over yet. when gottlieb passed along this road, he had gone on so boldly, that i had not noticed how fearful it was in parts to any giddy head or fainting heart. but now i saw well how it terrified furchtsam. for here it seemed to rise straight up to a dangerous height, and to become so narrow at the same time, and to be so bare of any sidewall or parapet, that it was indeed a giddy thing to pass along it. yet when one walked over it, as gottlieb did, leaning on his staff of churchtruth, reading diligently in his book, and trimming ever and anon his lamp, such a light fell upon the narrow path, and the darkness so veiled the precipice, that the pilgrim did not know that there was any thing to fear. but not so when you stopped to look--then it became terrible indeed; you soon lost all sight of the path before you; for the brightest lamp only lighted the road just by your feet, and that seemed rising almost to an edge, whilst the flash of distant lights here and there shewed that a fearful precipice was on each side. furchtsam trembled exceedingly when he looked at it; and even gehulfe, when, instead of marching on, he stopped to talk about it, began to be troubled with fears. now, as they looked here and there, furchtsam saw an easy safe-looking path, which promised to lead them in the same direction, but along the bottom of the cliffs. right glad was he to see it; and so taking the lead for once, he let fall his staff, that by catching hold of the bushes on the bank, he might drop down more easily upon the lower path; and there he got with very little trouble. it was all done in a moment; and when he was out of the path, gehulfe turned round and saw where he was gone. then he tried to follow after him; but he could not draw his staff with him through the gap, or climb down the bank without letting it go. and, happily for him, he held it so firmly, that after one or two trials he stopped. then, indeed, was he glad, as soon as he had time to think; and he held his good stick firmer in his hand than ever, for now he saw plainly that furchtsam was quite out of the road, and that he had himself well-nigh followed him. so leaning over the side, he began to call to his poor timid companion, and encourage him to mount up again, by the bank which he had slipped down, and venture along the right way with him. at first furchtsam shook his head mournfully, and would not hear of it. but when gehulfe reminded him that they had a true promise from the king, that nothing should harm them whilst they kept to the high way of holiness, and that the way upon which he had now entered was full of pitfalls, and wild beasts, and every sort of danger, and that in it he must be alone,--then his reason began to come back to him, and furchtsam saw into what an evil state he had brought himself; and with all his heart he wished himself back again by the side of gehulfe. but it was no such easy matter to get back. his lamp was so bruised and shaken as he slid down, that it threw scarcely any light at all; while it had never seemed, he thought, so dark as it did now: he could not see the bushes to which he had clung just before, or the half path which had brought him down. gehulfe's voice from above was some guide to him, and shewed him in which direction to turn; but when he tried to mount the bank, it was so steep and so slippery, he could scarcely cling to it; and he had no staff to lean upon, and no friendly hand to help him. surely if it had not been for the kind encouraging voice of gehulfe, the weak and trembling heart of furchtsam would have failed utterly, and he would have given up altogether. now, just at this time, whilst he was reaching out to furchtsam, and urging him to strive more earnestly, he heard a noise as of one running upon the path behind him; and he looked round and saw one of the king's own messengers coming fast upon it: so when he came up to gehulfe, he stopped and asked him what made him tarry thus upon the king's path. then gehulfe answered very humbly, that he was striving to help back poor furchtsam into the right way, from which he had been driven by his fears. then the messenger of the king looked upon him kindly, and bid him "fear not." "rightly," he said, "art thou named gehulfe, for thou hast been ready to help the weak; and the lord, who has bidden his children 'to bear one another's burdens,' has watched thee all alone thy way, and looked upon thee with an eye of love; and forasmuch as thou seemest to have been hindered in thy own course by helping thy brother, the king has sent me to carry thee on up this steep place, and over this dangerous road." with that, i saw that he lifted up the boy, and was about to fly with him through the air. then, seeing that he cast a longing look towards the steep bank, down which furchtsam had slipped, and that the sound of his sad voice was still ringing in his ear; the king's messenger said to him, "'cast thy burden upon the lord.' 'the lord careth for thee.' 'for the very hairs of your head are numbered,' and 'the lord is full of compassion, pitiful, and of great mercy.'" so the heart of gehulfe was soothed, and with a happy mind he gave himself to the messenger, and he bore him speedily along the dangerous path, as if his feet never touched the ground, but refreshing airs breathed upon his forehead as he swept along, and silver voices chanted holy words to his glad heart. "he shall gather the lambs in his arms," said one; and another and a sweeter took up the strain and sang, "and he shall carry them in his bosom." and so he passed along the way swiftly and most happily. then i saw that he bore him to the mouth of the arbour into which gottlieb had turned to rest. and now as he came up to it, gottlieb was just coming forth again to renew his journey. right glad was gottlieb of the company of such a comrade; so they joined their hands together, and walked along the road speaking to one another of the kindness of the king, and telling one to the other all that had befallen them hitherto. a pleasant thing it was to see them marching along that road, their good staffs in their hands, their lamps burning brightly, and their books sending forth streams of light, to shew them the way that they should go. but now i saw they got into a part of the road which was rough and full of stones; and unless they kept the lights they bore with them ever turned towards the road, and looked, too, most carefully to their footing, they were in constant danger of falling. the air, also, seemed to have some power here of sending them to sleep, for i saw that gottlieb's steps were not as steady and active as they had been; and he looked often from this side to that, to see if there were any other resting-place provided for him; but none could he see: and then methought, as he walked on, his eyes would close as he bent them down over his book, like one falling asleep from exceeding weariness. gehulfe saw the danger of his friend; and though he felt the air heavy, his fear for gottlieb kept him wide awake. "what are those words," he asked his drowsy friend, "which burn so brightly in your book?" when he heard the voice, gottlieb roused himself, and read; and it was written, "watch and pray, lest ye enter into temptation; the spirit truly is willing, but the flesh is weak." then, for a little while, gottlieb was warned, and he walked like one awake; but, after a time, such power had this sleepy air, he was again almost as drowsy as ever, and his eyes were nearly closed. then, before gehulfe could give him a second warning, he placed his foot in a hole, which he would have easily passed by, if he had been watching; and, falling suddenly down, he would have rolled quite out of the road (for it was raised here with a steep bank on either side), if gehulfe had not been nigh to catch him again by the hand, and keep him in the path. he was sorely bruised and shaken by the fall, and his lamp, too, was dusted and hurt; so that he could not, at first, press on the way as he wished to do. but now his drowsiness was gone; and, with many bitter tears, he lamented that he had given way to it before. one strange thing i noted, too: he had dropped his staff in his fall, and he could not rise till he had taken it again in his hand; but now, when he tried to take it, it pricked and hurt his hand, as if it had been rough and sharp with thorns. then i looked at it, and saw that one of the stems which were twined together, and which bore the name of "discipline," was very rough and thorny; and this, which had turned inwardly before, was now, by his fall, forced to the outside of the staff, so that he must hold that or none. now i heard the boy groan as he laid hold of it; but lay hold of it he did, and that boldly, for he could not rise or travel without it, and to rise and travel he was determined. then he looked into his book of light, and he read out of it these words, "make the bones which thou hast broken to rejoice." and as he read them, he gathered courage, and made a great effort, and stood upon his feet, and pressed on beside gehulfe. then i saw that the road changed again, and became smoother than they had ever known it. gottlieb's staff, too, was now smooth and easy in his hand, as it had been at first. soon also a pleasant air sprung up, and blew softly and yet cool upon their foreheads. and now they heard the song of birds, as if the sunshine was very near them, though they saw it not yet. there were, too, every now and then, sounds sweeter than the songs of birds, as if blessed angels were near them, and they were let to hear their heavenly voices. a little further, and the day began to dawn upon them--bright light shone out some way before them, and its glad reflection was already cast upon their path. but still there was one more trial before them; for when they had enjoyed this light for a season, and i thought they must be close upon the sunshine, i saw that they had got into greater darkness than ever. here, also, they lost sight of one another; for it was a part of the king's appointment, that each one must pass that dark part alone--it was called "the shadow of death." gehulfe, i saw, walked through it easily; his feet were nimble and active, his lamp was bright, his golden vial ever in his hand, his staff firm to lean upon, and the book of light close before his eyes: he was still reading it aloud, and i heard him speak of his king as giving "songs in the night,"--and so, with a glad heart, he passed through the darkness. the brightest sunshine lay close upon the other side of it; and there he was waited for by messengers in robes of light, and they clad him in the same, and carried him with songs and music into the presence of the king. but gottlieb did not pass through so easily. it seemed as if that darkness had power to bring out any weakness with which past accidents had at the time affected the pilgrim: for so it was, that when gottlieb was in it, he felt all the stunning of his fall come back again upon him, and, for a moment, he seemed well-nigh lost. but his heart was sound, and there was one who was faithful holding him up: so he grasped his good staff tighter than ever, though its roughness had come out again and sorely pricked his hand; but this seemed only to quicken his steps; and when he had gone on a little while thus firmly, as he looked into his book he saw written on its open page, "i will make darkness light before thee." {76} and as he read them, the words seemed to be fulfilled, for he stepped joyfully out of the darkness into the clear sunlight. and for him too the messengers were waiting; for him too were garments ready woven of the light; around him were songs, and music, and rejoicing; and so they bare him into the presence of the king. now, when i had seen these two pass so happily through their journey into rest, i thought again of the poor trembling furchtsam, and longed to know that he had got again into the road. but upon looking back to where i had lost sight of him, i saw that he was still lying at the foot of the steep bank, down whose side he had stepped so easily. he had toiled and laboured, and striven to climb up, but it had been all in vain. still he would not cease his labour; and now he was but waiting to recover his breath to begin to strive again. he was, too, continually calling on the king for aid. then i saw a figure approaching him in the midst of his cries. and poor furchtsam trembled exceedingly, for he was of a very timorous heart, and he scarcely dared to look up to him who stood by him. after a while i heard the man speak to him, and he asked him in a grave, pitying voice, "what doest thou here?" then the poor boy sobbed out in broken words the confession of his folly, and told how he had feared and left the road, and how he had laboured to get back into it, and how he almost thought that he should never reach it. then i saw the man look down upon him with a face of tenderness and love; and he stretched forth his hand towards him; and furchtsam saw that it was the hand which had been pierced for him: so he raised the boy up, and set him on his feet; and he led him straight up the steepest bank. and now it seemed easy to his steps; and he put him back again in the road, and gave the staff into his hand, and bid him "redeem the time, because the days are evil;" and then he added, "strengthen ye the weak hands, and confirm the feeble knees." "say to them that are of a fearful heart, 'be strong:' 'fear not.'" {79a} such strength had his touch, his words, and his kind look, given to the heart of the timid boy, that he seized the staff, though its most prickly "discipline" sorely hurt his tender flesh; and leaning on it, he set bravely out without a moment's delay. and i heard him reading in his book of light as he climbed up the steep path which had affrighted him; and what he read was this: "before i was afflicted, i went astray; but now have i kept thy word." {79b} when he had almost reached the arbour, another danger awaited him; for in the dim light round him he saw, as he thought, the form of an evil beast lying in the pathway before him. then did some of his old terrors begin to trouble him; and he had turned aside, perhaps, out of the way, but that the wholesome roughness of his staff still pricked his hand and forced him to recall his former fall. instead, therefore, of turning aside, he looked into his book of light, and there he read in fiery letters, "thou shalt go upon the lion and the adder; the young lion and the dragon shalt thou tread under thy feet:" and this gave him comfort. so, on he went, determining still to read in his book, and not to look at all at that which affrighted him: and so it was, that when he came to the place, he saw that it was only a bush, which his fears had turned into the figure of a beast of prey; and at the same moment he found where it was written in his book, "no lion shall be there, nor any ravenous beast shall go up thereon, it shall not be found there; but the redeemed shall walk there." {80} and now he stood beside the arbour, where he rested a while, and then pursued his journey. now i noticed, that as he got further on the road, and read more in his book, and leant upon his staff, that he grew bolder and firmer in his gait: and i thought that i could see why gehulfe, who had been needful to him in his first weakness, had afterwards been carried away from him: for surely he had leant more upon him, and less upon his book and his good staff, unless he had walked there alone. however this might be, he grew continually bolder. as he drew near the last sad darkness, i began again to tremble for him; but i need not have done so; for he walked on so straight through it, that it seemed scarcely to make any difference to him at all. in the best part of the road his feebleness had taught him to lean altogether upon him who had so mercifully helped him on the bank, and who had held up his fainting steps hitherto; and this strength could hold him up as well even in this extreme darkness. i heard him, as he parsed along, say, "when i am weak, then am i strong;" and with that he broke out into singing: "through death's dark valley without fear my feeble steps have trod, because i know my god is near; i feel his staff and rod." with that he too passed out of the shade and darkness into the joyful sunshine. and oh, it was indeed a happy time! it made my heart bound when i saw his face, which had so often turned pale and drooped with terror, now lighted up with the glow of the heavenly light; when, instead of the evil things which his fears had summoned up, i saw around him the bands of holy ones, and the children of the day: and so they passed along. and soon, i thought, he would see again the hand which had been stretched out to save him on the bank, and hear the kind and merciful voice which had soothed his terror and despair, and live in the present sunshine of that gracious countenance. and now methought i heard an earnest and sorrowful voice, as of one crying aloud for help; so i turned me round to see where he was that uttered it, and by the side of the king's path i could see one striving to mount the bank, and slipping back again as often as he tried. he was trying in right earnest: his cries were piteous to hear, and he laboured as if he would carry his point by storm. but it was all in vain; the more he struggled, the worse his case grew; for the bank, and all the path up to it, got so quagged and miry with his eager striving, that he seemed farther and farther from getting safely up. at last, as he was once more struggling violently up, his feet quite slipped from under him, and he fell upon his side: and so he lay sobbing and struggling for breath, but still crying out to the king, who had helped him before, and delivered him from the flames of the pit, to help him once more, and lift him again into the right way. my heart pitied the poor boy, and i looked more closely into his face, and saw that it was irrgeist--not irrgeist as he had been when he had walked at first with gottlieb along the road, or as he had been when he had first followed the deceitful phantom "pleasure" out of it,--but irrgeist still, though brought by his wanderings and his trouble to paleness, and weariness, and sorrow. now, whilst i was looking at him, as he lay in this misery, and longing for some helper to come to him, lo, his cries stopped for a moment, and i saw that it was because one stood by him and spoke to him. then i could see under the mantle, which almost hid him, that it was the same form which had visited furchtsam, and delivered him when he had cried. now, too, i saw the hand held out, and i saw irrgeist seize it; and it raised him up, and he stood upon his feet: and the staff was given to him,--exceeding rough, but needful and trusty; and his lamp shone out, and the book of light was his; and his feet were again in the road. but i marked well that irrgeist trod it not as the others had done. truly did he go along it weeping. whether it was that the thought of what he had gone through amongst the pitfalls dwelt ever on his mind; or whether it were shame of having wandered, i know not,--but his road seemed evermore one of toil and sorrow. still, in the midst of tears, a song was often put into his mouth, and his tongue was ever speaking of the great kindness of him who had restored the wanderer: his head, too, was so bowed down, that he marked every stone upon the road, and therefore never stumbled; but still his speed was little, and his troubles were many. when he got to the dark part, he had a sore trial: his feet seemed too weak and trembling to bear him; and more than once i heard him cry out, as if he thought that he were again between the pitfalls, and the fire were ready to break out upon him. but then did it seem as if there were some sweet hopes given him, and his face brightened up; and in a faint, feeble voice, he would break out again into his song and thanksgiving. as he drew towards the end, things somewhat mended with him; and when he was just upon the sunlight, and began to see its brightness through the haze, and to hear the voices of the heavenly ones, methought his heart would have burst, so did it beat with joy: and withal he smote upon his breast, and said,--"and this for me! and this for the wanderer! o mercy, choicest mercy! who is a god like unto thee, that pardonest iniquity?" and so saying, he entered on the heavenly light, and left for ever behind him the darkness and the danger of the pitfalls, and the face of shame, and the besetting weakness; for he too was clothed in raiment of light, and borne with joy before the lord the king. * * * * * _father_. who were those who were walking in the beautiful garden as its lords? _child_. man in paradise before the fall. f. what was the dreadful change that came upon them? c. their fall into sin and misery. f. what was the second estate seen in the vision? c. their fallen children in this sinful world, without the knowledge of god; wandering in the darkness of heathenism amongst the pitfalls of error. f. what was the porch which let them into a better way? c. the entrance into the church of the redeemed by baptism. f. what does our catechism say about this? c. that it is our being "called to a state of salvation." f. what are the gifts bestowed upon them? c. god's word is the book of light; conscience enlightened by god is the little lamp of each; the oil in the golden vial is the help and teaching of god's grace; and the staff is the help and assistance of the church. f. why was it so easy to get out of the path, and so hard to get back? c. because it is easy to go wrong, and very hard to return into the way of righteousness. f. what were the baits which the phantom offered to the youths? c. the pleasures of sin, which are but for a season. f. why was the staff rough to those that were coming back from wandering? c. because the discipline of the church, which is easy to the obedient, is often galling to those who offend. f. why was irrgeist, after he was brought back, still so sad a pilgrim? c. because, though he was accepted and forgiven, the effects of his former sins still weakened and grieved him: as says the lord, by the mouth of the prophet ezekiel (chap. xvi. ver. 63), "that thou mayest remember, and be confounded, and never open thy mouth any more because of thy shame, when i am pacified toward thee for all that thou hast done, saith the lord god." the little wanderers. in a miserable little hovel, built on the edge of a wide and desolate common, lived a poor widow woman, who had two sons. the eldest of them was quite young, and the least was scarcely more than an infant. they were dressed in torn and dirty rags, for the widow had no better clothes to put upon them; and often they were very hungry and very cold, for she had not food or fire with which to feed and warm them. no one taught the biggest boy any thing; and as for the poor mother, she did not know a letter. she had no friends; and the only playfellows the little ones ever knew were other children as poor, and as dirty, and as untaught as they were themselves, from whom they learnt nothing but to say bad words and do naughty tricks. poor children! it was a sad life, you would say, which lay before them. just at this time the widow was taken very ill with a fever. long she lay in that desolate hut, groaning and suffering, and no one knew how ill she was but the little children. they would sit and cry by her miserable bed all day, for they were very hungry and very sad. when she had lain in this state for more than a week, she grew light-headed, and after a while died. the youngest child thought she was asleep, and that he could not waken her; but the elder boy rushed weeping out of the house, knowing that she was really dead, and that they were left alone in the wide world. just at that very moment a man passed by, who looked into the pale, thin, hungry face of the sobbing child, with a kind, gentle look, and let himself be led into the wretched hut, where the poor dead mother lay. his heart bled for the poor orphans, for he was one who was full of tenderness: so he spake kind words to them; and when his servants came up after a while, he gave orders that their dead mother should be buried, and that the children should be taken from the miserable hut, to dwell in his own beautiful castle. to it the children were removed. the servants of the lord of the castle put on them clean fresh clothes--washed their old dirt from them; and as no one knew what were their names, they gave them two new names, which shewed they belonged to this family; and they were cared for, and given all they wanted. happy was now their lot. they had all they wanted: good food in plenty, instead of hunger and thirst; clean raiment, instead of rags and nakedness; and kind teachers, who instructed them day by day as they were able to bear it. there were a multitude of other happy children too in the castle, with whom they lived, and learned, and spent their glad days. sometimes they played in the castle, and sometimes they ran about in the grounds that were round it, where were all sorts of flowers, and beautiful trees full of singing birds, and green grass, and painted butterflies; and they were as happy as children could be. all over these grounds they might play about as they would: only on one side of them they were forbidden to go. there the garden ended in a wide waste plain, and there seemed to be nothing to tempt children to leave the happy garden to walk in it, especially as the kind lord of the castle bid them never set foot on it: and yet it was said that some children had wandered into it, and that of these, many had never come back again. for in that desert dwelt the enemies of the lord of the castle; and there was nothing they loved better than to pounce down upon any children whom he had taken as his own, and carry them off, to be their slaves in the midst of the waste and dreary sands. many ways too had these enemies by which they enticed children to come on the plain; for as long as they stayed within the boundary, and played only in the happy garden, the evil one could not touch them. sometimes they would drop gay and shining flowers all about the beginning of the waste, hoping that the children would come across the border to pick them up: and so it was, that if once a child went over, as soon as he had got into his hands the flower for which he had gone, it seemed to fade and wither away; but just beyond him he thought he saw another, brighter and more beautiful; and so, too, often it happened that, throwing down the first, he went on to take the second; and then throwing down the second, he went on to reach a third; until, suddenly, the enemy dashed upon him, and whirled him away with them in a moment. often and often had little kuhn {95a}--for so the eldest boy had been named--looked out over this desert, and longed, as he saw the gay flowers dropped here and there, to run over the border and pick them up. his little brother, who was now old enough to run about with him, would stand and tremble by him as he got close to the desert; but little zart {95b} would never leave him: and sometimes, i am afraid, they would have both been lost, if it had not been for a dear little girl, who was almost always with them, and who never would go even near to the line. when kuhn was looking into it, as if he longed for the painted flowers, the gentle glaube {96} would grow quite sad, and bending her dark sorrowful eyes upon him, their long lashes would become wet with tears, and she would whisper in a voice almost too solemn for a child, "o kuhn, remember." then kuhn, who could not bear to see her sad, would tear himself away; and the flowers seemed directly to lose their brightness, and the desert looked dry and hot, and the garden cool and delicious, and they played happily together, and forgot their sorrow. but it was very dangerous for kuhn to go so near. the servants of the lord of the castle often told the children this; and seeing a bold and daring spirit in kuhn, they had spoken to him over and over again. what made it so dangerous was this,--that the flowers of the wilderness never looked gay until you got near to its border; afar off it seemed dusty, dry, and hot; but the nearer you got to it, the brighter shone the flowers; they seemed also to grow in number, until you could hardly see its dry hot sands, for the flowery carpet that was drawn over them. poor kuhn! he was often in danger. never yet had he crossed the border; but it is a sad thing to go near temptation; and so this unhappy child found to his cost. one day he was sauntering close to the forbidden border, when the hoop which he was trundling slipped from him and ran into the desert. in a moment he was over after it; and just as he stooped to pick it up, he saw, right before him, a beautiful and sparkling flower. he would certainly have gone after it, but that at the instant he caught the eye of glaube looking sadly after him, and it struck upon his heart, and he hastened back, and was safe. for a while his legs trembled under him, and zart looked up quite frightened into his pale face; glaube too could scarcely speak to him; and it was long before they were laughing merrily again under the tall palm-trees of the garden. but by the next day all kuhn's fears had flown away, and he went with a bolder foot than ever to the very edge of the desert. {the little wanderers: p98.jpg} glaube was further off than usual; and just as kuhn and zart were in this great danger, a beautiful bird started up under their feet. the boys had never seen such a bird. all the colours of the rainbow shone upon his feathers, and his black and scarlet head seemed quite to sparkle in the sunshine. it tried to fly; but whether its wing was hurt, or what, i know not, but it could not rise, and ran before them flapping its painted wings, screaming with a harsh voice, and keeping only just before them. the boys were soon in full chase, and every thing else was forgotten; when, just as they thought the bird was their own, he fluttered across the border, and both the boys followed him,--kuhn boldly and without thought, for he had been across it before; but poor little zart trembled and turned pale, and clung to his bolder brother, as if he never would have crossed it alone. once over, however, on they went, and the bird still seemed to keep close before them; and they never noticed how far they were getting from the garden, until suddenly they heard a dreadful noise; the air looked thick before them, as if whole clouds of dust were sweeping on; shining spearheads were all they could see in the midst of the dust; and they heard the trampling of a multitude of horses. the boys were too much frightened to shriek, but they clung to one another, pale and trembling, and ready to sink into the earth. in a minute rude hands seized them; they heard rough voices round them; and they could see that they were in the midst of the enemies of the lord of the castle. in another minute they were torn asunder, they were snatched up on horseback, and were galloping off towards the sad abode in which the evil men of the desert dwelt. in vain the boys cried, and begged to be taken home; away galloped the horses; whilst no one thought of heeding their cries and prayers. they had gone on long in this way, and the dark-frowning towers of the desert castle were in sight. the little boys looked sadly at one another; for here there was no flowering garden, there were no sheltering trees, but all looked bare, and dry, and wretched; and they could see little narrow windows covered with iron bars, which seemed to be dungeonrooms, where they thought they should be barred in, and never more play together amongst the flowers and in the sunlight. just at this moment the little zart felt that, by some means or other, the strap which bound him to the horse had grown loose, and in another moment he had slipped down its side, and fallen upon his head on the ground. no one noticed his fall; and there he lay upon the sand for a while stunned and insensible. when he woke up, the trampling of horses had died away in the distance; the light sand of the desert, which their feet had stirred, had settled down again like the heavy night-dew, so that he could see no trace of their footmarks. the frowning castle-walls were out of sight; look which way he would, he could see nothing but the hot flat sand below, and the hot bright sun in the clear sky above him. he called for his brother, but no voice answered him; he started up, and began to run he knew not where: but the sun beat on his head, the hot sand scorched his weary feet; his parched tongue began to cleave to his mouth; and he sunk down upon the desert again to die. as he lay there he thought upon the castle-garden and its kind lord; upon the sorrowful face with which glaube was used to look on them, when he and kuhn drew near to the forbidden border; and his tears broke out afresh when he thought of his brother in the enemies' dungeon, and himself dying in the desolate wilderness. then he called upon the lord of the castle, for he remembered to have heard how he had pitied wandering children, and heard their cry from afar, and had brought them back again to his own happy castle. and as he lay upon the sand, crying out to the lord of the castle, he thought that he heard a footstep, as of one walking towards him. then there came a shade between the sun and his burning head, and looking languidly up he saw the kind face of the lord of the castle turned towards him. he was looking on the poor child as he had looked on him when he had pitied him by the side of the hut; and that kind face seemed to speak comfort. then he stretched out to him his hand, and he bade him rise; and he lifted up the child, and bore him in his bosom over that waste and scorching wilderness, nor ever set him down until he had brought him again into the pleasant garden. once as he lay in that bosom, zart thought that he heard in the distance the tramping of horse-hoofs; and he saw the dusty cloud lifting itself up: but he felt that he was safe; and so he was, for the enemy did not dare to approach that mighty one who was bearing him. when he reached the garden again, the gentle glaube met him, and welcomed him back again to their peaceful home. but he hung down his head with shame and with sorrow; and as he looked up into the face of the lord of the garden, he saw in it such kindness and love, that his tears rolled down his cheeks to think how he had broken his command, and wandered into the wilderness of his enemies. then he tried to speak for his brother, for his heart was sore and heavy with thinking of him; but the lord of the castle answered not. many, many days did glaube and zart pray for him; but they heard nothing of him: whether he died in the enemies' dungeon; or whether, as they still dared to hope, he might even yet one day find his way back to the garden of peace; or whether, as they sometimes trembled to think, he had grown up amongst the enemies of their lord, and become one of them,--they knew not, and they dared not to ask. but they never thought of him without trembling and tears, and zart more even than glaube: for he had crossed that terrible border; he had been seized by the fierce enemy; he had lain alone in the wide scorching desert; and had only been brought back again from death by the great love of the mighty and merciful lord of that most happy garden. * * * * * _father_. who are meant by these children born in the wretched hovel? _child_. all the children of fallen parents. f. who are such? c. all who are born. for we were "by nature born in sin, and the children of wrath." f. who is the kind lord of the castle who takes pity on them? c. jesus christ our lord. f. what is meant by his taking them to his castle? c. his receiving us when children into his church. f. when was this done? c. at our baptism. for "being by nature children of wrath, we were hereby made the children of grace." f. what is meant by the clean raiment and the new name he gave them? c. the "forgiveness of all our sins" (see collect in confirmation-service), and the giving us our christian name. f. why is it called your christian name? c. to mark its difference from our natural, or parents' name. f. why was it given you at that time? c. because then i was taken into god's family, and "made a member of christ, child of god, and an inheritor of the kingdom of heaven." f. what was the food with which they were fed? c. all the means of grace of the church of christ. f. what was the desert, and who those who dwelt in it who were enemies to the lord? c. the ways of sin, and the devil and his angels. f. what were the bright flowers and the bird? c. the baits and temptations of sin. f. why did kuhn, or "bold," cross the border more easily the second time? c. because one sin makes another easier. f. why did zart, or "tender," follow him? c. because bold sinners lead weaker sinners after them. f. what were the dry sands into which kuhn and zart were carried? c. the evil ways of sin. f. who came to zart's rescue when he prayed? c. the gracious lord who had at first received him into his church by baptism. f. why was he still sad and ashamed after he was brought back? c. because he had wandered. f. did he then doubt whether he was forgiven? c. no: but he "remembered and was confounded, and never opened his mouth any more, when the lord was pacified toward him for all his iniquity." f. what was the end of kuhn, or the "bold?" c. we know not; but they who "draw back unto perdition" are punished above all others. f. what are we to learn from the whole? c. the blessedness of being taken into the church in our infancy; and our need of prayer and watching, lest we turn it into a curse. the king and his servants. a great king once called his servants to him, and said to them,--"you have all often professed to love me, and to wish to serve me; and i have never yet made trial of you. but now i am about to try you all, that it may be known who does in truth desire to serve me, and who is a servant only in name. to morrow your trial will begin; so meet me here in the morning, and be ready to set out upon a journey on which i shall send you." when the king had so spoken, he left them; and there was a great deal of bustle and talking amongst these servants. not that they were all alike. some were very busy, and said a great deal of the services they should render; and that they hoped it would be some really hard trial on which the king would set them. others were quiet and thoughtful, saying little or nothing, but, as it seemed, thinking silently of the words the king had spoken, as if they feared lest they should fail in their trial. for they loved that king greatly; he had been as a father to them all. once they had been slaves, and cruelly treated by a wicked tyrant who had taken them prisoners, and cast some of them into dungeons, and made others work in dark mines, and dealt evil with them all. but the king had triumphed over this their enemy, and rescued them from his hands. his own son had sought them in the dungeons and dark pits into which they had been cast, and had brought them out; and now he had given them places in his service, and fed them from his own kingly table; and he promised to such as were faithful, that he would raise them yet higher; that he would even set them upon thrones, and put crowns upon their heads; and that they should remain always in his presence, and rule and dwell with him. now, when the time of their trial was come, these faithful servants were grave and thoughtful, fearing lest they should fail, and be led to forget him their kind and gracious king. but one thought held them up. he had said unto them all, "as your day, so shall your strength be." they knew, therefore, that he would put on them no task beyond their strength. they remembered his kindness and his love in taking them out of the dungeons of the enemy. they desired greatly to serve him; and so they rejoiced that their trial was come, even while they feared it; and they trusted in him to help them, even whilst they trembled for themselves. these servants spent much of the night in preparing for their journey; in thinking over all the directions the king had ever given them; for many times had he spoken to them of this coming trial; and even written down plain rules for them, which should teach them always how he would have them act. all these they gathered together, lest in the hurry of setting out, they should forget any one of them; and so they went into the court of the palace to meet the king. then he came forth from his palace-door, and gave them all their charge. from the great treasure-chambers of that palace he brought out many different gifts, and laid them before these his servants. one had gold and silver, and another had precious stuffs; but all had something good and costly: and as he gave them these gifts, he told them that this was to be their trial. he was about to send them with these gifts into an exceeding great and rich city, which lay afar off from his palace; and in that city they were all to trade for him. they were to take his gifts and use them wisely, so that each one of them might bring something back to him. he gave them also very close and particular instructions. he told them that there were many in that city who would try to rob them of these his gifts; and he told them how to keep them safely. he told them that many would seek to make them waste what he had given to them on pleasing themselves. but that they must remember always, that what they had belonged to him; that they would have to give him an account of their way of using all his gifts; and that of his mere mercy he, who had redeemed them from the dungeon and made them able to serve him, would graciously reward hereafter all their efforts to use his gifts for him. he told them also to set about trading for him as early as they could; for that all the merchants' goods were freshest in the morning; that then the precious stones were the finest and the truest; but that those who waited till the evening would find all the best goods sold; and that, perhaps, before they had any thing ready, the trumpet would sound which was to call them all out of the city, and then they would have to come back to him empty-handed and disgraced. when he had given them these charges, he sent them from his presence to begin their journey to the great city. all that day they travelled with horses and camels over plains and hills, and fruitful fields and deserts, until, just as the sun went down, they came to the walls of a great city; and they knew that it was here they were to traffic for their king upon the morrow. then the thoughtful servants began carefully to unpack their goods; they looked into their bales of precious stuffs to see that they had got no injury from the dust and sand of the desert; they counted over their bags of money to see that all was right; and began to lay them all in order, that they might enter the town as soon as the gates were open, and trade for their king in the morning hours, which he had told them were the best. {the king and his servants: p115.jpg} but some of the other servants laughed at them for taking all this care and trouble. "surely it will be time enough," they said, "to get every thing ready when the markets are open to-morrow. we have had a long, hot, weary journey, and we must rest and refresh ourselves before we think of trading." so they spread the tables, and began to feast in a riotous way, quite forgetting the king's service, and putting the morrow out of their thoughts. now as soon as the sun was up, in the morning, there was a great stir amongst the servants. those who had been careful and watchful in the evening were ready with all their bales; and as soon as ever the citygates were open, they marched in through them with their goods. it was a great wide city into which they entered, and must hold, they thought, a vast multitude of men. houses and streets of all sizes met their eyes here and there; but they passed easily along, because it was still so early in the morning, that few persons were in the streets, and those few were all bent upon business, as they were themselves. so they passed on to the great market where the merchants bought and sold, and here they set out all their goods; and the merchants came round them to look over their wares, and to shew them what they had to sell in return. now they found it true as the king had foretold them. for they had the first choice of all that the merchants could offer. one of them opened his stores, and shewed them rubies, and diamonds, and pearls, such as they had never seen before for size and beauty. so they chose a pearl of great price, and they bought it for their prince, and they trafficked in their other wares, and gained for him more than as many bags of treasure as he had given them at first. thus they traded according to their skill, and every one had now secured something for his lord. the pearl of great price was stored by some; others had rich dresses adorned with gold and precious stones; others had bags of the most refined gold; others had the spices of arabia and the frankincense of the islands of the east. one there was amongst them who seemed to have got nothing to carry home with him; and yet he, as well as the rest, had laid out his master's gifts. then some of the other servants asked him, what he had stored up for the king? and he said that he had no riches which he could shew to them, but that he had an offering which he knew that the merciful heart of the king would make him love and value. then they asked him to tell them his story; so he said that, as he was walking through the market, he had seen a poor woman weeping and wringing her hands, as if her heart would break: he stopped, and asked her the cause of her sorrow; and she told him that she was a widow, and that some merchants, to whom her husband had owed large sums of money, had come that morning to her house and taken all that she had, and seized her children too; and that they were dragging them away to the slave-market to sell them for slaves in a far land, that they might pay themselves the debt which her husband had owed them. so when he heard her sad tale, he opened his bag of treasure, and found that all the gold which he had got in it would just pay the widow's debt and set her children free. then he went with her to the merchants, and he told out to them all that sum, and set the children of the widow free, and gave them back to their mother; "and i am taking," he said, "to our merciful king the offering of the widow's tears and gratitude; and i know well that this is an offering which will be wellpleasing in his sight." so it fared with these faithful servants in their trading; and all the while they were cheerful and light-hearted, because they remembered constantly the love and kindness which their king had shewed to them; and they rejoiced that they were able to serve him and to trade for him with his gifts. they thought also of the goodness of the king's son towards them; they remembered how he had sought them when they were prisoners in the dark dungeons of their tyrant enemy; and they were full of joy when they thought that they should be able to offer to him the goodly pearl, and the other curious gifts, which they had bought. they thought of these things until they longed to hear the trumpet sound, which was to call them out of the town and gather them together for their journey home. when that trumpet might sound, they knew not; but the sun was now passed its noon, and the town, which had been so quiet when they came in the early morning along its empty streets, was now full of noise, and bustle, and confusion, as great towns are wont to be, when all the multitude of sleepers awaken and pour out for pleasure, or business, or idleness, into the streets, and squares, and market-places. heartily glad were they now that they had been so early at their traffic. now the merchants had shut up all their richest stores; and the markets were full of others who brought false pearls and mock diamonds, instead of the costly gems for which they had traded in the morning. there seemed to be hardly any true traders left. idlers were there in numbers, and shows and noisy revels were passing up and down the streets; and they could see thieves and bad men lurking about at all the corners, seeking whom they could catch, and rob, and plunder. on all these things the servants looked; sometimes they saw beautiful sights pass by them, which gladdened their eyes; and sometimes sweet music would fill their ears, as bands of merry harpers and singers walked up and down through the market; and they rejoiced in all of these, but still their hearts were full of thoughts of their kind king, and recollections of his son their prince; and they longed to be at home with them, even when the sights round them were the gayest, and the sounds in their ears were the sweetest; and they were ever watching for the voice of the trumpet, which was to call them again homeward. but this happy case was not that of all the servants. when these watchful men had been entering the gates of the city in the morning, the thoughtless servants were not yet awake. they had sat up late at their feasting and rejoicings, and when the morning sun rose upon them, they were still in their first deep sleep. the stirring of their fellow-servants moved them a little, and for a while they seemed ready to rise and join them. but their goods were not ready, so they could not go with them; and they might as well, therefore, they thought, wait a little longer and rest themselves, and then follow them to the market. they did not mean to be late, but they saw no reason why they should be so very early. they slept, therefore, till the sun was high, and then they rose in some confusion, because it was now so late; and they had all their goods to unpack, their stuffs to smooth out, and the dust to shake off from them. soon they began about every little thing to find fault with one another, because they were secretly angry with themselves. each one thought that if his neighbour had not persuaded him to stay, he should have been up, and have entered the city with the earliest: so high words arose between them; and instead of helping one another, and making the best they could of the time which remained, they only hindered one another, and made it later and later before they were ready to begin their trading. at length, after many hard words and much bad temper, one by one they got away; each as soon as he was ready, and often with his goods all in confusion; every one following his own path, and wandering by himself up the crowded streets of the full town. hard work they had to get at all along it when they had passed the gates. all the stream of people seemed now to be setting against them. the idlers jested upon their strange dress; and if they did but try to traffic for their lord, the rude children of the town would gather round them, and hoot, and cry: so that they could not manage to carry on any trade at all. then, as i watched them, i saw that some who had been the loudest in talking of what they should do when they were tried, were now the first to give up altogether making any head at all against the crowd of that city. they packed up what goods they might have, and began to think only of looking about them, and following the crowd, and pleasing themselves, like any of the men around them. then i looked after some of these, and i saw that one of them was led on by the crowd to a place in the town where there was a great show. outside of it were men in many-coloured dresses, who blew with trumpets, and jested, and cried aloud, and begged all to come in and see the strange sights which were stored within. now when the servant came to this place, he watched one and another go in, until at last he also longed to go in and see the sights which were to be gazed on within. so he went to the door, and the porter asked him for money; but when he drew out his purse, and the porter saw that his money belonged to some strange place, and was quite unlike the coin used in that town, he only laughed at it, and said it was good for nothing there, and bid him "stand back." so as he turned away, the porter saw the rich bundle on his back, and then he spoke to him in another tone, and he said, "i will let you in, if you like to give me that bundle of goods." then for a moment the servant was checked. he thought of his lord and of the reckoning, and he remembered the words, "as good stewards of the manifold grace of god;" and he had almost determined to turn back, and to fight his way to the market-place, and to trade for his lord, let it cost him what it might;--but just at the moment there was a great burst of the showman's trumpets; and he heard the people shouting for joy within; and so he forgot all but his great desire, and slipping off the bundle from his shoulders, he put it into the hands of the porter, and passed in, and i saw him no more. then i saw another, who was standing at the corner of a street gating at some strange antics which were being played by a company of the townsmen. and as he gazed upon them, he forgot all about his trading for his master, and thought only of seeing more of this strange sight. then i saw that whilst he was thinking only of these follies, some evil-minded men gathered round him, and before he was aware of it, they secretly stole from him all the gold which his lord had given him to lay out for him. the servant did not even know when it was gone, so much was he thinking of staring at the sight before him. but it made me very sad to think that when he went to buy for his master, he would find out, too late, his loss; and that when the trumpet sounded, he would have nothing to carry back with him on the day of reckoning. some of these loiterers, too, were treated even worse than this. one of them i saw whom the shows and lights of that town led on from street to street, until he came quite to its farther end; and then he thought that he saw before him, beyond some lonely palings, still finer sights than any he had left; and so he set out to cross over those fields, and see those sights. and when he was half over, some wicked robbers, who laid wait in those desolate places, rushed out upon him from their lurkingplace, and ill used him sorely, and robbed him of all his goods and money, and left him upon the ground hardly able to get back to the town which he had left. then i saw one of these loiterers who, as he was looking idly at the sights round him, grew very grave, and began to tremble from head to foot. one of his fellows, who stood by and saw him, quickly asked him what made him tremble. at first he could not answer; but after a while he said, that the sound of the trumpet which they had just heard had made him think of the great trumpet-sound of their master, which was to call them all back to his presence, and that he trembled because the evening was coming on, and he had not yet traded for his lord. and "how," he said in great fear, "how shall we ever stand that reckoning with our hands empty?" then some of his companions in idleness laughed and jeered greatly, and mocked the poor trembler. but his fears were wiser than their mockings; and so, it seemed, he knew, for he cared nothing for them; but only said to them, very sadly and gravely, "you are in the same danger, how then can you jeer at me?" and with that he pointed their eyes up to the sky, and shewed them how low the sun had got already, and that it wanted but an hour at the most to his setting, and then that the trumpet might sound at any moment, and they have nothing to bear home to their lord. now, as he spoke, one listened eagerly to him; and whilst the others jeered, he said very gravely, "what can we do? is it quite too late?" "it is never too late," said the other, "till the trumpet sounds; and though we have lost so much of the day, perchance we can yet do something: come with me to the market-place, and we will try." so the other joined him, and off they set, passing through their companions, who shouted after them all the way they went, until the townsmen who stood round began to jeer and shout after them also: so that all the town was moved. a hard time those two had now, and much they wished that they had gone to the market-place in the early morning, when the streets were empty, and the busy servants had passed so easily along. many were the rough words they had now to bear; many the angry, or ill-natured, crowd through which they had to push; and if any where they met one of their late and idle companions, he was sure to stir up all the street against them, when he saw them pushing on to the market-place. "do you think that we shall ever get there?" said he who had been moved by the other's words to him, who led the way, and buffeted with the crowd, like a man swimming through many rough waves in the strong stream of some swift river. "do you think that we shall ever get there?" "yes, yes," said the other; "we shall get there still, if we do but persevere." "but it is so hard to make any way, and the streets seem to grow fuller and fuller; i am afraid that i shall never get through." just as he spoke, a great band of the townspeople, with music, and trumpets, and dancing, met them like a mighty wave of the sea, and seemed sure to drive them back: one of their old companions was dancing amongst the rest; and as i looked hard at him, i saw that it was the same who had given away his precious burden in order to go into the show. now, as soon as he saw these his former fellows, he called to them by their names, and bid them join him and the townsmen round him. but he that was leading the way shook his head, and said boldly: "no: we will not join with you; we are going to the market-place to traffic for our lord." "it is too late for that," said he; "you lost the morning, and now you cannot trade." then i saw that he who before had trembled exceedingly grew very pale; but still he held on his way; and he said,--"yes, we have lost the morning, and a sore thing it is for us; but our good lord will help us even yet; and we will serve him, 'redeeming the time, because the days are evil.'" then he turned to the other and said to him,-"and will not you stop either? do not be fooled by this madman: what use is it to go to buy when the shops are all shut, and the market empty?" then he hung down his head, and looked as though he would have turned back, and fallen into the throng; but his fellow seized him by the hand, and bid him take courage, and think upon his kind master, and upon the king's son, whose very blood had been shed for them; and with that he seemed to gather a little confidence, and held for a while on in his way with the other. then their old companion turned all his seeming love into hatred, and he called upon the crowd round him to lay hands on them and stop them; and this the rabble would fain have done, but that, as it seemed to me, a power greater than their own was with those servants, and strengthened them; until they pushed the rude people aside on the right and on the left, and passed safely through them into another street. here there were fewer persons, and they had a breathing-time for a while; and as they heard the sound of music and of the crowd passing by at some little distance from them, they began to gather heart, and to talk to one another. "i never thought," said the one, "that i could have held on through that crowd; and i never could, if you had not stretched out your hand to help me." "say, rather, if our master's strength had not been with us," said the other. "but do you think," said he that was fearful, "that he will accept any thing we can bring him now, when the best part of the day is over?" "yes, i do," he replied. "i have a good hope that he will; for i remember how he said, 'return, ye backsliding children, return ye even unto me.'" "but how can one who is so trembling and fearful as i am ever traffic for him?" "you can, if you will but hold on; for he has once spoken of his servants 'as faint yet pursuing.'" "well," said the other, "i wish that i had your courage; but i do believe that i should not dare to meet such another crowd as that we have just passed through; i really thought that they would tear us in pieces." "our king will never let that be," said the other, "if only we trust in him." "but are you sure," replied he, "that our king does see us in this town?" just as he said this, and before his companion had time to answer him again, they heard a louder noise than ever, of men dancing, and singing, and crowding, and music playing, and horns blowing, as if all the mad sports of the city were coming upon them in one burst. at the front of all they could see their old companion; for the band had turned round by a different street, and now were just beginning to come down that one up which they were passing. then he who had been affrighted before, turned white as snow; and he looked this way and that, to see what he could do. now it so happened, that just by where they stood was a great shop, and in its windows there seemed to shine precious stones and jewels, and fine crystals, and gold and ivory. and, as he looked, his eyes fell full upon the shop, and he said to his fellow,--"look here; surely here is what we want: let us turn in here and traffic for our master, and then we shall escape all this rout which is coming upon us." "no, no!" said the other; "we must push on to the market; that is our appointed place; there our lord bids us trade: we must not turn aside from the trouble which our lateness has brought upon us--we must not offer to our master that which costs us nothing. play the man, and we shall soon be in the market." "but we shall be torn in pieces," said the other. "look at the great crowd: and even now it seems that our old companion sees me, and is beginning to lead the rabble upon us." "never fear," said he who led the way; "our king will keep us. 'i will not be afraid for ten thousands of the people who have set themselves against us round about.'" then i saw that he to whom he spoke did not seem to hear these last words, for the master of the shop had noticed how he cast his eyes upon the goods that were in the window, and was ready in a moment to invite him in. "come in, come in," he said, "before the crowd sweep you away; come in and buy my pearls, and my diamonds, and my precious stones; come in, come in." and while he halted for a moment to parley with the man, the crowd came upon them, and he was parted from his friend, who had held up his fainting steps; and so he sprung trembling into the shop, scarcely thinking himself safe even there. now the man into whose house he had turned, though he was a fair-spoken man, and one who knew well how to seem honest and true, was altogether a deceiver. all his seeming jewels, and diamonds, and pearls, were but shining and painted glass, which was worth nothing at all to him who was so foolish as to buy it: but this the servant knew not. if it had been in the bright clear light of the morning, he would easily have seen that the diamonds and the pearls were only sparkling and painted glass, and the gold nothing but tinsel; but the bright light of the morning had passed away, and in the red slanting light of the evening sun he could not see clearly; and so the false man persuaded him, and he parted with all the rich treasures which his king had given him, and got nothing for them in exchange which was worth the having, for he filled his bag with bits of painted glass, which his lord would never accept. however, he knew not how he had been cheated; or if, perhaps, a thought crossed his mind that all was not right, it was followed by another, which said that it was now too late to alter, and that if he had chosen wrongly, still he must abide by it; and so he waited for the trumpet. but he was not altogether happy; and often and often he wished that he had faced the strife of the multitude, and pressed on with his trusting companion to the market. a hard struggle had been his before he had reached it. it seemed indeed at times as if the words of his fearful companion were coming true, and he would be torn altogether in pieces, so fiercely did the crowd press upon him and throng him. but as i watched him in the thickest part of it, i saw that always, just at his last need, something seemed to favour him, and the crowd broke off and left room for him to struggle by. i could hear him chanting, as it were, to himself, when the crowd looked upon him the most fiercely, "i will not be afraid for ten thousands of the people that have set themselves against me round about." and even as he chanted the words, the crowd divided itself in two parts, like a rushing stream glancing by some black rock; and on he passed, as though they saw him not. so it continued, even till he reached the market-place. right glad was he to find himself there: but even now all his trials were not over. many of the stalls were empty, and from many more the fair and true traders were gone away; and instead of them were come false and deceitful men, who tried to put off any who dealt with them with pretended jewels and bad goods. then did he look anxiously round and round the market, fearing every moment lest the trumpet should sound before he had purchased any thing for his lord. never, perhaps, all along the way, did he so bitterly regret his early sloth as now, for he wrung his hands together, and said in great bitterness, "what shall i do?" and, "how shall i, a loiterer, traffic for my lord?" then his eyes fell upon a shop where were no jewels, nor gold, nor costly silks, nor pearls of great price; but all that was in it was coarse sackcloth, and rough and hairy garments, and heaps of ashes, and here and there a loaf of bitter bread, and bitter herbs, and bottles wherein tears were stored. as he gazed on this shop something seemed to whisper to his heart, "go and buy." so he went with his sorrowful heart, as one not worthy to traffic for his master, and he bought the coarsest sackcloth, and the ashes of affliction, and many bitter tears: and so he waited for the sounding of the trumpet. then suddenly, as some loud noise breaks upon the slumbers of men who sleep, that great trumpet sounded. all through the air came its voice, still waxing louder and louder; and even as it pealed across the sky, all that great city, and its multitudes, and its lofty palaces, and its show, and its noise, and its revels, all melted away, and were not. and in a moment all the servants were gathered together, and their lord and king stood amongst them. all else was gone, and they and their works were alone with him. then was there a fearful trial of every man's work. then were they crowned with light and gladness who had risen early and traded diligently, and who now brought before their master the fruit of that toil, and labour, and pain. each one had his own reward; and amongst the richest and the best--as though he brought what the king greatly loved--was his reward who brought unto his master the offering of gratitude from the broken-hearted widow. then drew near the servant who had wasted the morning, but had repented of his sloth, and had fought his way through the crowds, and had at last bought the sackcloth. now he came bringing it with him; and it looked poor, and mean, and coarse, as he bore it amongst the heaps of gold, and jewels, and silks, which lay piled up all around; yet did he draw near unto the king; and as he came, he spoke, and said, "a broken and a contrite heart wilt thou not despise." and as he spake, the king looked graciously upon him: a mild and an approving smile sat upon his countenance, and he spoke to him also the blessed words, "well done, thou good and faithful servant." then did the coarse sackcloth shine as the most rich cloth of gold; then did the ashes of the furnace sparkle as a monarch's jewels; whilst every bitter tear which was stored in the bottle changed into pearls and rubies which were above all price. then the king turned to the careless servants, and his voice was terrible to hear, and from his face they fled away. i dared not to look upon them; but i heard their just and most terrible sentence, and i knew that they were driven away for ever from the presence of the king, in which is life and peace; and that they were bound under chains and darkness, deeper and more dreadful than those from which the king's son had graciously delivered them. * * * * * _father_. in what part of god's word do we read such a parable as this? _child_. in the 25th chapter of st. matthew's gospel, and at the 15th verse. f. who is the king who called his servants thus together? c. almighty god. f. who are meant by these servants trading in the town? c. all of us christians. f. how do you know that they were christians? c. because they had been delivered from slavery and dungeons by the king's own son. f. what is the great town to which they were sent? c. this world. f. what are the goods which god gave them to lay out for him? c. every thing which we have in this life: our strength, and health, and reason, and money, and time. f. how may we trade with these for the king? c. by trying to use them all so as to please him and set forth his glory. f. who are those who rose up early to go into the town? c. those who begin to serve the lord even from their youth. f. what is shewn by their finding the streets easy to pass, and the markets full of rich goods? c. that this service of god is far easier to such as begin to serve him in youth; and that such are able to offer to him the best gifts of early devotion, and their first love, and the zeal of youth, and tender hearts, and unclouded consciences. f. what is taught us by their seeing the beautiful things of the city at their ease, after their diligent trading? c. that those who serve god truly in a youthful piety commonly find more than others, that "godliness has promise of the life which now is, as well as of that which is to come." f. why were those who were late ready to quarrel with one another? c. because companions in sin have no real love for each other, but are always ready to fall out; being all selfish and separate from god. f. what were the full streets they met with when they entered the town? c. the many difficulties and hindrances which beset those who set about serving god late in life. f. what were the shows, and the thieves, and the robbers, which troubled them? c. the different temptations which come from the devil, the world, and the flesh. f. who were the crowds who withstood them? c. those who love this present world, and who therefore withstand those who seek to live for god's glory. f. who was he who sold the false jewels? c. one of those who often make a prey of persons beginning, after a negligent youth, to feel earnest about religion, and of whom we read, rom. xvi. 17, 18, "now i beseech you, brethren, mark them which cause divisions and offences, contrary to the doctrine which ye have learned; and avoid them. for they that are such serve not our lord jesus christ, but their own belly; and by good words and fair speeches deceive the hearts of the simple." f. who was he who held on through all difficulties to the market-place? c. a truly humble penitent, who having turned to god with all his heart, leans not to his own understanding, but follows god's leading in all things; cleaving close to christ's church. f. what were the sackcloth and ashes which he bought? c. the true contrition of heart and deep sense of sin, which god gives to those who seek earnestly to turn away from all iniquity. f. what was the sound of the trumpet? c. the call of men to the general judgment. f. who were those whose trading the master was pleased to reward? c. those who had served god early; those who had given to him the best of their youth; those who had been kind to others and helped the needy for his sake; those who had turned to him in truth, and clave to him with a humble penitence. f. what was the end of the careless servants? c. it is an awful end, which our blessed saviour jesus christ speaks of thus: "cast ye the unprofitable servant into outer darkness: there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth." {148a} and, again, "these shall go away into everlasting punishment; but the righteous into life eternal." {148b} the prophet's guard. it was the very earliest morning. the day was not breaking as it does in this land of england, with a dewy twilight and a gradual dawning--first a dull glow all over the east, then blood-red rays, catching any fleecy cloud which is stealing over the sky, and turning all its misty whiteness into gold and fire;--but day was breaking as it does in those eastern countries--sudden, and bright, and hot. darkness flew away as at a word; the thick shadows were all at once gone, and the broad glaring sun rose proudly in the sky, rejoicing in his strength. the people of the town woke up again to life and business. doors were flung wide open, and some were passing through them; the flat roofs of the houses began to be peopled--on one was a man praying, on others two or three standing together; but most of the people were hastening here and there to get through their necessary work before the full heat of the day came on; numbers were passing and repassing to the clear dancing fountain, the cool waters of which bubbled up in the midst of a broad square within that city. and now, what is it which one suddenly sees, and, after gazing at it for a while, points out to another, and he to a third? as each hears, they look eagerly up to the hill, which rises high above their town, until they gather into a knot; and then, as one and another are added to their company, grow into almost a crowd. still it is in the same quarter that all eyes are fixed; their water-vessels are set idly down, as if they could not think of them. those which were set under the fountain have been quite full this long time, but no one stooped to remove them; and the water has been running over their brimming sides, while its liquid silver flew all round in a shower of sparkling drops. but no one thinks of them. what is it which so chains all eyes and fixes the attention of all? the hill is quite full of armed men. there were none there overnight: they have come up from the vale silently and stealthily during the darkness, while men slept, like some great mist rising in stillness from the waters, and they seem to be hemming in the town on every side. look which way you will, the sun lights upon the burnished points of spears, or falls on strong shields, or flashes like lightning from polished and cutting swords, or is thrown a thousand ways by the rolling wheels of those war-chariots. "who are they?" is the question of all; and no one likes to say what all have felt for a long time--"they are our enemies, and we are their prey." but there is no use in shutting the eyes any longer to the truth. the morning breeze has just floated off in its airy waves that flag which before hung down lifelessly by the side of its staff. it has shewn all. they are enemies; they are fierce and bitter enemies; they are the syrians, and they are at war with israel. but why are they come against this little town? when they have licked up it and its people like the dust from the face of the earth, they will be scarcely further on in their war against israel. why did not they begin with some of the great and royal cities? why was it not against jerusalem, or jezreel, or even against the newly rebuilt jericho? why should they come against this little town? then one, an evil-looking man of a dark countenance, one who feared not god and loved not his servants, whispered to those around him, and said, "have you not heard how elisha the prophet, who dwells amongst us, has discovered to the king of israel the secrets of the army of the king of syria? no doubt it is because elisha is dwelling here that the king of syria has come upon us. and now shall we, and our wives, and our sweet babes, and our houses, and our treasures, become the prey of the king of syria, for the sake of this elisha. i never thought that good would come from his dwelling here." now, fear makes men cruel and suspicious, and fills their minds with hard thoughts; and many of these men were full of fear: and so, when they heard these words, they began to have hard bad thoughts of god's prophet, and to hate him, as the cause of all the evils which they were afraid would very soon come upon them. just then the door of another house opened: it was the prophet's house, and his servant came forth with the water-vessels to fill them at the fountain. he wondered to see the crowd of men gathered together, and he drew near to ask them what was stirring. he could read upon their dark scowling faces that something moved them exceedingly; but what it was he could not gather. he could not tell why they would scarcely speak to him, but looked on him with angry faces, and spoke under their breath, and said, "this is one of them." "'twere best to give them up." "they will destroy us all." then the man was altogether astonished; for his master had been ever humble, and kind, and gentle; no poor man had ever turned away without help when he had come in his sorrows to the prophet of the lord. and yet, why were they thus angry with him, if it were not for his master's sake? broken sentences were all that he could gather; but, by little and little, he learned what they feared and what they threatened; he saw, also, the hosts of armed men gathered all around the city; and his heart, also, was filled with fear. he believed that it was for his master's sake that they were there; he saw that all around him were turned against his master, and he trembled exceedingly. for some time he stood amongst the rest, scarce knowing what to do, neither liking to remain nor daring to go; until at last, as some more stragglers joined themselves to the company, he slunk away like one ashamed, without stopping even to fill the water-vessels he had brought. and so he entered his own door, heavy-hearted and trembling; and he went to the prophet's chamber, for he deemed that he still slept. but the man of god was risen; and he knew, therefore, where he should find him--that he would be upon the flat roof of his house, calling upon the name of the lord his god, who had made another morning's sun to rise in its glory. {the prophet's guard: p156.jpg} so he followed his master to the housetop; and there, even as he had supposed, he found the holy man. it was a striking sight, could any one have seen the difference between these two men. the one pale and trembling and affrighted, like a man out of himself, and with no stay on which to rest his mind; the other calm and earnest, as, in deep and solemn prayer, with his head bowed and his hands clasped together, his low voice poured forth his thanksgiving, or spake of his needs; he also, as it seemed, was out of himself, but going out of himself that he might rest upon one who was near to him though his eye saw him not, and who spake to him though his outward ear heard no voice of words. thus he continued for a season, as if he knew not that any man was nigh unto him; as if he knew not that there were, in the great world around him, any one besides his god with whom he communed, and his own soul which spake unto his god. all this time his servant stood by him, pale and trembling, but not daring to break in upon that hour of prayer; until at length the prophet paused, and his eye fell upon the trembler; and he turned towards him, and said kindly, "what ails thee, my son?" then the servant answered, "o my father, look unto the hill." and he stood gazing in the prophet's face, as though he expected to see paleness and terror overspread it when his eyes gathered in the sight of those angry hosts. but it was not so. no change passed over his countenance; his brow was open as it was before; the colour never left his cheeks; and, with almost a smile, he turned unto the servant, and said, "and why does this affright thee?" "it is for thee they seek, my father--it is for thee they seek; and the wicked men of the town are ready to fall upon thee and deliver thee into their hands. even now, as i walked along the street, they looked on me with fierce and cruel eyes; and they breathed threats which these lips may not utter, and said, that thou hadst brought this trouble upon them, and their wives, and their little ones; and i feared that they would curse thee and thy god." but the prophet was not moved by his words, for he only answered, "fear them not; they that are with us are more than they that are against us." then did the servant cast his eyes to the ground, and he spake not, yet his lips moved; and if any one had heard the words which he whispered, they might perhaps have heard him ask how this could be, when they were but two, and their enemies were so many and so mighty. now the prophet's eye rested upon him, and he read all his secret thoughts; and he pitied his weakness, for that holy man was full of pity for the weak: so he chid him not; but, bowing his knees again on that flat roof, he prayed unto his god to open the eyes of his affrighted servant. his prayer was heard. for there fell from them as it were films; and now, when he looked out, he saw a glorious sight. all the mountain was full; and they were a wonderful company which filled it. the dark hosts of the syrians, and their glancing swords and clashing chariots, now looked but as a mere handful; for the whole mountain round them was full of that heavenly army. chariots of fire and horsemen of fire thronged it in every part. high up into the viewless air mounted their wheeling bands: rank beyond rank, and army beyond army, they seemed to stretch on into the vastness of space, until the gazer's wearied eye was unable to gaze on them. and all of these were gathered round his master. they were god's host, keeping guard over god's servant. and they who would injure him must first turn aside those flashing swords, must break up that strong and serried array, and be able to do battle with god's mighty angels. then was the weak heart strong. then did the poor trembler see that he was safe; and know that he who is on god's side can never want companions and defenders. the brothers' meeting; or, the sins of youth. a large company was winding its way slowly out of the vale in which the river jordan runs. the sun was just beginning to strike hotly upon them, and make them long for rest and shelter, as they toiled up the open sandy hills and amongst the great masses of rock with which that country was strewn. it was a striking sight to see those travellers. first went three troops of kine, lowing as they went; camels with their arched necks, stooping shoulders, and forward ears; asses with their foals; ewes and lambs; and goats with their kids, which mounted idly upon every rock that lay by their road-side, and then jumped as idly down again; and before and after these, drivers in stately turbans and long flowing robes, keeping the flocks and herds to their appointed way. then came large droves of cattle, and sheep, and goats, and asses, stirring up with their many feet the dust of the sandy plain, till it fell like a gentle shower powdering with its small grains all the rough and prickly plants which grew in tufts over the waste. then was there a space; and after that were seen two bands of camels,--the best they seemed to be of all the flock, those which came last especially,--and on them were children and women riding, over whom hung long veils to shelter their faces from the hot breath of the sandy desert through which they had travelled. and after all these came one man, with his staff in his hand and a turban on his head, walking slowly, as one who walked in pain and yet walked on, following those who went before. if you had stood near to that man, you might, perhaps, have heard him speaking to god in prayer and thanksgiving; you might have heard him saying to himself, "with my staff passed i over this jordan, and now i am become two bands:" or you might have heard him earnestly calling upon the god of abraham, and the god of isaac his father, to keep him safe in the great danger which now lay close before him. his mind was certainly very full of that danger; for he kept looking up from the sand on which his eyes were often fixed, and gazing as far as he could see over the hills before him, as if he expected to see some great danger suddenly meet him on his way, and as if, therefore, he wished to be quite ready for it. if you looked into his face, you could see at once that he was not a common man. he was not a very old man; his hair was not yet grey upon his head; and yet it seemed, at the first glance, as if he was very old. but as you looked closer, you saw that it was not so; but that many, many thoughts had passed through his mind, and left those deep marks stamped even on his face. it was not only sorrow, though there was much of that; nor care, though he was now full of care; but besides these, it seemed as if he had seen, and done, and felt great things--things in which all a man's soul is called up, and so, which leave their impress behind them, even when they have passed away. he had seen great things, and felt great things. he had seen god's most holy angels going up to heaven, and coming down to earth upon their messages of mercy. he had heard the voice of the lord of all, promising to be his father and his friend. and only the night before, the angel of the covenant had made himself known to him in the stillness of his lonely tent, and made him strong to wrestle with him for a blessing, until the breaking of the day. so that it was no wonder, that when you looked into his face, it was not like the face of a common man, but one which was full of thought, which bore almost outwardly the stamp of great mysteries. but what was it which now filled this man with care? he was returning home from a far land where he had been staying twenty years, to the land where his father dwelt. he had gone out a poor man; he was coming home a rich man. he was bringing back with him his wives, and his children, and his servants, and his flocks, and his herds; and of what was he afraid? surely he could trust the god who had kept him and blessed him all these twenty years, and who had led him now so far on his journey? why should he fear now, when he was almost at his father's tent? it was because he heard that his brother was coming to meet him. but why should this fill him with such fear? surely it would be a happy meeting; brothers born of the same father and of the same mother, who had dwelt together in one tent, kneeled before one father's knees in prayer, and joined together in the common plays of childhood,--surely their meeting must be happy, now that they have been twenty years asunder, and god has blessed them both, and they are about to see each other again in peace and safety, and to shew to each other the children whom god had given them, and who must remind them of their days of common childhood. and why then is the man afraid? because when he left his father's house this brother was very angry with him, and he fears that he may have remembered his anger all these twenty years, and be ready now to revenge himself for that old quarrel. and yet, why should this make such an one to fear? even if his brother be still angry with him, and have cruel and evil thoughts against him, cannot god deliver him?--cannot the same god who has kept him safely all these twenty years of toil and labour, help and save him now? why then does he fear so greatly? he has not forgotten that this god can save him--he has not for a moment forgotten it; for see how earnestly he makes his prayer unto him: hear his vows that if god will again deliver him, he and all of his shall ever praise and serve him for this mercy. yet still he is in fear; and he seems like a man who thought that there was some reason why the god who had heard him in other cases should not hear him in this. what was it, then, which pressed so heavily upon this man's mind? it was the remembrance of an old sin. he feared that god would leave him now to esau's wrath, because he knew that esau's wrath was god's punishment of his sin. he feared that esau's hand would slay his children, as god's chastisement for the sins of his childhood. he remembered that he had lied to isaac his father, and mocked the dimness of his aged eyes by a false appearance; now he trembled lest his father's god should leave the deceiver and the mocker to eat the bitter fruit of his old sin. it was not so much esau's wrath, and esau's company, and esau's arms, which he feared--though all these were very terrible to this peaceful man,--as it was his own sin in days long past, which now met him again, and seemed to frown upon him from the darkness before him. in vain did he strive to look on and see whether god would guide him there, for his sin clouded over the light of god's countenance. it was as when he strained his eyes into the great sand-drifts of the desert through which he had passed: they danced and whirled fearfully before him, and baffled all the strivings of his earnest gaze. but the time of trial was drawing very near. and how did it end? instead of falling upon him and slaying him and his; instead of making a spoil of the oxen, and the asses, and the camels, and giving the young children to the sword, esau's heart melted as soon as they met; he fell upon his brother's neck and kissed him; he looked lovingly upon the children who had been born to him in the far land; he spake kindly of the old days of their remembered childhood, of the grey-haired man at home; and he would not take even the present which his brother had set apart for him. jacob knew who it was that had turned his brother's heart, and he felt more than ever what a strong and blessed thing prayer and supplication was. nor did he forget his childhood's sin against his god. it had looked out again upon him in manhood, and reminded him of god's holiness, of his many past misdeeds, and made him pray more earnestly not to be made to "possess the iniquities of his youth." * * * * * _father_. what should we learn from this account of jacob's meeting esau? _child_. that god remembers and often visits long afterwards the sins of our childhood. f. does not god, then, forgive the sins of children? c. yes, he does forgive them, and blot them out for christ's sake. f. why, then, do we say that he visits them? c. because he often allows the effects of past sins to be still their punishment, even when he has forgiven them. f. why does he do so? c. to shew us how he hates sin. f. what should we learn from this? c. to watch against every sin most carefully, because we never can know what may be its effects; to remember how god has punished it, often for years, in his true servants; to pray against sin; to think no sin little. f. what should we do, if we find the consequences of past sin coming upon us? c. take our chastisement meekly; humble ourselves under god's hand; pray for deliverance, as, "remember not the sins of my youth, nor my transgressions: according to thy mercy remember thou me for thy goodness' sake, o lord" (ps. xxv. 7). f. what should be the effect on us when god hears our prayer, and delivers us? c. it should make us more humbly remember our sins and unworthiness, and strive to shew forth our thankfulness, "not with our lips only, but in our lives." {finis: p172.jpg} london: printed by gilbert & rivington, st. john's square. footnotes: {6} rev. xxii. 2. {45a} lover of god. {45b} wanderer. {45c} timid. {46} help. {49a} prov. ii. 19. {49b} ps. cxix. 9. {76} isaiah xlii. 16. {79a} isaiah xxxv. 3, 4. {79b} ps. cxix. 67. {80} isaiah xxxv. 9. {95a} bold, or rash. {95b} tender. {96} faith. {148a} matt. xxv. 30. {148b} ib. xxv. 46. transcribed from the 1860 john murray edition by david price, email ccx074@pglaf.org. many thanks to birmingham library, england, for the generous provision of the material from which this transcription was made. http://www.birmingham.gov.uk/libraries.bcc. the sleeping bard; or visions of the world, death, and hell, by elis wyn. translated from the cambrian british by george borrow, author of "the bible in spain," "the gypsies of spain," etc. london: john murray, albemarle street. 1860. preface. the sleeping bard was originally written in the welsh language, and was published about the year 1720. the author of it, elis wyn, was a clergyman of the cambro anglican church, and a native of denbighshire, in which county he passed the greater part of his life, at a place called y las ynys. besides the sleeping bard, he wrote and published a book in welsh, consisting of advice to christian professors. the above scanty details comprise all that is known of elis wyn. both his works have enjoyed, and still enjoy, considerable popularity in wales. the sleeping bard, though a highly remarkable, is not exactly entitled to the appellation of an original work. there are in the spanish language certain pieces by francisco quevedo, called "visions or discourses;" the principal ones being "the vision of the carcases, the sties of pluto, and the inside of the world disclosed; the visit of the gayeties, and the intermeddler, the duenna and the informer." with all these the visions of elis wyn have more or less connection. the idea of the vision of the world, was clearly taken from the interior of the world disclosed; the idea of the vision of death, from the vision of the carcases; that of the vision of hell, from the sties of pluto; whilst many characters and scenes in the three parts, into which the work of elis wyn is divided, are taken either from the visit of the gayeties, the intermeddler, or others of quevedo's visions; for example rhywun, or somebody, who in the vision of death makes the humorous complaint, that so much of the villainy and scandal of the world is attributed to him, is neither more nor less than quevedo's juan de la encina, or jack o' the oak, who in the visit of the gayeties, is made to speak somewhat after the following fashion:- "o ye living people, spawn of satan that ye are! what is the reason that ye cannot let me be at rest now that i am dead, and all is over with me? what have i done to you? what have i done to cause you to defame me in every thing, who have a hand in nothing, and to blame me for that of which i am entirely ignorant?" "who are you?" said i with a timorous bow, "for i really do not understand you." "i am," said he, "the unfortunate juan de la encina, whom, notwithstanding i have been here many years, ye mix up with all the follies which ye do and say during your lives; for all your lives long, whenever you hear of an absurdity, or commit one, you are in the habit of saying, 'juan de la encina could not have acted more like a fool;' or, 'that is one of the follies of juan de la encina.' i would have you know that all you men, when you say or do foolish things, are juan de la encina; for this appellation of encina, seems wide enough to cover all the absurdities of the world." nevertheless, though there is a considerable amount of what is quevedo's in the visions of elis wyn, there is a vast deal in them which strictly belongs to the welshman. upon the whole, the cambrian work is superior to the spanish. there is more unity of purpose in it, and it is far less encumbered with useless matter. in reading quevedo's visions, it is frequently difficult to guess what the writer is aiming at; not so whilst perusing those of elis wyn. it is always clear enough, that the welshman is either lashing the follies or vices of the world, showing the certainty of death, or endeavouring to keep people from hell, by conveying to them an idea of the torments to which the guilty are subjected in a future state. whether elis wyn had ever read the visions of quevedo in their original language, it is impossible to say; the probability however is, that he was acquainted with them through the medium of an english translation, which was published in london about the beginning of the eighteenth century; of the merits of that translation the present writer can say nothing, as it has never come to his hand: he cannot however help observing, that a person who would translate the visions of quevedo, and certain other writings of his, should be something more than a fair spanish scholar, and a good master of the language into which he would render them, as they abound not only with idiomatic phrases, but terms of cant or germania, which are as unintelligible as greek or arabic to the greater part of the spaniards themselves. the following translation of the sleeping bard has long existed in manuscript. it was made by the writer of these lines in the year 1830, at the request of a little welsh bookseller of his acquaintance, who resided in the rather unfashionable neighbourhood of smithfield, and who entertained an opinion that a translation of the work of elis wyn, would enjoy a great sale both in england and wales. on the eve of committing it to the press however, the cambrian briton felt his small heart give way within him: "were i to print it," said he, "i should be ruined; the terrible descriptions of vice and torment, would frighten the genteel part of the english public out of its wits, and i should to a certainty be prosecuted by sir james scarlett. i am much obliged to you, for the trouble you have given yourself on my account--but myn diawl! i had no idea till i had read him in english, that elis wyn had been such a terrible fellow." yet there is no harm in the book. it is true that the author is any thing but mincing in his expressions and descriptions, but there is nothing in the sleeping bard which can give offence to any but the over fastidious. there is a great deal of squeamish nonsense in the world; let us hope however that there is not so much as there was. indeed can we doubt that such folly is on the decline, when we find albemarle street in '60, willing to publish a harmless but plain speaking book which smithfield shrank from in '30? the vision of the course of the world. one fine evening of warm sunny summer, i took a stroll to the top of one of the mountains of wales, carrying with me a telescope to assist my feeble sight by bringing distant objects near, and magnifying small ones. through the thin, clear air, and the calm and luminous heat, i saw many delightful prospects afar across the irish sea. at length, after feasting my eyes on all the pleasant objects around me, until the sun had reached his goal in the west, i lay down upon the green grass, reflecting, how fair and enchanting, from my own country, the countries appeared whose plains my eyes had glanced over, how delightful it would be to obtain a full view of them, and how happy those were who saw the course of the world in comparison with me: weariness was the result of all this toiling with my eyes and my imagination, and in the shadow of weariness, _mr. sleep_ came stealthily to enthrall me, who with his keys of lead, locked the windows of my eyes, and all my other senses securely. but it was in vain for him to endeavour to lock up the soul, which can live and toil independently of the body, for my spirit escaped out of the locked body upon the wings of fancy, and the first thing which i saw by the side of me was a dancing ring, and a kind of rabble in green petticoats and red caps dancing away with the most furious eagerness. i stood for a time in perplexity whether i should go to them or not, because in my flurry i feared they were a gang of hungry gipsies, and that they would do nothing less than slaughter me for their supper, and swallow me without salt: but after gazing upon them for some time, i could see that they were better and handsomer than the swarthy, lying egyptian race. so i ventured to approach them, but very softly, like a hen treading upon hot embers, that i might learn who they were; and at length i took the liberty of addressing them in this guise, with my head and back lowered horizontally: "fair assembly, as i perceive that you are gentry from distant parts, will you deign to take a bard along with you, who is desirous of travelling?" at these words the hurly-burly was hushed, and all fixed their eyes upon me: "_bard_," squeaked one--"_travel_," said another--"_along with us_," said the third. by this time i saw some looking particularly fierce upon me; then they began to whisper in each others ears certain secret words, and to look at me; at length the whispering ceased, and each laying his gripe upon me they raised me upon their shoulders, as we do a knight of the shire, and then away with me they flew like the wind, over houses and fields, cities and kingdoms, seas and mountains; and so quickly did they fly that i could fasten my sight upon nothing, and what was worse, i began to suspect that my companions, by their frowning and knitting their brows at me, wanted me to sing blasphemy against my king and maker. "well," said i to myself, "i may now bid farewell to life, these cursed witches will convey me to the pantry or cellar of some nobleman, and there leave me, to pay with my neck for their robberies; or they will abandon me stark naked, to freeze to death upon the sea-brink of old shire caer, {3} or some other cold, distant place;" but on reflecting that all the old hags whom i had once known had long been dead and buried, and perceiving that these people took pleasure in holding or waving me over hollow ravines, i conjectured that they were not witches but beings who are called fairies. we made no stop until i found myself by the side of a huge castle, the most beautiful i had ever seen, with a large pool or moat surrounding it: then they began to consult what they should do with me; "shall we go direct to the castle with him?" said one. "no, let us hang him or cast him into the lake, he is not worth being shown to our great prince," said another. "did he say his prayers before he went to sleep?" said a third. at the mention of prayers, i uttered a confused groan to heaven for pardon and assistance; and as soon as i recollected myself, i saw a light at a vast distance bursting forth, oh, how glorious! as it drew nigh, my companions were darkening and vanishing, and quickly there came floating towards us a form of light over the castle, whereupon the fairies abandoned their hold of me, but as they departed they turned upon me a hellish scowl, and unless the angel had supported me, i should have been dashed into pieces small enough for a pasty, by the time i reached the ground. "what is your business here?" said the angel. "in verity my lord," i replied, "i do not know what place _here_ is, nor what is my business, nor what i am myself, nor what has become of my other part; i had four limbs and a head, and whether i have left them at home, or whether the fairies, who have certainly not acted fairly with me, have cast me into some abyss, (for i remember to have passed over several horrid ravines,) i cannot tell, sir, though you should cause me to be hung." "fairly indeed," said he, "they would have acted with you, if i had not come just in time to save you from the clutches of these children of hell." "since you have such a particular desire to see the course of the _little world_," said he, "i have received commands to give you a sight of it, in order that you may see your error in being discontented with your station, and your own country. come with me," he added, "for a peregrination," and at the word he snatched me up, just as the dawn was beginning to break, far above the topmost tower of the castle; we rested in the firmament upon the ledge of a light cloud to gaze upon the rising sun; but my heavenly companion, was far more luminous than the sun, but all his splendour was upward, by reason of a veil which was betwixt him and the nether regions. when the light of the sun became stronger, i could see, between the two luminaries, the vast air-encircled world, like a little round bullet, very far beneath us. "look now," said the angel, giving me a different telescope from that which i had on the mountain. when i peeped through this i saw things in a manner altogether different from that in which i had seen them before, and in a much clearer one. i saw a city of monstrous size, and thousands of cities and kingdoms within it; and the great ocean, like a moat, around it, and other seas, like rivers, intersecting it. by dint of long gazing i could see that it was divided into three exceedingly large streets; each street with a large, magnificent gate at the bottom, and each gate with a fair tower over it. upon each tower there was a damsel of wonderful beauty, standing in the sight of the whole street; and the three towers appeared to reach up behind the walls to the skirts of the castle afore-mentioned. crossing these three huge streets i could see another; it was but little and mean in comparison with them, but it was clean and neat, and on a higher foundation than the other streets, proceeding upward towards the east, whilst the three others ran downward towards the north to the great gates. i now ventured to enquire of my companion whether i might be permitted to speak. "certainly," said the angel, "speak out! but listen attentively to my answers, so that i may not have to say the same thing to you more than once." "i will, my lord," said i. "now pray, what place is the castle yonder in the north?" "the castle above in the air," said he, "belongs to belial, prince of the power of the air, and governor of all the great city below: it is called delusive castle, for belial is a great deluder, and by his wiles he keeps under his banner all you see, with the exception of the little street yonder. he is a great prince, with thousands of princes under him--what were caesar or alexander the great compared with him? what are the turk and old lewis of france, but his servants? great, yea, exceeding great, are the power, subtlety, and diligence of the prince belial; and his armies in the country below are innumerable." "for what purpose," said i, "are the damsels standing yonder, and who are they?" "softly," said the angel, "one question at once: they are there to be loved and to be adored." "and no wonder indeed," said i, "since they are so amiable; if i possessed feet and hands as formerly, i would go and offer love and adoration to them myself." "hush, hush," said he, "if you would do so with your members, it is well that you are without them; know, thou foolish spirit, that these three princesses are only three destructive deluders, daughters of the prince belial, and all their beauty and affability, which are irradiating the streets, are only masks over deformity and cruelty; the three within are like their father, replete with deadly poison." "woe's me; is it possible," said i, quite sad, and smitten with love of them! "it is but too true, alas," said he. "thou admirest the radiance with which they shine upon their adorers; but know that there is in that radiance a very wondrous charm; it blinds men from looking back, it deafens them lest they should hear their danger, and it burns them with ceaseless longing for more of it; which longing, is itself a deadly poison, breeding, within those who feel it, diseases not to be got rid of, which no physician can cure, not even death, nor anything, unless the heavenly medicine, which is called repentance, is procured, to cast out the evil in time, before it is imbibed too far, by excessive looking upon them." "but how is it," said i, "that belial does not wish to have these adorers himself?" "he has them," said the angel; "the old fox is adored in his daughters, because, whilst a man sticks to these, or to one of the three, he is securely under the mark of belial, and wears his livery." "what are the names," said i, "of those three deceivers?" "the farthest, yonder," said he, "is called _pride_, the eldest daughter of belial; the second is _pleasure_; and _lucre_ is the next to us: these three are the trinity which the world adores." "pray, has this great, distracted city," said i, "any better name than _bedlam the great_?" "it has," he replied, "it is called _the city of perdition_." "woe is me," said i, "are all that are contained therein people of perdition?" "the whole," said he, "except some who may escape out to the most high city above, ruled by the king emmanuel." "woe's me and mine," said i, "how shall they escape, ever gazing, as they are, upon the thing which blinds them more and more, and which plunders them in their blindness?" "it would be quite impossible," said he, "for one man to escape from thence, did not emmanuel send his messengers, early and late, from above, to persuade them to turn to him, their lawful king, from the service of the rebel, and also transmit to some, the present of a precious ointment, called _faith_, to anoint their eyes with; and whosoever obtains this _true_ ointment, (for there is a counterfeit of it, as there is of every thing else, in the city of perdition,) and anoints himself with it, will see his wounds, and his madness, and will not tarry a minute longer here, though belial should give him his three daughters, yea, or the fourth, which is the greatest of all, to do so." "what are those great streets called?" said i. "each is called," he replied, "by the name of the princess who governs it: the first is the street of _pride_, the middle one the street of _pleasure_, and the nearest, the street of _lucre_." "pray tell me," said i, "who are dwelling in these streets? what is the language which they speak? what are the tenets which they hold; and to what nation do they belong?" "many," said he, "of every language, faith, and nation under the sun, are living in each of those vast streets below; and there are many living in each of the three streets alternately, and every one as near as possible to the gate; and they frequently remove, unable to tarry long in the one, from the great love they bear to the princess of some other street; and the old fox looks slyly on, permitting every one to love his choice, or all three if he pleases, for then he is most sure of him." "come nearer to them," said the angel, and hurried with me downwards, shrouded in his impenetrable veil, through much noxious vapour which was rising from the city; presently we descended in the street of pride, upon a spacious mansion open at the top, whose windows had been dashed out by dogs and crows, and whose owners had departed to england or france, to seek there for what they could have obtained much easier at home; thus, instead of the good, old, charitable, domestic family of yore, there were none at present but owls, crows, or chequered magpies, whose hooting, cawing and chattering were excellent comments on the practices of the present owners. there were in that street, myriads of such abandoned palaces, which might have been, had it not been for pride, the resorts of the best, as of yore, places of refuge for the weak, schools of peace and of every kind of goodness; and blessings to thousands of small houses around. from the summit of this ruin, we had scope and leisure enough to observe the whole street on either side. there were fair houses of wondrous height and magnificence--and no wonder, as there were emperors, kings, and hundreds of princes there, and thousands of nobles and gentry, and very many women of every degree. i saw a vain high-topt creature, like a ship at full sail, walking as if in a frame, carrying about her full the amount of a pedlar's pack, and having at her ears, the worth of a good farm, in pearls; and there were not a few of her kind--some were singing, in order that their voices might be praised; some were dancing, to show their figures; others were painting to improve their complexions; others had been trimming themselves before the glass, for three hours, learning to smile, moving pins and making gestures and putting themselves in attitudes. there was many a vain creature there, who did not know how to open her lips to speak, or to eat, nor, from sheer pride, to look under her feet; and many a ragged shrew, who would insist that she was as good a gentlewoman as the best in the street; and many an ambling fop, who could winnow beans with the mere wind of his train. whilst i was looking, from afar upon these, and a hundred such, behold! there passed by towards us, a bouncing, variegated lady with a lofty look, and with a hundred folks gazing after her; some bent themselves as if to adore her; some few thrust something into her hand. being unable to imagine who she was, i enquired. "oh," replied my friend, "she is one who has all her portion in sight, yet you see how many foolish people are seeking her, and the meanest of them in possession of all the attainments she can boast of. _she will not have what she can gain_, _and will never gain what she desires_, and she will speak to no one but her betters, on account of her mother's telling her, 'that a young woman cannot do a worse thing, than be humble in her love.'" thereupon came out from beneath us a pillar of a man, who had been an alderman, and in many official situations; he came spreading his wings as if to fly, though he could scarcely draw one knee after the other, on account of the gout, and various other genteel disorders: notwithstanding which, you could not obtain from him, but through a very great favour, a glance or a nod, though you should call him by his titles and his offices. from this being i turned my eyes to the other side of the street, where i beheld a lusty young nobleman, with a number of people behind him; he had a sweet smile and a condescending air to every one who met him. "it is strange," said i, "that this young man and yonder personage should belong to the same street." "oh, the same princess pride rules them both," answered the angel,--"this young man is only speaking fair on account of the errand he comes upon; he is seeking popularity at present, with the intent to raise himself thereby to the highest office in the kingdom--it is easy for him to lament to the people how much they are wronged by the oppression of bad masters; but his own exaltment, and not the weal of the kingdom, is the heart of the matter." after gazing for a long time, i perceived at the gate of pride, a fair city upon seven hills, and on the top of its lofty palace there was a triple crown, with swords and keys crossed. "lo! there is rome," said i, "and therein dwells the pope." "yes, most usually," said the angel; "but he has a palace in each of the other streets." over against rome, i could see a city with an exceedingly fair palace, and upon it was mounted on high, a half-moon on a banner of gold, and by that i knew that the turk was there. next to the gate after those, was the palace of lewis xiv., of france, as i understood by his arms, three fleurs-de-lis upon a silver banner hanging aloft. whilst looking on the height and majesty of these palaces, i perceived that there was much passing and repassing from the one to the other, and i asked what was the cause thereof? "oh, there is many a dark cause," said the angel, "why those three crafty, powerful heads should communicate; but though they account themselves fully adapted to espouse the three princesses above, their power and subtlety are nothing when compared with these; yes, belial the great does not esteem the whole city, (though so numerous be its kings), as equivalent to his daughters. notwithstanding that he offers them in marriage to everybody, he has still never given one entirely to anybody yet. there has been a rivalry between these three concerning them:--the turk, who calls himself _god upon earth_, wished for the eldest, pride, in marriage. 'no,' said the king of france, 'she belongs to me, as i keep all my subjects in her street, and likewise bring many to her from england and other countries.' spain would have the princess lucre, in despite of holland and all the jews. england would have the princess pleasure, in despite of the pagans. but the pope would have the whole three, and with better reason than all the rest together, therefore belial has stationed him next to them in the three streets." "and is it on this account that there is this intercourse at present," said i. "no;" he replied, "belial has arranged the matter between them for some time; but at present he has caused them to lay their heads together, how they may best destroy the cross street yonder, which is the city of emmanuel, and particularly one great palace which is there, out of sheer venom at perceiving that it is a fairer edifice than exists in all the city of perdition. belial moreover has promised to those who shall accomplish its destruction, the half of his kingdom during his life, and the whole when he is dead. but, notwithstanding the greatness of his power and the depth of his wiles; notwithstanding the multitude of crafty emperors, kings, and rulers, who are beneath his banner in the vast city of perdition; and notwithstanding the bravery of his countless legions on the outer side of the gates in the world below; notwithstanding all this," said the angel, "he shall see that it is a task above his power to perform. yes; however great belial may be, he shall find that there is one greater than he, in the little street yonder." i was unable to hear his angelic reasons completely, from the tumbling there was along this slippery street every hour, and i could see some people with ladders scaling the tower, and having reached the highest step fall headlong to the bottom. "to what place are those fools seeking to get?" said i. "to a place high enough," said he; "they are seeking to break into the treasury of the princess." "i will warrant it is full enough," said i. "it is," he replied; "and with every thing which belongs to this street, for the purpose of being distributed amongst the inhabitants. there you will find every species of warlike arms to subdue and to over-run countries; every species of arms of gentility, banners, escutcheons, books of pedigree, stanzas and poems relating to ancestry, with every species of brave garments; admirable stories, lying portraits; all kinds of tints and waters to embellish the countenance; all sorts of high offices and titles; and, to be brief, there is every thing there that is adapted to cause a man to think better of himself, and worse of others than he ought. the chief officers of this treasury are masters of ceremonies, vagabonds, genealogists, bards, orators, flatterers, dancers, tailors, mantua-makers, and the like." from this great street we proceeded to the next, where the princess lucre reigns; it was a full and prodigiously wealthy street, yet not half so splendid and clean as the street of pride, nor its people half so bold and lofty looking; for they were skulking mean-looking fellows, for the most part. there were in this street thousands of spaniards, hollanders, venetians, and jews, and a great many aged, decrepit people were also there. "pray, sir," said i, "what kind of men are these?" "they have all gain in view," said he. "at the lowest extremity, on one side, you will still see the pope; also subduers of kingdoms and their soldiers, oppressors, foresters, shutters up of the common foot-paths, justices and their bribers, and the whole race of lawyers down to the catchpole. on the other side," said he, "there are physicians, apothecaries, doctors, misers, merchants, extortioners, usurers, refusers to pay tithes, wages, rents, or alms which were left to schools and charity houses; purveyors and chapmen who keep and raise the market to their own price; shopkeepers (or sharpers) who make money out of the necessity or ignorance of the buyer; stewards of every degree, sturdy beggars, taverners who plunder the families of careless men of their property, and the country of its barley for the bread of the poor. all these are thieves of the first water," said he; "and the rest are petty thieves, for the most part, and keep at the upper end of the street; they consist of highway robbers, tailors, weavers, millers, measurers of wet and dry, and the like." in the midst of this discourse, i heard a prodigious tumult at the lower end of the street, where there was a huge crowd of people thronging towards the gate, with such pushing and disputing as caused me to imagine that there was a general fray on foot, until i demanded of my friend what was the matter. "there is an exceeding great treasure in that tower," said the angel, "and all that concourse is for the purpose of choosing a treasurer to the princess, in lieu of the pope, who has been turned out of that office." so we went to see the election. the men who were competing for the office were the _stewards_, the _usurers_, the _lawyers_, and the _merchants_, and the richest of the whole was to obtain it, because the more you have the more you shall crave, is the epidemic curse of the street. the stewards were rejected at the first offer, lest they should impoverish the whole street, and, as they had raised their palaces on the ruins of their masters, lest they should in the end turn the princess out of her possession; then the dispute arose between the three others; the merchants had the most silks, the lawyers most mortgages on lands, and the usurers the greatest number of full bags, and bills and bonds. "ha! they will not agree to night," said the angel, "so come away; the lawyers are richer than the merchants, the usurers are richer than the lawyers, and the stewards than the usurers, and belial than the whole, for he owns them all, and their property too." "for what reason is the princess keeping these thieves about her?" i demanded. "what can be more proper," said he, "when she herself is the arrantest of thieves." i was astonished to hear him call the princess thus, and the greatest potentates thieves of the first water. "pray, my lord," said i, "how can you call those illustrious people greater thieves than robbers on the highway?" "you are but a dupe," said he; "is not the villain who goes over the world with his sword in his hand and his plunderers behind him, burning and slaying, wresting kingdoms from their right owners, and looking forward to be adored as a conqueror, worse than the rogue who takes a purse upon the highway? what is the tailor who cabbages a piece of cloth, to the great man who takes a piece out of the parish common? ought not the latter to be called a thief of the first water, or ten times more a rogue than the other?--the tailor merely takes snips of cloth from his customer, whilst the other takes from the poor man the sustenance of his beast, and by so doing the sustenance of himself and his little ones--what is taking a handful of flour at the mill, to keeping a hundred sacksfull to putrify, in order to obtain afterwards a four-fold price?--what is the half-naked soldier who takes your garment away with his sword, to the lawyer, who takes your whole estate from you with a goose's quill, without any claim or bond upon it?--and what is the pickpocket who takes five pounds, to the cogger of dice who will cheat you of a hundred in the third part of a night?--and what is the jockey who tricks you in some old unsound horse, to the apothecary who chouses you of your money, and your life also with some old unwholesome physic?--and yet what are all these thieves to the mistress-thief there, who takes away from the whole all these things, and their hearts and their souls at the end of the fair?" from this dirty, disorderly street we proceeded to the street of the princess pleasure, in which i beheld a number of britons, french, italians, pagans, &c. she was a princess exceedingly beautiful to the eye, with a cup of drugged wine in the one hand, and a crown and a harp in the other. in her treasury there were numberless pleasures and pretty things to obtain the custom of every body, and to keep them in the service of her father. yea! there were many who escaped to this charming street, to cast off the melancholy arising from their losses and debts in the other streets. it was a street prodigiously crowded, especially with young people; and the princess was careful to please every body, and to keep an arrow adapted to every mark. if you are thirsty, you can have here your choice of drink; if you love dancing and singing, you can get here your fill. if her comeliness entice you to lust for the body of a female, she has only to lift up her finger to one of the officers of her father, (who surround her at all times, though invisibly), and they will fetch you a lass in a minute, or the _body_ of a harlot newly buried, and will go into her in lieu of a _soul_, rather than you should abandon so good a design. here there are handsome houses with very pleasant gardens, teeming orchards, and shadowy groves, adapted to all kinds of secret meetings, in which one can hunt birds and a certain fair coney; here there are delightful rivers for fishing, and wide fields hedged around, in which it is pleasant to hunt the hare and fox. all along the street you could see farces being acted, juggling going on, and all kinds of tricks of legerdemain; there was plenty of licentious music, vocal and instrumental, ballad singing, and every species of merriment; there was no lack of male and female beauty, singing and dancing; and there were here many from the street of pride, who came to receive praise and adoration. in the interior of the houses i could see people on beds of silk and down, wallowing in voluptuousness; some were engaged at billiardplaying, and were occasionally swearing or cursing the table keeper; others were rattling the dice or shuffling the cards. my guide pointed out to me some from the street of lucre, who had chambers in this street; they had run hither to reckon their money, but they did not tarry long lest some of the innumerable tempting things to be met with here should induce them to part with their pelf, without usury. i could see throngs of individuals feasting, with something of every creature before them; oh, how every one did gorge, swallowing mess after mess of dainties, sufficient to have feasted a moderate man for three weeks, and when they could eat no more, they belched out a thanks for what they had received, and then gave the health of the king and every jolly companion; after which, they drowned the savour of the food, and their cares besides, in an ocean of wine; then they called for tobacco, and began telling stories of their neighbours--and, i observed, that all the stories were well received, whether true or false, provided they were amusing and of late date, above all if they contained plenty of scandal: there they sat, each with his clay pistol puffing forth fire and smoke, and slander to his neighbour. at length i was fain to request my guide to permit me to move on; the floor was impure with saliva and spilt drink, and i was apprehensive that certain heavy hiccups which i heard, might be merely the prelude to something more disagreeable. from thence we went to a place where we heard a terrible noise, a medley of striking, jabbering, crying and laughing, shouting and singing. "here's bedlam, doubtless," said i. by the time we entered the den the brawling had ceased. of the company, one was on the ground insensible; another was in a yet more deplorable condition; another was nodding over a hearthful of battered pots, pieces of pipes, and oozings of ale. and what was all this, upon enquiry, but a carousal of seven thirsty neighbours--a goldsmith, a pilot, a smith, a miner, a chimney-sweeper, a poet, and a parson who had come to preach sobriety, and to exhibit in himself what a disgusting thing drunkenness is. the origin of the last squabble was a dispute which had arisen among them, about which of the seven loved a pipe and flagon best. the poet had carried the day over all the rest, with the exception of the parson, who, out of respect for his cloth, had the most votes, being placed at the head of the jolly companions--the poet singing:- "oh, where are there seven beneath the sky, who with these seven for thirst can vie? but the best for good ale, these seven among, are the jolly divine, and the son of song." disgusted with these drunken swine, we went nearer to the gate, to take a peep at the follies of the palace of _love_, the purblind king; it is a place easy to enter and difficult to escape from, and in it there is a prodigious number of chambers. in the hall opposite to the door was insane cupid, with his two arrows upon his bow, shooting tormenting poison, which is called _bliss_. upon the floor i could see many fair damsels, finely dressed, walking about, and behind them a parcel of miserable youths gazing upon their beauty, and each eager to obtain a glance from his mistress, fearing her frown far worse than death. one was bending to the ground and placing a letter in the hands of his goddess; another a piece of music, all in fearful expectation, like school-boys showing their tasks to their master; and the damsels would glance back upon them a smile, to keep up the fervour of their adorers, but nothing more, lest they should lose their desire, become cured of their wound and depart. on going forward to the parlour, i beheld females learning to dance and to sing, and to play on instruments, for the purpose of making their lovers seven times more foolish than they were already: on going to the buttery, i found them taking lessons in delicacy and propriety of eating: on going to the cellar, i saw them making up potent love drinks, from nail-parings and the like: on going to the chambers, we beheld a fellow in a secret apartment, putting himself into all kinds of attitudes, to teach his beloved elegant manners; another learning in a glass to laugh in a becoming manner, without showing to his love too much of his teeth; another we found embellishing his tale before going to her, and repeating the same lesson a hundred times. tired of this insiped folly, i went to another chamber, where there was a nobleman, who had sent for a bard from the street of pride, to compose a eulogistic strain on his angel, and a laudatory ode on himself; the bard was haranguing upon his talent--"i can," said he, "compare her to all the red and white under the sun, and say that her hair is a hundredfold more yellow than gold; and as for your ode, i can carry your genealogy through the bowels of an infinity of knights and princes, and through the waters of the deluge, even as high up as adam." "lo!" said i, "here is a bard who is a better inventor than myself." "come away, come away," said the angel, "these people are thinking to bamboozle the woman, but when they go to her, they will be sure to obtain from her as good as they bring." on leaving these people, we caught a glimpse of some cells, where more obscene practices were going on than modesty will suffer me to mention, which caused my companion to snatch me away in wrath, from this palace of whimsicality and wantonness, to the treasury of the princess, (because we went where we pleased, in spite of doors and locks.) there we beheld a multitude of beautiful damsels, all sorts of drink, fruit, and dainties; all kinds of instruments and books of music, harps, pipes, poems, carols, &c.; all kinds of games of chance, draught-boards, dice-boxes, dice, cards, &c.; all kinds of models of banquets and mansions, figures of men, contrivances and amusements; all kinds of waters, perfumes, colors and salves to make the ugly handsome, and the old look young, and to make the harlot and her putrid bones sweet for a time. to be brief, there were here all kinds of _shadows_ of pleasure, all kinds of _seeming_ delight; and to tell the truth, i believe this place would have ensnared me, had not my friend, without ceremony, snatched me far away from the three deceitful towers, to the upper end of the street, and set me down by a castellated palace of prodigious size, and very agreeable at first sight, but vile and terribly revolting on the farthest side, though it was only seen with great difficulty on the side of its deformity; it had a multitude of doors, and all the doors were splendid on the outside, but filthy within. "pray, my lord," said i, "if it please you, what is this wonderful place?" "this," said he, "is the palace of another daughter of belial, who is called _hypocrisy_; she here keeps her school; there is not a youth or damsel within the whole city, that has not been her scholar, and the people in general, have so well imbibed what she has taught, that her lessons have become a second nature, and intertwined with all their thoughts, words and actions, almost since the time of their childhood." after i had inspected for a time the falsehood of every corner of the edifice, a procession passed by with a deal of weeping and groaning, and many men and horses dight in habits of deep mourning. presently came a wretched widow, closely muffled, in order that she might look no more on this vile world; she was feebly crying, and groaning slowly in the intervals of fainting fits--verily, i could not help weeping myself, out of pity. "pooh, pooh," said the angel, "keep your tears for something more worthy; these faintings are only a lesson of hypocrisy, and in her great school these black garments were fashioned. there is not one of these people weeping seriously; the widow, before the body left the house, had wedded another man, in her heart; and if she could get rid of the expense attending the body, she would not care a rush if the soul of her husband were at the bottom of hell; nor would her relations, more than herself; because when his disease was hardest upon him, instead of giving him salutary counsel and praying fervently, for the lord to have mercy upon him, they only talked to him about his effects, and about his testament, or his pedigree, or what a handsome vigorous man he had been, and the like; so all this lamenting is mere sham--some are mourning in obedience to custom and habit, others for company's sake, and others for hire." scarcely had this procession passed by, when, lo, another crowd came in sight. a certain nobleman, prodigiously magnificient, and his lady at his side, were going along in state; many respectable men were capping them, and there were a thousand also behind them, shewing them every kind of submission and reverence, and by the _favours_, i perceived that it was a wedding: "he must be a very exalted nobleman," said i, "who merits so much respect from all these people." "if you should consider the whole, you would say something quite different," said my guide; "that nobleman is one from the street of pleasure; and the female, is a damsel from the street of pride, and the old man yonder, who is speaking with him, is one from the street of lucre, who has lent money upon nearly all the land of the nobleman, and is to-day come to settle accounts." we drew nigh to hear the conversation. "verily, sir," says the usurer, "i would not for all i possess, that you should want any thing that i can offer, in order that you may appear today like yourself, especially since you have met with a lady so amiable and illustrious as this." (the subtle old dog knowing perfectly well what she was all the time.) "by the lord above," said the nobleman, "the next greatest pleasure, to looking at her beauty, is to listen to your obliging discourse; i would rather pay you usury than obtain money gratis from any one else." "of a surety, my lord," said one of his principal associates, who was called flatterer, "my uncle shows you no respect but what is fully your right; but with your permission, i will assert, that he has not bestowed half the commendation on her ladyship which she deserves. i cannot myself produce, and i will defy any man to produce one lovelier than herself, in the whole street of pride; nor one more gallant than you, my lord, in the whole street of pleasure; nor one more courteous than you, dear uncle, in the whole street of lucre." "oh, that is only your good opinion," replied the lord, "but i certainly believe that two never came together with more mutual love than we." as they proceeded, the crowd increased, and every one had a fair smile and a low bow for the other, and forward they ran to meet each other with their noses to the ground, like two cocks going to engage. "know now," said the angel, "that you have not yet seen a _bow_ here, nor heard a _word_, that did not belong to the lessons of hypocrisy. there is not here one, after all this courtesy, that has a farthing's worth of love for the other; indeed they are for the most part enemies to one another. the nobleman here is only a butt amongst them, and every one has his hit at him. the lady has her mind fixed upon his _grandeur_ and his _nobility_, whereby she hopes to obtain precedence over many of her acquaintances. the miser has his eye upon his _land_, for his own son; and the others, to a man, on the money, which he is to receive as her portion, because they are all his subjects, that is, his merchants, his tailors, his shoemakers, or his other tradesmen, who have arrayed him and maintained him in all this great splendour, without yet obtaining one farthing, nor any thing but fair words, and now and then, threats perhaps. now observe how many masks, how many twists, hypocrisy has given to the face of the truth? he is promising grandeur to his love, having already disposed of his land; and she is promising portion and purity, whereas she has no purity, but purity of dress, and as for her portion it will not be long in existence, there being an inveterate cancer in it, even as there is in her own body." "well, here is a proof," said i, "that one never ought to judge by appearances." "yes," said he, "but come away, and i will show you something more." whereupon he transported me up to where stood the churches of the city of perdition, for every body in it had an appearance of faith, even in the age of disbelief. first we went to the temple of heathenism, where i could see some adoring the form of a man, others that of the sun, others that of the moon, and an innumerable quantity of similar other gods, even down to leek and garlick, and a great goddess termed _delusion_, obtaining general adoration, although you might see something of the remnants of the christian faith amongst some of these people. thence we went to a meeting of dummies, where there was nothing but groaning, and shivering, and beating the breast. "though there is here," said the angel, "an appearance of repentance and great submission, there is nothing in reality, but opinionativeness and obstinacy, and pride, and thick, thick darkness. notwithstanding they talk so much about their _internal light_, they have not even the spectacle-glasses of nature which the heathens have, whom you lately saw." from these dumb dogs we chanced to turn to a large church open at the top, with a prodigious number of sandals {23} at the gate, by which i knew that it was the temple of the turks; these people had only a dim and motley colored spectacle glass, which they called the koran, yet through this they were always gazing up to the top of the church for their prophet, who, according to the promise which he gave them, ought to have returned to them long ago, but has not yet made his appearance. from there we went to the church of the jews, people who had failed to find the way of escape from the city of perdition, although they possessed a pure, clear spectacle glass, on account of a film having come over their eyes from long gazing, for want of having anointed them with the precious ointment, _faith_. we next went to that of the papists. "behold," said the angel, "the church which _deceiveth the nations_! hypocrisy has built this church at her own expense; for the papists permit, yea enjoin the breaking of any oath made to a heretic, although it were taken upon the sacrament." from the chancel we passed through key-holes to the upper end of a cell which stood apart, full of burning candles at mid-day, where we perceived a priest with his crown shaven, walking about as if he were in expectation of visitors; presently there came a rotund figure of a woman, and a very pretty girl behind her, and they went upon their knees before him to confess their sins. "my spiritual father," said the good woman, "i labour under a burden too heavy to be borne, unless you in your mercy will lighten it; i married a member of the church of england, and"--"what," said the shaven crown, "married a heretic! married an enemy! there is no pardon for you, now or ever." at this word she fainted, and he vociferated curses at her. "oh, and what is worse," said she when she revived. "i have killed him!" "o, ho! you have killed him, well that is something towards obtaining reconciliation with the church; but i assure you, that unless you had killed him, you would never have got absolution, nor purgatory, but would have gone plump to the devil. but where is your offering to the cloister?" said he, snarling. "here," she replied, and handed him a pretty big purse of money. "well," said he, "i will now make your peace, and your penance is to remain a widow as long as you live, lest you should make another bad bargain." as soon as she had departed, the damsel came forward to make her confession. "your pardon, my father confessor," said she, "i have borne a child and murdered it." "very fair, in troth," said the confessor, "and who was the father?" "verily," said she, "it was one of your monastery"--"hush, hush," said he, "no scandal against the men of the church: but where is your atonement to the church?" "there," said she, handing him a gold coin. "you must repent, and your penance is to watch to night by my bedside," said he, smiling archly upon her. at this moment appeared four other bald-pates, hauling in a lad to the confessor, the poor fellow looking as pleased as if he were going to the gallows. "we have brought you a cub," said one of the four, "that you may award him a proper punishment for revealing the secrets of the catholic church." "what secrets?" said the confessor, looking towards a murky cell which was nigh at hand. "but confess villain, what did you say?" "in truth," said the wretch, "one of my acquaintances asked me, if i had seen the _souls_ shrieking beneath the altar, _on the day of the festival of the dead_? and i said, that i had heard the voice, but that i had seen nothing." "ah, sir, say the whole," said one of the others. "but i added," said he, "that i had heard that you were only deceiving us ignorant people, and that instead of souls shrieking, there were only seacrabs crackling beneath the carpet,"--"o son of the fiend! blasphemous monster!" said the confessor; "but proceed caitiff."--"and that it was a wire which turned the image of saint peter," said the fellow, "and that it was by the wire that the holy ghost descended from the gallery of the cross upon the priest." "o heritage of hell!" said the confessor. "so ho here! take him torturers, and cast him into the smoky chimney yonder for telling tales." "here you see," said the angel, "the church which hypocrisy desires should be called the catholic church, and the members of which she would fain have the world consider, as the only people destined to be saved; it must be owned, indeed, that they had the true spectacle-glass, but they spoiled it by cutting upon the glass numerous images; and they had true faith, but they mingled that precious ointment with their own novel inventions, so that at present they see no more than the heathen." thence we went to a barn, where stood a pert, conceited fellow preaching with great glibness, frequently repeating the same thing three times. "this man and his hearers," said the angel, "possess the true spectacle-glass, to see the things which pertain to their peace, but they lack now in their old age, a very essential matter which is called perfect love. various are the causes which drive folks hither; some come out of respect to their forefathers, some out of ignorance, and many for worldly advantage. they will make you believe with their faces that they are being strangled, but they can swallow a toad if necessary; and thus the princess hypocrisy does not disdain to teach some in barns." "pray," said i, "where now is the _church of england_?" "o," said he, "in the city high above, it constitutes a great part of the _catholic church_, and in the city here below, there are some probationary churches belonging to it, where the english and welsh are under probation for a time, in order to become qualified to have their names written in the book of the catholic church, and they who become so, _blessed are they for ever_. but alas, there are but very few who are adapting themselves to obtain honour above; because, instead of looking thitherward, too many suffer themselves to be blinded by the three princesses below, and hypocrisy keeps many with one eye upon the city above, and the other on that below; yea, hypocrisy has succeeded in enticing many from their path, after they have overcome the three other deceivers. come in here," said he, "and you will see something more;" whereupon he carried me to the gallery of one of the churches in wales, the people being in the midst of the service. and lo! some were whispering, talking and laughing; some looking upon the pretty women; others were examining the dress of their neighbours from top to toe; some were pushing themselves forward and snarling at one another about rank; some were dozing; others were busily engaged in their devotions, but many of these were playing a hypocritical part. "you have not seen yet," said the angel, "no, not amongst the infidels, shamelessness as open and barefaced as this: but thus, alas, we see _that the corruption of the best thing is the corruption worst of all_." the congregation then proceeded to take the sacrament, and every one displayed reverential feelings at the altar. however, (through the glass of my companion,) i could see one receiving the bread into his belly, under the figure of a _mastiff_, another under that of a _swine_, another like a _mole_, another like a _winged serpent_, and a few, o how very few, receiving a ray of celestial light with the bread and the wine. "yonder," said he, "is a roundhead who is about to become sheriff, and because the law enjoins, that every one shall receive the communion in the church before he obtains the office, he has come hither rather than lose it; but though there are many here who rejoice at seeing him, there has been no joy amongst us for his conversion, for he has only turned for the time; and thus you see how bold hypocrisy must be to present herself at the altar before emmanuel, who is not to be deceived. but however great she be in the city of perdition, she can effect nothing in the city of emmanuel, above the wall yonder." thereupon we turned our faces from the great city of perdition, and went up to the other little city. in going along i could see at the upper end of the streets, many turning half-way from the temptations of the _gates of perdition_, and seeking for the _gate of life_; but whether it was that they failed to find it, or grew tired upon the way, i could not see that any went through, except one sorrowful faced man, who ran forward resolutely, while thousands on each side of him were calling him fool, some scoffing him, others threatening, him and his friends laying hold upon him, and entreating him not to take a step by which he would lose the whole world at once. "i only lose," said he, "a very small portion of it, and if i should lose the whole, pray what loss is it? for what is there in the world so desirable, unless a man should desire deceit, and violence, and misery, and wretchedness, giddiness and distraction. _contentment and tranquillity_," said he, "constitute the happiness of man; but in your city there are no such things to be found. because who is there here content with his station? _higher_, _higher_, is what every one endeavours to be in the street of _pride_; give, give us a little more, says every one in the street of _lucre_; sweet, sweet, pray give me some more of it, is the cry of every one in the street of _pleasure_. and as for tranquillity, where is it? and who obtains it? if you be a great man, flattery and envy are killing you; if you be poor, every one is trampling upon and despising you; after having become an inventor, if you exalt your head and seek for praise, you will be called a boaster and a coxcomb; if you lead a godly life and resort to the church and the altar, you will be called a hypocrite; if you do not, then you are an infidel or a heretic; if you be merry, you will be called a buffoon; if you are silent, you will be called a morose wretch; if you follow honesty, you are nothing but a simple fool; if you go neat, you are proud, if not, a swine; if you are smooth speaking, then you are false, or a trifler without meaning; if you are rough, you are an arrogant, disagreeable devil. behold the world that you magnify," said he, "pray take my share of it." whereupon he shook himself loose from them all, and away he went undauntedly to the narrow gate, and in spite of every obstacle he pushed his way through, we following him; while many men dressed in black upon the walls, on both sides of the gate, kept inviting the man and praising him. "who," said i, "are the men above dressed in black?" "the watchmen of the king emmanuel," replied the angel, "who, in the name of their master, are inviting people and assisting them through this gate." by this time we were by the gate; it was very low and narrow, and mean in comparison with the lower gates. on the two sides of the door were the _ten commandments_; upon the first slab on the right side was written, "_love the lord with thy whole heart_, _&c._," and upon the second slab on the other side, "love thy neighbour as thyself;" and above the whole, "_love not the world nor the things which are therein_." i had not looked long before the watchmen began to cry out to the men of perdition, "flee! flee, for your lives!" only a very few turned towards them once, some of whom asked, "flee from what?" "from the prince of this world, who reigns in the children of disobedience," said the watchman; "flee from the pollutions which are in the world through the lusts of the flesh, the lusts of the eyes, and the vanities of life; flee from the wrath which is coming to overwhelm you!" "what," exclaimed the other watchman, "is your beloved city but a vast glowing roof cast over hell, and if you were here, you might see the fire on the farther side of your walls kindling, to burn you down into hell." some mocked them, others threatened to stone them unless they ceased their unmannerly prate; but some few asked, "whither shall we fly?" "hither," said the watchman, "fly hither to your lawful king, who yet offers you pardon through us, if you return to your obedience, and abandon the rebel belial and his deceitful daughters. though their appearance is so splendid, it is only deception; belial at home is but a very poor prince, he has only you for fuel, and only you as roast and boiled to gnaw, and you are never sufficient, and there will never be an end to his hunger and your torments. and who would serve such a malicious butcher, in a temporary delirium here, and in eternal torments hereafter, who could obtain a life of happiness under a king merciful and charitable to his subjects, who is ever doing towards them the good offices of a shepherd, and endeavouring to keep them from belial, in order finally to give to each of them the kingdom in the country of light? o fools! will ye take the horrible enemy whose throat is burning with thirst for your blood, instead of the compassionate prince who has given his own blood to assist you?" but it did not appear that these reasonings, which were sufficient to soften a rock, proved of much advantage to them, and the principal cause of their being so unsuccessful was, that not many had leisure to hear, the greater part being employed in looking at the gates; and of those who did hear, there were not many who heeded, and of those there were not many who long remembered; some would not believe that it was belial whom they were serving, others could not conceive that yonder little, untrodden passage was the gate of life, and would not believe that the three other glittering gates were delusion, the castle preventing them from seeing their destruction till they rushed upon it. at this moment there came a troop of people from the street of pride, and knocked at the gate with great confidence but they were all so stiffnecked, that they could never go into a place so low, without soiling their perriwigs and their plumes, so they walked back in great ill humour. at the tail of these came a party from the street of lucre. said one, "is this the gate of life?" "yea," replied the watchmen who were above. "what is to be done," said he, "in order to pass through?" "read on each side of the door, and you will learn." the miser read the ten commandments. "who," he cried, "will say, that i have broken one of these?" but on looking aloft and seeing, "_love not the world_, _nor the things that are therein_," he started, and could not swallow that difficult sentence. there was among them an envious pig-tail who turned back on reading, "_love thy neighbour as thyself_;" and a perjurer, and a slanderer turned abruptly back on reading, "_bear not false witness_;" some physicians on reading, "_thou shalt commit no murder_," exclaimed "this is no place for us." to be brief, every one saw there something which troubled him, so they all went back to chew the cud. i may add, that there was not one of these people, but had so many bags and writings stuck about him, that he could never have gone through a place so narrow, even if he had made the attempt. presently there came a drove from the street of pleasure walking towards the gate. "please to inform us," said one to the watchman, "to what place this road is leading?" "this is the road," said the watchman, "which leads to eternal joy and happiness;" whereupon they all strove to get through, but they failed, for some had too much belly for a place so narrow; others were too weak to push, having been enfeebled by women, who impeded them moreover with their foolish whims. "o," said the watchman who was looking upon them, "it is of no use for you to attempt to go through with your vain toys; you must leave your pots, and your dishes, and your harlots, and all your other ware behind you, and then make haste." "how should we live then?" said the fiddler, who would have been through long ago, but for fear of breaking his instrument. "o," said the watchman, "you must take the word of the king, for sending you whatsover things may be for your advantage." "hey, hey," said one, "_a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush_;" and thereupon they all unanimously turned back. "come through now," said the angel, and he drew me in, and the first thing i saw in the porch was a large baptismal font, and by the side of it a spring of saline water. "why is this here at the entrance of the road?" said i. "it is here," said the angel, "because every one must wash himself therein, previous to obtaining honour in the palace of emmanuel; it is termed the _fountain of repentance_." above i could see written, "_this is the gate of the lord_, &c." the porch and also the street expanded, and became less difficult as one went forward. when we had gone a little way up the street i could hear a soft voice behind me saying, "_this is the road_, _walk in it_." the street was up-hill but was very clean and straight, and though the houses were lower here than in the city of _perdition_, yet they were more pleasant. if there is here less wealth, there is also less strife and care; if there are fewer dishes, there are fewer diseases; if there is less noise, there is also less sadness, and more pure joy. i was surprised at the calmness and the delightful tranquillity that reigned here, so little resembling what i had found below. instead of swearing and cursing, buffoonery, debauchery, and drunkenness; instead of pride and vanity, torpor in the one corner, and riot in the other; instead of all the loud broiling, and the boasting and bustling, and chattering, which were incessantly stupifying a man yonder; and instead of the numberless constant evils to be found below, you here saw sobriety, affability and cheerfulness, peace and thankfulness, clemency, innocence, and content upon the face of every body. no weeping here, except for the pollutions pervading the city of the enemy; no hatred or anger, except against sin; and that same hatred and anger against sin, always accompanied with a certainty of being able to subdue it; no fear but of incensing the king, who was ever more ready to forgive than be angry with his subjects; and here there was no sound but of psalms of praise to the heavenly guardian. by this time we had come in sight of a building superlatively beautiful. o, how glorious it was! no one in the city of perdition--neither the turk nor the mogul, nor any of the others, possessed any thing equal to it. "behold the _catholic church_!" said the angel. "is it here that emmanuel keeps his court?" said i. "yes," he replied, "this is his only terrestrial palace." "has he any crowned heads under him?" said i. "a few," was the answer. "there are your good queen anne, and some princes of denmark and germany, and a few of the other small princes." "what are they," said i, "compared with those who are under belial the great? he has emperors and kings without number." "notwithstanding all this;" said the angel, "not one of them can move a finger without the permission of emmanuel, nor belial himself either, because emmanuel is his lawful king; belial rebelled, and for his rebellion was made a captive, with permission however to visit for a little time the city of perdition, and delude any one he could into his own rebellion and a share of his punishment. so great is his malice, that he is continually using this permission, though aware that by so doing he will only add to his own misery; and so great is his love of wickedness, that he takes advantage of his half liberty, to seek to destroy this city and this edifice, though he has long known that their guardian is invincible." "pray, my lord," said i, "may we approach and take a more minute view of this magnificent palace?" for my heart had warmed towards the place at the first sight. "certainly you may," said the angel, "because there i have my place, charge, and employment." the nearer we went to it, the more i wondered, seeing how lofty, strong, beautiful, pure, and lovely every part of it was; how accurate was the workmanship, and how fair were its materials. a rock wrought with immense labour, and of prodigious strength was the foundation stone; living stones were placed upon this rock, and were cemented in so admirable a manner, that it was impossible for one stone to be so beautiful in another place, as it was in its own. i could see one part of the _church_ which cast out a very fair and remarkable cross, and the angel perceiving me gazing upon it asked me "if i knew that part." i did not know what to answer. "that is the _church of england_," said he. these words made me observe it with more attention than before, and on looking up i could perceive queen anne, on the pinnacle of the building, with a sword in each hand. with the one in her left, which is called justice, she preserves her subjects from the men of the city of perdition; and with the other in her right, which is the sword of the spirit, or the word of god, she preserves them from belial and his spiritual evils. under the left sword were the _laws of england_; under the other was a large _bible_. the sword of the spirit was fiery and of prodigious length, it would kill at a distance to which the other sword could not reach. i observed the other princes with the same arms, defending their portions of the church; but i could see that the portion of my queen was the fairest, and that her arms were the most bright. by her right hand, i could see a multitude of people in black--archbishops, bishops, and teachers, assisting her in sustaining the sword of the spirit; and some of the soldiers and civil officers, and a few, very few of the lawyers, supporting, along with her, the other sword. i obtained permission to rest a little by one of the magnificent doors, whither people were coming to obtain the dignity of the _universal church_; a tall angel was keeping the door, and the church within side was so vividly light, that it was useless for _hypocrisy_ to show her visage there--she sometimes appeared at the door, but never went in. after i had been gazing about a quarter of an hour, there came a _papist_, who imagined that the pope possessed the catholic church, and he claimed his share of dignity. "what proof of your dignity have you?" said the porter. "i have plenty," said he, "of _traditions of the fathers_, and _acts of the congresses of the church_; but what further assurance do i need, than the word of the pope, who sits upon the infallible chair?" then the porter proceeded to open an exceedingly large bible. "behold," said he, "the only statute book which we use here, prove your claim out of that, or depart;" whereupon he departed. at this moment there came a drove of quakers, who wanted to go in with their hats upon their heads, but they were turned back for their unmannerly behaviour. after that, some of the children of the barn, who had been there for some time, began to speak. "we have," said they, "no other statute than you, therefore show us our dignity." "stay," said the glittering porter, looking them fixedly in the face, "and i will show you something. do you see yonder," said he, "the rent which you made in the church, that you might go out of it, without the slightest cause or reason? and now, what do you want here? go back to the narrow gate, wash yourselves well in the fountain of repentance, in order to free yourselves from some of the kingly blood, in which you steeped yourselves formerly; bring some of that water to moisten the clay, to close up the rent yonder, and then, and then only, you shall be welcome." but before we had proceeded a rood farther towards the west, we heard a buzz amongst the princes above, and every one, great and small, seized his arms, and proceeded to harness himself as if for battle; and before we had time to espy a place to flee to, the whole air became dark, and the city was more deeply over-shadowed than during an eclipse; the thunder began to roar, and the lightnings to dart forkedly, and a ceaseless shower of mortal arrows, was directed from the gates below, against the catholic church; and unless every one had had a shield in his hand to receive the fiery darts, and unless the foundation stone had been too strong for any thing to make an impression upon it, you would have seen the whole in conflagration. but alas! this was but the prologue, or a foretaste of what was to follow; for the darkness speedily became seven times blacker, and _belial_ himself appeared upon the densest cloud, and around him were his choicest warriors, both terrestrial and infernal, to receive and execute his will, on their particular sides. he had enjoined the pope, and the king of france, his other son, to destroy the church of england and its queen; and the turk and the muscovite, to break to pieces the other parts of the church, and to slay the people; the queen and the other princes, were by no means to be spared; and the bible was to be burned in spite of every thing. the first thing which the queen and the other saints did, was to fall upon their knees, and complain of their wrongs to the king of kings, in these words:--"_the spreading of his wings covereth the extent of thy land_, _o emmanuel_!" isaiah 8. iii. this complaint was answered by a voice, which said, "_resist the devil and he will flee from you_;" and then ensued the hardest and most stubborn engagement, which had ever been upon the earth. when the _sword of the spirit_ began to be waved, belial and his infernal legions began to retreat, and the pope to falter. the king of france, it is true, held out; yet even he nearly lost heart, for he saw the queen and her subjects united and prosperous, whilst his own ships were sunk, his soldiers slaughtered, and thousands of his subjects rebelling. the very turk was becoming as gentle as a lamb; but just at that moment my heavenly associate quitted me, darting up towards the firmament, to myriads of other shining powers, and my dream was at an end. yes, just as the pope and the other terrestrial powers, were beginning to sneak away, and to faint, and the potentates of hell to fall by tens of thousands, each making, to my imagination's ear, as much noise as if a huge mountain had been precipitated into the depths of the sea, my companion quitted me, and there was an end of my dream; for what with the noise made by the fiends, and the agitation which i felt at losing my companion, i awoke from my sleep, and returned with the utmost reluctance to my sluggish clod, thinking how noble and delightful it was to be a _free_ spirit, to wander about in angelic company, quite secure, though seemingly in the midst of peril. i had now nothing to console me, save the muse, and she being half angry, would do nothing more than bleat to me the following strains. the perishing world. o man, upon this building gaze, the mansion of the human race, the world terrestrial see! its architect's the king on high, who ne'er was born and ne'er will die-the blest divinity. the world, its wall, its starlights all, its stores, where'er they lie, its wondrous brute variety, its reptiles, fish, and birds that fly, and cannot number'd be, the god above, to show his love, did give, o man, to thee. for man, for man, whom he did plan, god caus'd arise this edifice, equal to heaven in all but size, beneath the sun so fair; then it he view'd, and that 'twas good for man, he was aware. man only sought to know at first evil, and of the thing accursed obtain a sample small. the sample grew a giantess, 'tis easy from her size to guess the whole her prey will fall. cellar and turret high, through hell's dark treachery, now reeling, rocking terribly, in swooning pangs appear; the orchards round, are only found vile sedge and weeds to bear; the roof gives way, more, more each day, the walls too, spite of all their might, have frightful cracks, down all their height, which coming ruin show; the dragons tell, that danger fell, now lurks the house below. o man! this building fair and proud, from its foundation to the cloud, is all in dangerous plight; beneath thee quakes and shakes the ground; 'tis all, e'en down to hell's profound, a bog that scares the sight. the sin man wrought, the deluge brought, and without fail a fiery gale, before which every thing shall quail, his deeds shall waken now; worse evermore, till all is o'er, thy case, o world, shall grow. there's one place free, yet, man for thee, where mercies reign, a place to which thou may'st attain, seek there a residence to gain lest thou in caverns howl; for save thou there shalt quick repair, woe to thy wretched soul! towards yon building turn your face! too strong by far is yonder place to lose the victory. 'tis better than the reeling world; for all the ills by hell uphurl'd it has a remedy. sublime it braves the wildest waves; it is a refuge place impregnable to belial's race, with stones, emitting vivid rays, above its stately porch; itself, and those therein, compose the universal church. though slaves of sin we long have been, with faith sincere we shall win pardon there; then in let's press, o, brethren dear, and claim our dignity! by doing so, we saints below and saints on high shall be. a vision of death in his palace below. in one of the long, black, chilly nights of winter, when it was much warmer in a kitchen of glyn-cywarch, than on the summit of cadair idris, and much more pleasant to be in a snug chamber, with a warm bed-fellow, than in a shroud in the church yard, i was mussing upon some discourses which had passed between me and a neighbour, upon _the shortness of human life_, and how certain every one is of dying, and how uncertain as to the time. whilst thus engaged, having but newly laid my head down upon the pillow, and being about half awake, i felt a great weight coming stealthily upon me, from the crown of my head to my heel, so that i could not stir a finger, nor any thing except my tongue, and beheld a lad upon my breast, and a lass mounted upon his back. on looking sharply, i guessed, from the warm smell which came from him, his clammy locks, and his gummy eyes, that the lad must be _master sleep_. "pray, sir," said i, squealing, "what have i done to you, that you bring that witch here to suffocate me?" "hush," said he, "it is only my sister _nightmare_; we are both going to visit our brother _death_, and have need of a third, and lest you should resist, we have come upon you without warning, as he himself will sometime; therefore you must come, whether you will or not." "alas!" said i, "must i die?" "o no," said _nightmare_; "we will spare you this time." "but with your favour," said i, "your brother death never spared any one yet who was brought within reach of his dart; the fellow even ventured to fling a fall with the lord of life himself, though it is true he gained very little by his daring." at these words _nightmare_ arose full of wrath and departed. "hey," said _sleep_, "come away, and you shall have no cause to repent of your journey." "well," said i, "may there never be night to _saint sleep_, and may _nightmare_ never obtain any other place to crouch upon than the top of an awl, unless you return me to where you found me." then away he went with me, over woods and precipices, over oceans and valleys, over castles and towers, rivers and crags; and where did we descend, but by one of the gates of the daughters of belial, on the posterior side of the _city of perdition_, and i could there perceive, that the three gates of perdition contracted into one on the hinder side, and opened into the same place--a place foggy, cold, and pestilential, replete with an unwholesome vapour, and clouds, lowering and terrible. "pray, sir," said i, "what dungeon of a place is this?" "_the chambers of death_," said _sleep_. i had scarcely time to enquire, before i heard some people crying, some screaming, some groaning, some talking deliriously, some uttering blasphemies in a feeble tone: others in great agony, as if about to give up the ghost. here and there one, after a mighty shout would become silent, and then forthwith i could hear a key revolving in a lock; i turned at the sound to look for the door, and by dint of long gazing, i could see tens of thousands of doors, apparently far off though close by my side notwithstanding. "please to inform me, master sleep," said i, "to what place these doors open?" "they open," he replied, "into the _land of oblivion_, a vast country under the rule of my brother death; and the great wall here, is the limit of the immense eternity." as i looked i could see a little death at each door, all with different arms, and different names, though evidently they were all subjects of the same king. notwithstanding which, there was much contention between them concerning the sick; for the one wished to snatch the sick through his door, and the other would fain have him through his own. on drawing near, we could see above every door, the name of the death written, who kept it; and likewise by every door, hundreds of various things left scattered about, denoting the haste of those who went through. over one door i could see _famine_, though purses and full bags were lying on the ground beside it, and boxes nailed up, standing near. "that," said he, "is the gate of the _misers_." "to whom," said i, "do these rags belong?" "principally to misers," he replied; "but there are some there belonging to lazy idlers, and to ballad singers, and to others, poor in every thing, but spirit, who preferred starvation to begging." in the next door was the death of the _ruling passion_, and parallel with it i could hear many voices, as of men in the extremity of cold. by this door were many books, some pots and flaggons, here and there a staff and a walking stick, some compasses and charts, and shipping tackle. "this is the road by which scholars go," said i. "some scholars go by it," said he, "solitary, helpless wretches, whose relations have stripped them of their last article of raiment; but people of various other descriptions go by it also. those," said he, (speaking of the pots,) "are the relics of jolly companions, whose feet are freezing under benches, whilst their heads are boiling with drink and uproar; and the things yonder belong to travellers of snowy mountains, and to traffickers in the north sea." next at hand was a meagre skeleton of a figure, called the _death of fear_. through his exterior you might see that he did not possess any heart; and by his door there were bags, and chests also, and locks and castles. by this gate went usurers, bad governors and tyrants, and some of the murderers, but the plurality of the latter were driven past to the next gate, where there was a death called _gallows_, with his cord ready for their necks. next was to be seen the _death of love_, and by his feet were hundreds of instruments, and books of music, and verses, and love letters, and also ointments and colors to beautify the countenance, and a thousand other embellishing wares, and also some swords. "with some of those swords," said my companion, "bandits have been slain whilst fighting for women, and with others, love-lorn creatures have stabbed themselves." i could perceive that this death was purblind. at the next door, was a death who had the most repulsive figure of all: his entire liver was consumed. he was called the _death of envy_. "this one," said sleep, "assaults losing gamesters, slanderers, and many a female rider, who repineth at the law which rendered the wife subject to her husband." "pray, sir," said i, "what is the meaning of female rider?" "female rider," said he, "is the term used here, for the woman who would ride her husband, her neighbours, and her country too, if possible, and the end of her long riding will be, that she will ride the devil, from that door, down to hell." next stood the door of the _death of ambition_, and of those who lift their nostrils on high, and break their shins for want of looking beneath their feet. beside this door were crowns, sceptres, banners, all sorts of patents and commissions, and all kinds of heraldric and warlike arms. but before i could look on any more of these countless doors, i heard a voice commanding me by my name to prepare. at this word, i could feel myself beginning to melt, like a snow ball in the heat of the sun; whereupon my master gave me some soporific drink, so that i fell asleep, but by the time i awoke, he had conveyed me to a considerable distance, on the other side of the wall. i found myself in a valley of pitchy darkness, and as it seemed to me, limitless. at the end of a little time, i could see by a dim light, like that of a dying candle, innumerable human shades--some on foot, and some on horseback, running through one another like the wind, silently and with wonderful solemnity. it was a desert, bare, and blasted country, without grass, or vegetation, or woods, and without animals, with the exception of deadly monsters, and venomous reptiles of every kind; serpents, snakes, lice, toads, maw-worms, locusts, ear-wigs, and the like, which all exist on human corruption. through myriads of shades, and creeping things, graves, sepulchres, and cemeteries, we proceeded, without interruption, to observe the country. at last i perceived some of the shades turning and looking upon me; and suddenly, notwithstanding the great silence that had prevailed before, there was a whispering from one to the other that there was a _living man_ at hand. "a living man," said one; "a living man," said the other; and they came thronging about me like caterpillars from every corner. "how did you come hither, sirrah?" said a little morkin of a death who was there. "truly sir," said i, "i know no more than yourself." "what do they call you?" he demanded. "call me what you please, here in your own country," i replied, "but at home i am called _the sleeping bard_." at that word i beheld a crooked old man, with a double head like to a rough-barked thorn tree, raising himself erect, and looking upon me worse than the black devil himself; and lo! without saying a word, he hurled a large human skull at my head--many thanks to a tombstone which shielded me. "pray be quiet, sir," said i. "i am but a stranger, who was never here before, and you may be sure i will never return, if i can once reach home again." "i will give you cause to remember having been here," said he; and attacked me with a thigh-bone, like a very devil, whilst i avoided his blows as well as i could. "by heavens," said i, "this is a most inhospitable country to strangers. is there a justice of the peace here?" "peace!" said he, "what peace do you deserve, who will not let people rest in their graves?" "pray, sir," said i, "may i be allowed to know your name, because i am not aware of ever having disturbed any one in this country." "sirrah," said he, "know that not you are the sleeping bard, but that i am that person; and i have been allowed to rest here for nine hundred years, by every one but yourself." and he attacked me again. "forbear, my brother," said merddyn, who was near at hand, "be not too hot; rather be thankful to him for keeping an honorable remembrance of your name upon earth." "great honor forsooth," said he, "i shall receive from such a blockhead as this. sirrah! can you sing in the four-and-twenty measures? can you carry the pedigree of gog and magog, and the genealogy of brutus ap sylfius, up to a millenium previous to the fall of troy? can you narrate when, and what will be the end of the combats betwixt the lion and the eagle, and betwixt the dragon and the red deer?" "hey, hey! let me ask him a question," said another, who was seated beside a large cauldron which was boiling, and going, bubble, bubble, over a fire. "come nearer," said he, "what is the meaning of this?" "i till the judgment day upon the earth shall stray; none knows for certainty whether fish or flesh i be." "i will request the favor of your name, sir," said i, "that i may answer you in a suitable manner." "i," said he, "am taliesin, {49} the prince of the bards of the west, and that is a piece of my composition." "i know not," said i, "what could be your meaning, unless it was, that the yellow plague {50} which destroyed maelgwn of gwynedd, put an end to you on the sea-shore, and that your body was divided amongst the crows and the fishes." "peace, fool!" said he, "i was alluding to my two callings, of man of the law and poet. please to tell me, has a lawyer more similitude to a raven, than a poet to a whale? how many a one doth a single lawyer divest of his flesh, to swell out his own craw; and with what indifference does he extract the blood, and leave a man half alive! and as for the poet, where is the fish which is able to swallow like him? he is drinking oceans of liquor at all times, but the briny sea itself would not slack his thirst. and provided a man be a poet and a lawyer, how is it possible to know whether he be fish or flesh, especially if he be a courtier to boot, as i was, and obliged to vary his taste to every ones palate. but tell me," said he, "whether there are at present, any of those fellows upon the earth?" "there's plenty of them," said i; "if one can patch together any nonsensical derry, he is styled a graduate bard. but as for the others; there is such a plague of lawyers, petty attornies, and scribes, that the locusts of egypt bore light upon the country, in comparison with them. in your time, sir, there were but bargains of tofts and crofts, and a hand's breadth of writing for a farm of a hundred pounds, and a raising of cairns and crosses, as memorials of the purchase and boundaries. there is no longer any such security, but there is far more craft and deceit, and a tombstone's breadth of written parchment to secure the bargain; and for all that, it is a wonder if a flaw be not in it, or said to be at least." "well then," said taliesin, "i should not be worth a straw in the world at present. i am better where i am. truth will never be had where there are many poets, nor fair dealing where there are many lawyers; no, nor health where there are many physicians." at this moment, a little grey-headed hobgoblin, who had heard that a living man was arrived, flung himself at my feet, weeping abundantly. "dear me," said i, "what are you?" "one who is grievously wronged every day in the world," said he. "may god move your soul to procure justice for me." "what is your name?" said i. "i am called _somebody_," he replied, "and there is scarcely a piece of pimping, or a calumny, or a lie, or tale, to set people at loggerheads, but must be laid upon me. 'verily,' says one, 'she is a prodigious fine girl, and she was praising you before somebody, notwithstanding that some very great person is paying his suit to her.' 'i heard somebody,' says another, 'reckoning that this estate was mortgaged nine hundred pounds deep.' 'i saw some one yesterday,' says the beggar, 'with a chequered slop, like a sailor, who had come with a large ship load of corn, to the neighbouring port.' and thus every ragged dog mangles me for his own wicked purposes. some call me friend--'i was informed by a friend,' says one, 'that so and so has no intention of leaving a farthing to his wife, and that there is no affection between them.' some others vilify me yet more, and call me bird--'a bird whistled in my ear, that there are bad practices going on there,' say they. it is true, some call me by the more respectable name of old person; yet, not half the omens, prophecies, and counsels, which are attributed to the old person, belong to me. i have never bidden people to follow the old road, provided the new one be better, nor a hundred similar things. but somebody is my common name," he continued, "him you will most frequently hear, to have been concerned in every atrocious matter. because, ask a person wherever a vile, slanderous falsehood has been uttered, who it was who said it, and he will reply, 'truly i don't know who, but somebody in the company said it;' question then every one in the company concerning the fable, and every one will say he heard it from somebody, but no one knows from whom. is not this a shameful injury?" he demanded. "be so good as to inform every one whom you may hear naming me, that i have never said any one of these things, nor have ever invented nor uttered a lie to slander any one, nor a story to set relations by the ears; that i do not go near them; that i know nothing of their history, nor of their affairs, nor of their accursed secrets; and that they ought not to fling their wickedness upon me, but on their own corrupt brains." at this moment there came a little death, one of the secretaries of the king, desiring to know my name, and commanding master sleep, to carry me instantly before the king. i was compelled to go, though utterly against my will, by the power, which, like a whirlwind carried me away, betwixt high and low, thousands of miles back to the left hand, until we came again in sight of the boundary wall, and reached a narrow corner. here we perceived an immense, frowning, ruinous palace, open at the top, reaching to the wall where were the innumerable doors, all of which led to this huge, terrific court. the walls were constructed with the sculls of men, which grinned horribly with their teeth. the clay was black, and was prepared with tears and sweat; and the mortar on the outside was variegated with phlegm and pus, and on the inside with black-red blood. on the top of each turret, you might see a little death, with a smoking heart stuck on the point of his dart. around the palace was a wood, consisting of a few poisonous yews and deadly cypresses, and in these, owls, blood crows, vultures and the like were nestling; and croaking continually for flesh, though the whole place was nothing but a stinking shamble. we entered the gate. all the pillars of the hall were made of human thigh bones; the pillars of the parlour were of shank bones; and the floors were one continued layer of every species of offal. it was not long before i came in sight of a vast and frightful altar, where i beheld the king of terrors swallowing human flesh and blood, and a thousand petty deaths, from every hole, feeding him with fresh, warm flesh. "behold," said the death who brought me there, addressing himself to the king, "a spark, whom i found in the midst of the land of oblivion; he came so light footed, that your majesty never tasted a morsel of him." "how can that be?" said the king, and opened his jaws as wide as an earthquake to swallow me. whereupon i turned all trembling to sleep. "it was i," said sleep, "who brought him here." "well," said the meagre, grizly king, turning to me, "for my brother sleep's sake, you shall be permitted to return this time, but beware of me the next." after having employed himself for a considerable time in casting carcasses into his insatiable paunch, he caused his subjects to be called together, and moved from the altar to a terrific throne of exceeding height, to pronounce judgment on the prisoners newly arrived. in an instant came innumerable multitudes of the dead, making their obeisance to their king, and taking their stations in remarkable order. and lo! king death was in his regal vest of flaming scarlet, covered all over with figures of women and children weeping, and men uttering groans; about his head was a black-red three-cornered cap (which his friend lucifer had sent as a present to him,) and upon its corners were written _misery_, _wailing_, and _woe_. above his head were thousands of representations of battles on sea and land, towns burning, the earth opening, and the great water of the deluge; and beneath his feet nothing was to be seen but the crowns and sceptres of the kings whom he had overcome from the beginning. on his right hand fate was sitting, seemingly engaged in reading, with a murky look, a huge volume which was before him; and on his left was an old man called _time_, licking innumerable threads of gold, and silver, and copper, and very many of iron. some few of the threads were growing better towards their end, and thousands growing worse. along the threads were hours, days, and years; and fate, according as his volume directed him, was continually breaking the threads of life, and opening the doors of the boundary wall, betwixt the two worlds. we had not looked around us long, before we heard four fiddlers, newly dead, summoned to the bar. "how comes it," said the king of terrors, "that loving merriment as ye do, ye kept not on the other side of the gulf, for there has never been any merriment on this side." "we have never done," said one of the musicians, "harm to any body, but have rendered people joyous, and have taken quietly what they gave us for our pains." said death, "did you never keep any one from his work, and cause him to lose his time; or did you never keep people from church? ha!" "o no!" said another, "perhaps now and then on a sunday, after service, we may have kept some in the public house till the next morning, or during summer tide, may have kept them dancing in the ring on the green all night; for sure enough, we were more liked, and more lucky in obtaining a congregation than the parson." "away, away with these fellows to the country of despair!" said the terrific king, "bind the four back to back and cast them to their customers, to dance bare-footed on floors of glowing heat, and to amble to all eternity without either praise or music." the next that came to the bar was a certain king, who had lived very near to rome. "hold up your hand, prisoner," said one of the officers. "i hope," said he, "that you have some better manners and favour to show to a king." "sirrah," said death, "why did you not keep on the other side of the gulf where all are kings? on this side there is none but myself, and another down below, and you will soon see, that neither he nor i will rate you according to the degree of your majesty, but according to the degree of your wickedness, in order to adapt your punishment to your crimes, therefore answer to the interrogation." "sir," he replied, "i would have you know, that you have no authority to detain me, nor to interrogate me, as i have a pardon for all my sins under the pope's own hand. on account of my faithful services, he has given me a warrant to go straight to paradise, without tarrying one moment in purgatory." at these words the king and all the haggard train gave a ghastly grin, to escape from laughing outright; but the other full of wrath at their ridicule, commanded them aloud to show him the way. "peace, thou lost fool!" cried death, "purgatory lies behind you, on the other side of the wall, for you ought to purify yourself during your life; and on the right hand, on the other side of that gulf is paradise. but there is no road by which it is possible for you to escape, either through the gulf to paradise, or through the boundary wall back to the world; and if you were to give your kingdom, (supposing you could give it,) you would not obtain permission from the keepers of those doors, to take one peep through the key hole. it is called the irrepassable wall, for when once you have come through you may abandon all hope of returning. but since you stand so high on the books of the pope, you shall go and prepare his bed, beside that of the pope who was before him, and there you shall kiss his toe for ever, and he the toe of lucifer." immediately thereupon, four little deaths raised the poor king up, who was by this time shivering like the leaf of an aspen, and snatched him out of sight like lightning. next after him came a young fellow and woman. he had been a jolly companion and she a lady of pleasure, or one free of her person; but they were called here by their naked names, drunkard and harlot. "i hope," said the drunkard, "i shall find some favour with you; i have sent to you many a bloated booty in a torrent of good ale; and when i failed to kill others, i came myself, willingly, to feed you." "with the permission of the court," said the harlot, "you have not sent half as much as i, and my offerings were burning sacrifices, rich roast meat ready for the board." "hey, hey!" said death, "all this was done for your own accursed passions' sake and not to feed me. bind the two face to face, as they are old acquaintances, and cast them into the land of darkness, and let each be a torment to the other, until the day of judgment." they were then snatched away, with their heads downwards. next to these there came seven recorders. having been commanded to raise their hands to the bar, they would by no means obey, as the rails were greasy. one began to wrangle boisterously; "we ought to obtain a fair citation to prepare our answer;" said he, "instead of being rushed upon unawares." "but are we bound to give you that same specific citation," answered death, "since you obtain in every place, and at every period of your life, warning of my coming. how many sermons have you not heard upon the mortality of man? how many books have you not seen? how many graves, how many sculls, how many diseases, how many messages and signs have you not had? what is your sleep, but my own brother? what are sculls, but my visage? what does your daily food consist of but dead creatures? seek not to cast your neglect upon me. speak not of summons, when you have obtained it a hundred times." "pray," said one red recorder, "what have you to advance against us?" "what?" said death. "drinking the sweat and blood of the poor, and levying double your wages." "here is an honest man," replied the recorder, pointing to a pettifogger behind him, "who knows that we have never done any thing but what was fair; and it is not fair of you to detain us here, without a specific crime to prove against us." "hey, hey!" said death, "you shall prove against yourselves. place these people," said he, "on the verge of the _precipice_ before the tribunal of _justice_, they shall obtain equity there though they never practiced it." there were still seven other prisoners remaining, and these kept up a prodigious bustle and noise. some were flattering, others quarrelling, some blustering, some counselling, &c. scarcely had they been called to the bar, when lo! the entire palace became seven times more horribly dark than before, and there was a shivering and a great agitation about the throne, and death became paler than ever. upon enquiring what was the matter, one of the messengers of lucifer stepped forward with a letter for death, concerning these seven prisoners, and fate presently caused the letter to be read publicly, and these were the words, as far as i can remember. "_lucifer_, _king of the kings of the world_, _prince of hell_, _and ruler of the deep_, _to our natural son_, _the most mighty and terrible king death_, _greeting_, _pre-eminence_, _and eternal spoil_. "for as much as we have been informed by some of our nimble messengers, who are constantly abroad to obtain information, that seven prisoners, of the seven most villainous and dangerous species in the world, have arrived lately at your royal palace, and that it is your intention to hurl them over the cliff into my kingdom. i hereby counsel you to try every possible means, to let them loose back again upon the world; they will do you there more service in sending you food, and sending me better company, for i would rather want than have them; we have had but too much plague with their companions for a long time, and my dominion is still disturbed by them. therefore turn them back, or keep them with you. for, by the infernal crown, if you send them here, i will undermine the foundations of your kingdom, until it falls down into my own immense dominion. "_from the burning hall of assembly_, _at our royal palace in the pit of hell_, _in the year of our reign_, 5425." king death, hereupon, stood for some time with his visage green and pale, in great perplexity of mind. but whilst he was meditating, behold _fate_, turned upon him such an iron-black scowl, as made him tremble. "sirrah," said he, "look to what you do. it is not in my power to send any one back, through the boundary of eternity, the irrepassable wall, nor in yours to harbour them here; therefore forward them to their destruction, in spite of the arch fiend. he has been able hitherto, in a minute to allot his proper place to every individual, in a drove of a thousand, nay, even of ten thousand captured souls; and what difficulty can he have with seven, however dangerous they may be. but though these seven should turn the infernal government topsy-turvy, do you drive them thither instantly, for fear i should receive commands to annihilate you before your time. as for _his_ threats, they are only lies; for although thy end, and that of the old man yonder, (looking at time,) are nigh at hand, being written only a few pages further on, in my unerring volume, yet you have no cause to be afraid of sinking to lucifer; though every one in the abyss would be glad to obtain thee, yet they never, never shall. for the rocks of steel and eternal adamant, which form the roof of hell, are too strong for anything to crumble them." whereupon, death, considerably startled, called to one of his train, to write for him the following answer. "_death_, _the king of terror and conqueror of conquerors_, _to his revered friend and neighbour lucifer_, _king of eternal night_, _sovereign of the bottomless pool_, _sends greeting_. "after due reflection on your regal desire, it has appeared to us more advantageous, not only to our own dominion, but likewise to your own extensive kingdom, to send these prisoners, as far as possible from the doors of the irrepassable wall, lest their putrid odour should terrify the whole city of destruction, so that no man should come to all eternity, to my side of the gate; and neither i obtain any thing to cool my sting, nor you a concourse of customers from earth to hell. therefore i will leave to you to judge them, and to hurl them into such cells, as you may deem the most proper and secure for them. "_from my nether palace in the great gate of perdition_, _over destruction_. _in the year_, _from the renewal of my kingdom_, 1670." at hearing all this, i felt a great curiosity to know who these seven people could be, whom the devils themselves held in so much dread. but ere a minute had elapsed, the clerk of the crown called their names, as follows:--master meddler, alias _finger in every dish_; but he was so vehement and busy in advising the others, that he could not get a moment's time to answer for himself, until death threatened to transfix him with his dart. then _master slanderer_ was called, alias _enemy of fair fame_; but there was no answer. "he is too modest to hear his titles," said the third, "and he never can bear his nicknames." "do you suppose," said the _slanderer_, "that you yourself have no _titles_. call for," said he, "_master coxcomb_, alias _smooth gullet_, alias _poison smile_." "ready," said a woman who was there, pointing to the coxcomb. "o," said he, "_madam bouncer_! your humble servant, i am overjoyed at seeing you well. i have never seen a woman look handsomer in breeches. but, oh! to think how miserable the country must be behind you, for want of its admirable she-governor; yet your delightful company will make hell itself something better." "o son of the arch fiend!" said she. "with you there is no need of another hell, you are yourself enough." then the cryer called _bouncer_, or _mistress breeches_. "ready," said another. but she said not a word, for want of being called madam. next was called _contriver of contrivances_, alias _jack of all trades_; but he returned no answer either, for he was busied in devising a way to escape. "ready, ready," said one behind, "here he is, looking out for an opportunity to break through your palace, and unless you take care, he will have some notable contrivance to baulk you." said the contriver, "call him, i beseech you, _master impeacher of his brother_, alias _searcher of faults_, alias _framer of complaints_." "ready, ready, this is he," said a litigious pettifogger, for every one knew the name of the other, but would not acknowledge his own. "you shall be called," said the impeacher, "_master litigious pettifogger_, alias _the courts comprised_." "bear witness, i pray you all," said the pettifogger, "as to what the knave called me." "ho, ho!" said death, "not by the baptismal font, but by his sins, is every one called in this country; and, with your permission, master pettifogger, the names of your sins are those which shall stick to you henceforth for ever." "hey," said the pettifogger, "i swear by the devil that i will make you smart for this. though you are empowered to kill me, you have no authority to bestow nicknames upon me. i will file a complaint against you for defamation, and another for false imprisonment, against you and your friend lucifer, in the court of justice." by this time, i beheld the legions of death, formed in order and armed, with their eyes fixed upon the king, awaiting the word. "there," said the king, standing erect upon his regal throne, "my terrible and invincible hosts, spare neither care nor diligence in removing these prisoners from out of my boundaries, lest they prove the ruin of my country; cast them bound, over the precipice of despair, with their heads downward. but for the seventh, this courts comprised, who threatens me, leave him free over the chasm, beneath the court of _justice_, and let him try whether he can make his complaint good against me." then death reseated himself. and lo! all the deadly legions, after surrounding the prisoners and binding them, led them away to their couch. i also went out, and peeped after them. "come away," said sleep, and snatched me up to the top of the highest turret of the palace. thence i could see the prisoners proceeding to their eternal perdition. presently a whirlwind arose, and dispersed the pitch-black cloud, which was spread universally over the face of the land of oblivion, and by the light of a thousand candles, which were burning with a blue flame, at a particular place, i obtained a far distant view of the verge of the _bottomless gulf_, a sight exceedingly horrible; and also of a spectacle above, still more appalling, namely _justice_ upon his _supreme seat_, holding the keys of hell, at a separate and distinct tribunal over the chasm, to pronounce judgment upon the damned as they came. i could see the prisoners cast headlong down the gulf, and pettifogger rushing to fling himself over the terrific brink, rather than look once on the court of _justice_. for oh! there was there a spectacle too severe for a guilty countenance. i merely gazed from _afar_, but i beheld more terrific horror, than i can at present relate, or i could at that time support, for my spirit struggled and fluttered at the awful sight, and wrestled so strenuously, that it burst all the bands of sleep, and my soul returned to its accustomed functions. and exceedingly overjoyed i was to see myself still amongst the living. i instantly determined upon reforming myself, as a hundred years of affliction in the paths of righteousness, would be less harrowing to me, than another glance on the horrors of this night. death the great. leave land and house we must some day, for human sway not long doth bide; leave pleasures and festivities, and pedigrees, our boast and pride. leave strength and loveliness of mien, wit sharp and keen, experience dear; leave learning deep, and much lov'd friends, and all that tends our life to cheer. from death then is there no relief? that ruthless thief and murderer fell, who to his shambles beareth down all, all we own, and us as well. ye monied men, ye who would fain your wealth retain eternally, how brave 'twould be a sum to raise, and the good grace of death to buy! how brave! ye who with beauty beam, on rank supreme who fix your mind, should ye your captivations muster, and with their lustre king death blind. o ye who are at foot most light, who are in the height now of your spring, fly, fly, and ye will make us gape, if ye can scape death's cruel fling. the song and dance afford, i ween, relief from spleen, and sorrows grave; how very strange there is no dance, nor tune of france, from death can save! ye travellers of sea and land, who know each strand below the sky; declare if ye have seen a place, where adam's race can death defy! ye scholars, and ye lawyer crowds, who are as gods reputed wise; can ye from all the lore ye know, 'gainst death bestow some good advice? the world, the flesh, and devil, compose the direst foes of mortals poor; but take good heed of death the great, from the lost gate, destruction o'er. 'tis not worth while of death to prate, of his lost gate and courts so wide; but o reflect! it much imports, of the two courts in which ye're tried. it here can little signify if the street high we cross, or low; each lofty thought doth rise, be sure, the soul to lure to deepest woe. but by the wall that's ne'er re-pass'd, to gripe thee fast when death prepares, heed, heed thy steps, for thou mayst mourn the slightest turn for endless years. when opes the door, and swiftly hence to its residence eternal flies the soul, it matters much, which side of the gulf wide its journey lies. deep penitence, amended life, a bosom rife of zeal and faith, can help to man alone impart, against the smart and sting of death. these things to thee seem worthless now, but not so low will they appear when thou art come, o thoughtless friend! just to the end of thy career. thou'lt deem, when thou hast done with earth, these things of worth unspeakable, beside the gulf so black and drear, the gulf of fear, 'twixt heaven and hell. a vision of hell. one fair morning of genial april, when the earth was green and pregnant, and britain, like a paradise, was wearing splendid liveries, tokens of the smile of the summer sun, i was walking upon the bank of the severn, in the midst of the sweet notes of the little songsters of the wood, who appeared to be striving to break through all the measures of music, whilst pouring forth praise to the creator. i too occasionally raised my voice, and warbled with the feathered choir, though in a manner somewhat more restrained than that in which they sang; and occasionally read a portion of the book of the practice of godliness. nevertheless, my former visions would not depart from my remembrance, but continually troubled me by coming across all other thoughts. and they persisted in doing so, until, by arguing the matter minutely with myself, i reflected that there is no vision but what comes from above, to warn one to be upon one's guard, and that consequently it was my duty to write mine down, that they might serve as a warning to others also. i therefore returned to my home, and whilst overwhelmed with melancholy, i was endeavouring to collect some of my frightful reminiscences, i happened to give a yawn over my paper, and this gave master sleep an opportunity to glide upon the top of me. scarcely had sleep closed my senses, when, behold! a glorious apparition came towards me, in the shape of a young man, tall and exceedingly beautiful; his garments were seven times more white than snow, his countenance was so lustrous that it rendered the very sun obscure, and his curling locks of gold parted in two lovely wreaths upon his head, in the form of a crown. "come with me, mortal man," said he on coming up. "who art thou, my lord?" said i. "i am," he replied, "the angel of the countries of the north, the guardian of britain and its queen. i am one of the princes who are stationed beneath the throne of the lamb, who receive commands for the protection of the gospel, against all its enemies in hell and in rome, in france and constantinople, in africa and in india, and wheresoever else they are devising artifices for its destruction. i am the angel who conducted thee below to castle belial, and who showed thee the vanity and madness of the whole world, the city of destruction, and the excellence of the city of emmanuel, and i am come once more by his command, to show thee other things, because thou art seeking to turn to account what thou hast seen already." "how, my lord," said i, "will your illustrious majesty, which superintends kings and kingdoms, condescend to associate with such a poor worm as myself?" "o," said he, "we respect more the virtue of a beggar than the grandeur of a sovereign. what if i be greater than the kings of the earth, and higher than many of the countless potentates of heaven? as my wonderful master deigned to humble himself so inexpressibly as to wear one of your bodies, and to live among you, and to die for your salvation, how should i presume to be dissatisfied with my duty in serving you, and the vilest of the human race, since ye are so high in favour with my master? come out, spirit, and free thyself from thy clay," said he, with his eyes directed upwards. and with that word, i could feel myself becoming extricated from every part of my body. no sooner was i free, than he snatched me up to the firmament of heaven, through the region of lightning and thunder, and all the glowing armories of the sky, innumerable degrees higher than i had been with him before, whence i could scarcely descry the earth, which looked no wider than a croft. after permitting me to rest a short space, he again lifted me up a million of miles, until i could see the sun far below us; we rushed through the milky way and past the pleiades, and many other exceedingly large stars, till we caught a distant view of other worlds. at length, by dint of journeying, we reached the confines of the awful eternity, and were in sight of the two palaces of the mighty king death, which stand one on the right hand and the other on the left, and are at a great distance from each other, as there is an immense void between them. i enquired whether we should go to see the right hand palace, because it did not appear to me to resemble the other which i had seen before. "you will probably see," he replied, "sometime, still more of the difference which is between the one palace and the other; but at present it is necessary for us to sail another course." whereupon we turned away from the little world, and having arrived over the intervening gap, we let ourselves down to the country of eternity, between the two palaces, into the horrible void; an enormous country it was, exceedingly deep and dark--without order and without inhabitants--now hot, now cold--sometimes silent, sometimes noisy, with the sound caused by cataracts of water tumbling upon the flames and extinguishing them; which cataracts, however, did not long continue, for presently might be seen a puff of fire bursting out and consuming the water. there was here no course, nor whole, nothing living, nothing shapely; but a giddy discord and an amazing darkness which would have blinded me for ever, if my companion had not again displayed his heavenly garment of splendour. by the light which it cast i could see the country of oblivion, and the edges of the wilds of destruction in front, on the left hand; and on the right the lowest skirts apparently of the walls of glory. "behold the great gulf between abraham and dives," said my guide, "which is termed the place of chaos. it is the region of the elements which god created first; it is the place wherein are the seeds of every living thing, from which the almighty word made your world and all that therein is--water, fire, air, earth, animals, fishes and creeping things, winged birds, and human bodies, but not your souls, for they are of an origin and generation higher and more exalted." through the vast, frightful place of chaos we at length broke out to the left hand, and before travelling any distance there, where every thing was ever becoming more frightful, i could feel my heart at the top of my throat, and my hair standing like the prickles of the hedge-hog, even before seeing any thing; but when i _did_ see--oh! spectacle too much for tongue to relate, or for the spirit of man to behold. i fainted. oh, the amazing and monstrous abyss, opening in a horrible manner into the other world! oh, the continual crackling of the terrible flames, darting over the sides of the accursed precipice, and the flashes of linked lightning rending the black, thick smoke, which the unsightly orifice was casting up! my dear companion, having brought me to myself again, gave me some spiritual water to drink; o how excellent it was in its taste and color! after drinking of the heavenly water, i could feel a wonderful strength diffusing itself through me, bringing with it sense, heart, faith, and various other heavenly virtues. by this time i had approached with him unterrified to the edge of the steep, enveloped in the veil, the flames parting on both sides and avoiding us, not daring to come in contact with the inhabitants of the supreme abodes. then from the summit of the terrific precipice we darted down, like two stars falling from the firmament of heaven, a thousand million of miles, over many a brimstone crag, and many a furious, ugly cataract and glowing precipice, every thing that we passed looking always frowningly downward; yet every thing noxious avoided us, except once, when having thrust my nose out of the veil, i was struck by such a suffocating, strangling exhalation as would have put an end to me, if my guide had not instantly assisted me with the water of life. by the time that i had recovered, i perceived that we had arrived at a kind of standing place; for in all this loathsome chasm it was impossible to obtain any rest before, owing to the steepness and slipperiness of its sides. there my guide permitted me to take some further rest; and during this respite, it happened that the thunders and the hoarse whirlwinds became silent for a little while, and in spite of the din of the raging cataracts, i heard from afar a sound louder than the whole--a sound of horrible harsh voices, of shouting, bellowing, and strong groans, swearing, cursing, and blaspheming, till i would have consented to part with mine ears, that i might not hear. ere we moved a foot farther, we could hear a terrible tumbling sound, and if we had not suddenly slipped aside, hundreds of unfortunate men would have fallen upon us, who were coming headlong, in excessive hurry, to take possession of their bad purchase, with a host of devils driving them. "o, sir," said one devil, "take it easy, lest you should ruffle your curling locks. madam, do you wish for an easy cushion? i am afraid that you will be out of all order by the time you come to your couch," said he to another. the strangers were exceedingly averse to going forward, insisting that they were out of their road; but notwithstanding all they could say, go they did, and we behind them, to a black flood of great magnitude, and through it they went, and we across it, my companion holding the celestial water continually to my nostrils, to strengthen me against the stench of the river, and against the time when i should see some of the inhabitants of the place, for hitherto i had not beheld so much as one devil, though i had heard the voices of many. "pray, my lord," said i, "what is the name of this putrid river?" "the river of the fiend," said he, "in which all his subjects are bathed, in order that they may be rendered fit for the country. for this accursed water changes their countenance, and washes away from them every relic of goodness, every semblance of hope and of comfort." and, indeed, on gazing upon the host after it had come through, i could distinguish no difference in deformity between the devils and the damned. some of the latter would fain have sculked at the bottom of the river, and have lain there to all eternity, in a state of strangulation, lest they should get a worse bed father on; but here the proverb was verified, that "he must needs run whom the devil drives," for with the devils behind, the damned were compelled to go forward unto the beach, to their eternal damnation; where i at the first glance saw more pains and torments than the heart of man can imagine or the tongue relate; a single one of which was sufficient to make the hair stand erect, the blood to freeze, the flesh to melt, the bones to drop from their places--yea, the spirit to faint. what is empaling or sawing men alive, tearing off the flesh piecemeal with iron pincers, or broiling the flesh with candles, collop fashion, or squeezing heads flat in a vice, and all the most shocking devices which ever were upon earth, compared with one of these? mere pastime! here were a hundred thousand shoutings, hoarse sighs, and strong groans; yonder a boisterous wailing and horrible outcry answering them, and the howling of a dog is sweet, delicious music, when compared with these sounds. when we had proceeded a little way onward from the accursed beach, towards the wild place of damnation, i perceived, by their own light, innumerable men and women here and there; and devils without number and without rest, incessantly employing their strength in tormenting. yes, there they were, devils and damned, the devils roaring with their own torments, and making the damned roar, by means of the torments which they inflicted upon them. i paid particular observation to the corner which was nearest me. there i beheld the devils with pitch-forks, tossing the damned up into the air, that they might fall headlong on poisoned hatchels or barbed pikes, there to wriggle their bowels out. after a time the wretches would crawl in multitudes, one upon another, to the top of one of the burning crags, there to be broiled like mutton; from there they would be snatched afar, to the top of one of the mountains of eternal frost and snow, where they would be allowed to shiver for a time; thence they would be precipitated into a loathsome pool of boiling brimstone, to wallow there in conflagration, smoke, and the suffocation of horrible stench; from the pool they would be driven to the marsh of hell that they might embrace and be embraced by its reptiles many times worse than serpents and vipers; after allowing them half an hour's dalliance with these creatures, the devils would seize a bundle of rods of steel, fiery hot from the furnace, and would scourge them till their howlings, caused by the horrible inexpressible pain which they endured, would fill the vast abode of darkness, and when the fiends deemed that they had scourged them enough, they would take hot irons and sear their bloody wounds. there was here no fainting, nor swooning to evade a moment of suffering, but a continual strength to suffer and to feel, though you would have imagined after one horrible cry, that it would be utterly impossible there should be strength remaining to give another cry so frightfully loud; the damned never lowered their key, and the devils kept replying, "behold your welcome for ever and ever." and it almost seemed that the sauciness and bitterness of the devils, in jeering and mocking their victims, were worse to bear than the pain itself. what was worst of all, their conscience was at present utterly aroused, and was tearing them worse than a thousand of the infernal lions. we proceeded farther and farther downward, and the farther we proceeded, the more horrible was the work which was going on; the first place we came to in our progress was a frightful prison, in which were many human beings under the scourge of the devils, shrieking most shockingly. "what place is this?" said i. "that," said the angel, "is the couch of those who cry 'woe is me that i did not--!' hark to them for a moment!" "woe is me that i did not purify myself in time from every kind of sin!" says one. "woe is me that i did not believe and repent before coming here!" says the other. next to the cell of too late repentance, and of debate after judgment had been passed, was the prison of the procrastinators, who would be every time promising amendment, without ever fulfilling their promise. "when this business is over," says one, "i will turn over another leaf." "when this obstacle is removed, i will become a new man yet," says the other. but when the obstacle is removed, they are not a bit the nearer to reformation, for some other obstacle is always found to prevent them from moving towards the gate of righteousness, and if they do sometimes move a little, they are sure to turn back. next to this was the prison of vain confidence, full of those who, on being commanded to abstain from their luxuriousness, drunkenness, or avarice, would say, "god is merciful, and better than his word, and will not damn his creature for ever for so small a matter." but here they were yelping forth blasphemy, and asking where is that mercy, which was boasted to be immeasurable. "peace, helldogs," at length said a great lobster of a devil who was hearing them, "peace! would you have mercy without doing any thing to obtain it? would you have the truth render his word false, for the sake of obtaining the company of such filthy dross as you? too much mercy has been shown to you already. you were given a saviour, a comforter, and the apostles, with books, sermons, and good examples, and will you never cease to deafen us with bawling about mercy, where mercy has never been?" on going out from this fiery gulf, i could hear one puffing and shouting terribly, "i knew no better, nothing was ever expended in teaching me my duty, and i could never find time to read or pray, because i was obliged to earn bread for myself and my poor family." "aye," said a little crooked devil who stood by, "and did you never find time to tell pleasant stories?--no leisure for self vaunting during long winter evenings when i was in the chimney corner? now, why did you not devote some of that time to learning to read and pray? who on sundays used to come with me to the tavern, instead of going with the parson to church? who devoted many a sunday afternoon to vain prating about worldly things, or to sleep, instead of meditation and prayer? and have ye merely acted according to your knowledge and your opportunities? peace, sirrah, with your lying nonsense!" "o thou blood of a mad dog!" said the lost man, "it is not long since you were whispering something very different into my ear, if you had said that the other day, i should scarcely have come here." "o," said the devil, "we do not mind telling you the bitter truth here, since we need not fear that you will go back to tell tales." below this cell i saw a kind of vast pit, and in it what looked like an infinite quantity of loathsome ordure, burning with a green flame, and on drawing near, i was aware, from the horrid howling that proceeded from it, that it was composed of men piled one upon another, the horrible flames crackling meanwhile through them. "this hollow," said the angel, "is the couch of those who say after committing some great sin, 'pooh! i am not the first, i have plenty of companions;' and thus you see, they _do_ get plenty of companions, to verify their words and to increase their agony." opposite to this horrible place was a large cellar, where i could see men twisted, as tow is twisted, or hemp is spun. "pray," said i "who are these?" "panegyrists," said he, "and out of sheer mockery to them, the devils are trying whether it is possible to twist them as flexibly as they twisted their own discourse." a little way below that cell, i could but just descry a sort of prison-pool, very dark, and in it things which had been men, having faces like the heads of wolf-dogs, and up to their jaws in bog, barking blasphemy and lies most furiously, as long as they could get their sting above the mud. at this moment a troop of devils happening to pass by, some of these creatures contrived to bite in the heels, ten or twelve of the devils who had brought them thither. "woe and destruction to you hell-dogs!" said one of the devils who had been bit, "you shall pay for this;" and forthwith commenced beating the bog, till the wretches were drowned in the stinking abysses. "who," he then added, "have deserved hell better than you, who have been hunting up and devising gossip, and buzzing lies about from house to house, in order that you might laugh, after having set a whole country at loggerheads. what more could one of ourselves have done?" "that," said the angel, "is the bed of the tale-bearers, the slanderers, and the whisperers, and of all other envious curs, who are continually wounding people behind their backs with their hands or their tongues." from here we passed to a vast dungeon, by far the filthiest that i had seen yet, and the most replete with toads, adders, and stench. "this," said my guide, "is the place of the men who expect to get to heaven because they have no ill intentions, that is, for being neither good nor bad." next to this pool of ill savour, i beheld a place where a vast crowd were sitting, and without any thing visible to torment them, groaning more piteously than any that i had hitherto heard in hell. "mercy upon us," said i, "what causes these people to complain more than the rest, when they have neither torture nor devil near them?" "o," said the angel, "the less torment they have without, the more they have within. these are refractory heretics, atheists, antichristians, worldlywise ones, abjurers of the faith, persecutors of the church, and an infinity of such like wretches, who are abandoned entirely to the punishment of conscience, more tormenting than flame or devil, which domineers over them ceaselessly and without restraint. 'i will never permit myself any more,' says she, 'to be drowned in ale, nor to be blinded by bribes, nor deafened by music and company, nor lulled nor confounded by careless listlessness; for now i _will_ be listened to, and never shall the clack of the hated truth cease in your ears.' longing is ever raging within the wretch for the happiness which he has lost; memory is ever reproaching him by saying how easy it was to be obtained, and the understanding showing him the magnitude of his loss, and the certainty that nothing is now to be obtained, but indescribable gnawing for ever and ever. so with these three instruments--namely longing, memory, and understanding--conscience is tearing the lost one, in a manner far worse than all the devils in hell could tear him with their claws." on coming out of this wonderful nook i heard a confused talking, and after every word such a ghastly laughter, as if five hundred devils were casting their horns with laughing. on approaching to see the cause of such a rarity as laughter in hell, i discovered that it was only got up to incense two honorable gentlemen, newly arrived, who were insisting on being shown respect suitable to their gentility. one of them was a round bodied squire, having with him a big roll of parchment--namely his map of pedigree--out of which he recited from which of the fifty tribes of north wales he was sprung, and how many justices of the peace, and how many sheriffs his house had produced. "come, come," said one of the devils, "we know the merits of the greater part of your ancestry. if you had been like your father or your great grandfather, we should not have ventured to come in contact with you; but you are only the heir of the pit of darkness, you dirty hell-dog! you are scarcely worthy of a night's lodging," added he, "and yet we'll grant you some nook, wherein to await the dawn;" and with that word the goblin with his pitchfork, gave him more than thirty tosses in the fiery air, until he at length cast him into an abyss out of sight. "that may do," said the other, "for a squire of half blood, but i hope you will behave better to a knight, who has had the honor of serving the king in person, and can name twelve earls and fifty baronets belonging to his ancient house." "if your ancestors and your ancient house be all that you can bring in your defence, you may go the same road as he," said one of the devils, "because we can scarcely remember one ancient house, of which some oppressor, murderer, or strong thief did not lay the foundation, and which he did not transmit to people as froward as himself, or to lazy drones, or drunken swine, to maintain whose extravagant magnificence, the vassals and the tenantry must be squeezed to death, whilst every handsome colt or pretty cow in the neighbourhood must be parted with for the pleasure of the mistress, and every lass or married woman, may consider herself fortunate, if she escape the pleasure of the master; the freeholders, meanwhile, being either obliged to follow him like fawning hounds, rob themselves for his benefit, and sell their patrimonies at his pleasure, or be subject to frowns and hatred, and be dragged into every disagreeable and vexatious employment during their lives. "o these little great country folks," continued the devil, "how genteely they swear in order to obtain credit with their mistresses, or with the shop-keepers; and when they have decked themselves out, o how insolently they look upon many of the middling officers of the church and state, and how much worse on the common people! as if they were a species of reptiles in comparison with themselves. woe is me! is not all blood of the same color? did you not come all into the world by the same way?" "but, nevertheless, with your permission," said the knight, "there are some who are of much purer birth than others." "destruction take you!" said the goblin, "there is not one carcass of you all better than the rest; you are all polluted with radical sin from adam. but, sir," said he, "if your blood be better than other blood, less scum will exude from you when boiling; however, in order to be sure of its quality, it will be as well to search you with fire as well as water." thereupon a devil in the shape of a chariot of fire received him, and the other in mockery lifted him into it, and away he was hurried like lightning. after a short time the angel caused me to look, and i could see the wretched knight suffering a terrible steeping in a frightful boiling furnace, in company with cain, nimrod, esau, tarquin, nero, caligula, and the others who were the founders of genealogies, and were the first to set up arms of nobility. a little farther on, my guide caused me to look through the hollow of a rock, and there i beheld a number of coquettes briskly at work, doing and repeating all their former follies upon earth. some were twisting their mouths, some were pulling their front locks with irons, some were painting themselves, some patching their faces with sooty ointments, to make the yellow look more fair; some quite mad at seeing their visages, after all their pains in coloring and variegating, more hideous than those of the very devils, were endeavouring to break the mirrors, or were tearing off with their nails and their teeth the whole artificial blush--the ointments, skin, and flesh coming off all together. the cries which they uttered occasionally were most dismal. "the curse of curses," would one say, "on my father, for making me marry when a girl, an old sapless stump, whose work in raising desires which he could not gratify has driven me hither." "a thousand curses on my parents," would another say, "for sending me to a cloister to learn chastity; they would not have done worse in sending me to a roundhead to learn generosity, or to a quaker to learn manners, than to a papist to learn honor." "destruction," said another, "seize my mother for her avaricious pride in preventing my obtaining a husband when i wanted one, and thus obliging me to purloin the thing i might have honorably come by." "hell, and double hell to the lustful wretch of a gentleman, who first began tempting me," would the third say; "if he had not, betwixt fair and foul, broken the hedge, i had not become a cell open to every body, nor had i come to this cell of devils!" and then they fell to tearing themselves again. i was glad to quit such a pack of female dogs. but before i had passed on many steps, i was surprised to see another shoal of imprisoned wenches, twice more detestable than they. some had been changed into toads, some into dragons, some into serpents who were swimming and hissing, glavering and butting in a fetid, stagnant pool, much larger than llyn tegid. {84} "in the name of wonder," said i, "what sort of creatures may these be?" "there are here," said he, "four sorts of wenches, all notoriously bad. first, there are procuresses, with some of the principal lasses of their respective bevies about them. second, gossiping ladies with a swarm of their news-bearing hags. third, bouncing madams, and a pack of sneaking curs on both sides of them, for no man, but for downright fear of them, would ever go nigh them. fourth, scolds, become a hundred times more horrible than vipers, with their poisonous stings going creak, creak to all eternity." "i had imagined that lucifer had been a king of too much courtesy, to put a gentlewoman of my rank with such little petty she-devils as these," said one, something like a winged serpent, only that she was much more fierce. "o that he would send here, seven hundred of the worst devils in hell in exchange for thee, thou poisonous hell-spawn!" said another ugly viper. "o! many thanks to you," said a gigantic devil who overheard them, "we set too much value on our place and merits, to condescend to become mates of yours; and though we are willing to admit that you are fully as competent to torment people as the best of us, we would, nevertheless, not yield up our duties to you." "and yet," said the angel softly, "lucifer has another reason for keeping such a particular watch over these; he knows well, that if they should break out, they would turn all hell topsy-turvy." from here we went, still going downward, to a place where i beheld a frightful den, in which was a horrible clamour, the like of which i had never heard, for swearing, cursing, blaspheming, snarling, groaning, and crying. "who is here?" said i. "this," said he, "is the den of the thieves. here is a swarm of game-keepers, lawyers, stewards, and the old judas in the midst of them; they have been excessively annoyed at seeing the tailors and weavers above them, in a more comfortable chamber." almost before i could turn myself, there came a horse of a devil, bearing a physician and an apothecary, whom he cast down amongst the pedlars and the duffers, for selling bad, rotten ware; but they beginning to fume at being placed in such low company, one of the devils said, "stay, stay! you _do_ deserve a different place," and cast them down amongst the conquerors and the murderers. there was a multitude shut up here, for playing with false dice and concealing cards; but before i could observe much, i heard, close by the door, a terrible rush and rustle, with a hie! hie! get on! ho! yo! hip! i turned to see what it was; but perceiving nothing but horned goblins, i enquired of my guide whether there were cuckolds amongst the devils? "no," said he, "they are in a particular cell. these are drovers who would fain escape to the place of the sabbath-breakers, and are driven hither against their will." at that word, i looked, and perceived their polls full of the horns of sheep and cattle, and those who drove them, casting them down beneath the feet of the bloodiest robbers. "crouch there," said one; "though you feared so much of old the thieves on london road, you were yourselves the very worst species of highwaymen, living upon the road and plundering, yes, and murdering poor families. o how many poor creatures did you not keep, with their hungry mouths open, in vain expectation of the money for the sale of the beasts, which they had intrusted to you; and you in the mean time in ireland, or in the king's bench laughing at them, or upon the road in the midst of your wine and harlots." on quitting this den of furious heat, i got a sight of a lair, exceeding all the rest i had seen in hell, but one, in frightful stinking filthiness, where was a herd of accursed drunken swine, disgorging and swallowing, swallowing and disgorging, continually and without rest, the most loathsome snivel. the next pit was the couch of gluttony, where dives and his companions were upon their bellies, eating dirt and fire alternately, without any liquid ever. a cave or two lower there was an exceedingly spacious kitchen, in which some were in a state of roasting and boiling, others frying and burning in an oven half heated. "behold the place of the merciless and the unfeeling," said the angel. i then turned a little to the left hand, where there was a cell more light than any one which i had yet seen in hell, and enquired what place it was? "the abode of the infernal dragons," replied the angel, "who are hissing and snarling, rushing and preying upon one another every minute." i approached; and oh! the look which cannot be described was upon them, the whole light was but the living fire in their eyes. "these are the seed of adam," said my guide, "morose wretches, and furious savage men; but, yonder," said he, "are some of the old seed of the great dragon lucifer;" and verily, i could perceive not a whit more amiability in the one sort than in the other. in the next cellar were the misers, in a state of horrible agony with their hearts cleaving to coffers of burning treasure, the rust whereof was ceaselessly cankering them, because those hearts had been ceaselessly bent upon getting money--o the consuming torment, worse than frenzy, that was now going on within them, with care and repentance. below this there was a hanging ledge, where there were some apothecaries ground to dust, and stuffed into earthen pots amongst album grecum, dung of geese and swine, and many an old stinking ointment. we were now journeying forward, continually descending, along the wilderness of destruction, through innumerable torments, eternal and not to be described--from cell to cell, from cellar to cellar, and the last always surpassing the others in horror and ghastliness; at last we arrived at a vast porch, more cheerless than any thing we had seen before. it was a very spacious porch, and the pathway through it, which was frightfully steep, led to a kind of dusky nook of incredible ugliness and horror, and there the palace was. at the upper end of the accursed court, among thousands of horrible objects, i could, by means of the radiance of my heavenly companion, perceive amidst the dreary darkness two feet of enormous magnitude, reaching to the roof of the whole infernal firmament. i enquired of my conductor what this horrible thing might be? "patience," said he, "you shall obtain a more ample view of this monster as you return; but move forward now to see the royal palace." whilst we were proceeding down the porch of horror, we heard a noise behind us, as of an immense number of people. having turned aside to let them pass forward, we beheld four distinct bands, and soon discovered that the four princesses of the city of destruction, were bringing their subjects as presents to their father. i recognised the princess pride, not only by her being before the others, but also by her habit of stumbling every moment, for want of looking beneath her feet. she had with her a vast many kings, potentates, courtiers, gentlemen, and pompous people, many quakers, innumerable females of every rank and degree. the princess lucre was next, with her silly, mean figure, bringing along with her very many of the money loving race--such as usurers, lawyers, extortioners, overseers, game-keepers, harlots, and some ecclesiastics also. next to these was the amiable princess pleasure and her daughter folly, conducting their subjects--consisting of players at dice, cards, draughts, games of legerdemain, and of poets, musicians, tellers of old stories, drunkards, ladies of pleasure, debauches, pretty fellows, with a thousand million of all kinds of baubles, to serve now as instruments of punishment for the lost fools. after these three had gone with their prisoners to the palace, to receive their judgment--behold hypocrisy, the last of all, conducting a more numerous rout than any of the others, of all nations and ages, of town and country, gentle and simple, males and females. at the tail of the two-faced multitudes we advanced till we came in sight of the palace, through many dragons and horned sprites, and warriors of hell, the black wardens of the gloomy pandemonium, i all the time crouching very carefully within my veil. we entered the frightful and awful edifice, every corner of which abounded with horror. the walls were immense rocks of glowing adamant, the pavement of an insufferably sharp flint, the roof of burning steel, meeting like an arch of greenishblue and dusky-red flames, and in its size and its heat, resembling an immense vaulted baking oven. opposite to the door, on a flaming throne, the arch-fiend was seated, his principal lost angels on both sides of him, on thrones of fire terrible to behold--sitting according to their former rank in the regions of light, when they were amiable messengers. it would only be in vain to endeavour to relate how obscene and horrible they were; and the longer i looked at any one of them, seven times more hideous he appeared. in the midst, above the head of lucifer, was a vast fist, holding a very frightful bolt. the princesses, after making their obeisance, returned to the world to their charges, without making any stay. as soon as they had departed, a gigantic, wide-mouthed devil, by command of the king, uttered a shout louder than a hundred discharges of artillery, as loud if possible as the last trumpet, for the purpose of summoning the infernal parliament. and lo! the rabble of hell instantly filled the palace and the porch in every shape, after the image and similitude of the principal sin, which each delighted to thrust upon mankind. after commanding silence, lucifer, with his look directed to the potentates nearest to him, began to speak, very graciously, in the following manner:-"ye potentates of hell! princes of the black abodes of despair! though by our confederacy we have lost possession of those thrones, from which we once shone resplendent through the higher regions; our confederacy was, nevertheless, a glorious one, as we aimed at nothing less than the whole. and we have not lost the whole either; for lo! the extensive and profound regions, to the extremest wilds of vast destruction, are yet beneath our sway. it is true we reign in horrible agony; but spirits of our eminence prefer ruling in torment to serving in ease. and besides this, we are on the eve of obtaining another world, more than three parts of the earth having been beneath my banner for a long time. "and although the almighty enemy, sent his own son to die for the beings of that world; yet i, by my baubles, obtain ten souls, for every one which he obtains by his crucified son. and although i have not been able to reach him, who sits in the high places and discharges the invincible thunderbolts, yet revenge of some kind is sweet. let us complete the destruction of the remnant of human beings, still in the favour of our destroyer. i remember the time, when you caused them to be burnt by multitudes and cities, and even the whole race of the earth, by means of the flood, to be swept down to us in the fire. but at present, though your strength and your natural cruelty are not a whit diminished, yet you are become in some degree inactive; if that had not been the case, we might long since have destroyed the few who are godly, and have caused the earth to be united with this our vast empire. but know, ye black ministers of my displeasure, that unless ye be more resolute and more diligent, and make the most of the short time which yet remains to you for doing evil, ye shall experience the weight of my anger, in torments new and strange to the oldest of you. this i swear by the deepest hell, and the vast, eternal pit of darkness." and, thereupon, he frowned, till the palace became seven times more gloomy than before. moloch now arose, one of the infernal potentates, and after making his obeisance to the king, he said, "o emperor of the air! mighty ruler of darkness! no one ever doubted my propensity to malice and cruelty; the sufferings of others have been, and still are, my supreme delight. it is as capital sport to me, to hear the shrieks of infants perishing in the fire as of old, when thousands of sucklings were sacrificed to me outside of jerusalem. when was i ever slack at my work? since the return of the crucified enemy to the supreme abodes, i have employed myself in slaying and burning his subjects. i did all i could, to destroy the christians from the face of the earth, during the reigns of ten emperors; and many an awful butchery i have made of them in modern times, both in paris and england, to say nothing of other places: but what are we the nearer to our object for all this? the one above has caused the tree to grow, after its branches have been severed; and all our efforts, are nothing better than showing one's teeth, without the power of biting." "pshaw!" said lucifer, "a fig for such heartless legions as ye. i will no longer rely upon you! i will do the work myself, and the glory thereof i will share with no one. i will go to the earth in my own kingly person, and will swallow up the whole; not one man, henceforth, shall be found on the earth to adore the almighty." thereupon he gave a furious bound, attempting to set off, in a firmament of living fire; but, behold! the fist above his head shook the terrific bolt till he trembled in the midst of his frenzy, and before he could move far, an invisible hand lugged the old fox back by his chain, in spite of his teeth. whereupon he became seven times more frantic; his eyes were more terrible than lightnings, black thick smoke burst from his nostrils, and dark green flames from his mouth and entrails: he gnawed his chain in his agony, and hissed forth direful blasphemy, and the most frightful curses. but perceiving how vain it was to seek to break loose, or to struggle with the almighty, he returned to his place and proceeded with his discourse somewhat more calmly, but with ten times more malice. "the omnipotent thunderer has vanquished me, and he alone could have done so. to him i submit. against him all my fury is in vain; i will, therefore, direct it against nearer and lower objects, and pour it in showers upon those who are yet under my banner, and within the reach of my chain. arise, ye ministers of destruction! rulers of the unquenchable fire! and as my wrath and my venom flow forth and my malice boileth out, do ye assiduously spread the whole tide amongst the damned, particularly the christians. urge the instruments of torture to the utmost--devise as many more as you can--double the fire and the boiling, until the very cauldrons be overturned; and when they are in the most extreme, inexpressible torture, mock, deride, and upbraid them; and when your whole stock of ironry and bitterness is expended, hasten to me, and you shall obtain more." there had been for some time a comparative silence in hell, and the more cruel tortures had been suspended; but now the stillness which lucifer had caused was broken, when the ghastly butchers rushed like wild hungry bears upon their prisoners. o then there arose an oh! oh! oh! a wail, and universal howling, more loud than the sound of cataracts, or the tumult of an earthquake, so that hell became seven times more frightful. i should have swooned if my dear companion had not rendered me assistance. "take now," said he, "plenty of the water, that you may obtain strength to see things yet more horrible than these." but scarcely had these words proceeded from his mouth, when, lo! the celestial justice, who sits above the precipice keeping the gate of hell, came scourging three men with a rod of fiery scorpions. "ha! ha!" said lucifer, "here are three right reverend gentlemen, whom justice himself has deigned to conduct to my kingdom." "oh! woe is me," said one of the three, "who asked him to trouble himself?" "be it known," said justice, with a glance which made the devils tremble till they knocked one against another, "that it is the will of the great creator, that i should myself bring these three accursed murderers to their home. sirrah," said he to one of the devils, "unbolt for me the prison of the murderers, where are cain and nero, bonner, bradshaw, ignatius, and innumerable others of a similar description." "alas, alas! we never killed any body," said one of the prisoners. "no, because you did not get time and because you were prevented," said justice. when the den was opened, there came out such a horrible puff of bloody flame, and such a yell as if a thousand dragons were giving their last gasp in their death agony. into this den justice hurled his prisoners; {93} and on his way back he breathed obliquely, such a tempest of fiery whirlwinds upon the arch-fiend and all his potentates, as he passed by them, that lucifer, beelzebub, satan, moloch, abaddon, asmodeus, dagon, apollyon, belphegor, mephistophiles, and all the other principal demons were whisked away, and tumbled headlong into a kind of gulf, which was opening and closing in the midst of the palace, and whose aspect was more horrible, and whose steam was more frightful than the aspect and vapour of any gulf which i had previously seen. before i could enquire of the angel as to what it was, he said, "that is a hole which leads to another vast world." "pray," said i, "what is the name of that world?" "it is called," said he, "unknown, or extremest hell, the habitation of the devils, and the place to which they are at present gone. the vast wilderness, over part of which you have come, is called the country of despair, a place intended for the lost until the day of judgment, when it will fall into extremest, bottomless hell, and the two will become one. when that has happened one of ourselves will come and close the gate of the whole region of horror upon the devils and the damned, which gate shall never, to all eternity, be opened for them. in the meantime, however, permission is given to the devils to come to these cooler regions, in order to torment the lost souls. yea, they often obtain permission to go even into the air, and about the earth, to tempt men to the destructive paths, which lead to this dismal prison, from which there is no escape." in the midst of this history, and whilst i was in great surprise at seeing the mouth of unknown, so much surpassing in horror the jaws of upper hell, i could hear a prodigious noise of arms, and loud discharges from one side, answered by what seemed to be hoarse thunders from the other; the rocks of death, meanwhile, rebellowing the tumult. "that is the sound of war," said i. "is there war then in hell?" "there is," said the angel; "and it is impossible that there should not be here continual war." whilst we were moving out, to see what was the matter, i beheld the mouth of unknown opening, and casting up thousands of candles, burning with a frightful green flame. these were lucifer and his potentates, who had contrived to subdue the tempest. but when the arch fiend heard the noise of war, he became more pale than death, and began to call and gather together bands of his old experienced soldiers to quell the tumult. at this moment he stumbled against a little puppy of an imp, who had escaped between the feet of the combatants. "what is the matter?" said the king. "such a matter as will endanger your crown, unless you look to yourself," said the imp. close behind him came another fiendish courier, bawling hoarsely, "you are plotting disquiet for others, look now to your own repose. yonder are the turks, the papists, and the bloody-handed roundheads, in three bands, filling all the plains of the dark abodes, committing terrible outrages, and turning every thing topsy-turvy." "how came they out?" said the arch fiend, looking worse than demigorgon. "the papists," said the messenger, "broke out of their purgatory, i do not know how; and then on account of an old grudge, they went to attack the back gate of the paradise of mahomet, and let all the turks out of their prison; and afterwards, in the hubbub, the seed of cromwell found some means to break out of their cells." then lucifer turned about and looked under his throne, where were all the lost kings, and caused cromwell to be kept close in his kennel; and likewise all the emperors of the turks, under watch and ward. he then hastened with his legions along the black wilds of darkness, each obtaining light from the fire which was incessantly tormenting his body. guided by the horrid uproar, the fiends advanced courageously towards the combatants; then silence was enjoined in the name of the king, and lucifer enquired, "what is the cause of this disturbance in my kingdom?" "please, your infernal majesty," said mahomet, "a dispute arose between me and pope leo, as to whether my koran or the creed of rome, had rendered you most service; and whilst we were at it, a pack of roundheads broke their prison and put in their oar; asserting that their league and covenant, deserved more respect at your hands than either. thus from disputing we have come to blows, and from words to arms. but at present, as your majesty has returned from unknown, i will refer the matter to yourself." "stay, we shall not let you escape thus!" said pope julius; and to it again they went, tooth and nail, in the most furious manner, till the strokes were like an earthquake. o you should have seen the three armies of the damned, tearing one another to pieces over the expanse of the burning plains; and each individual body that was rent to pieces, becoming joined again serpent fashion. at last lucifer caused his old soldiers, the champions of hell, to pull them from each other, and it was no easy matter to do so. when the tumult was hushed, pope clement began to speak. "o emperor of horrors! as no throne has ever performed more faithful and universal service to the infernal crown, over a great part of the world, for eleven hundred years, than the papal chair, i hope you will not suffer any one to contend with us for your favour." "well," said a scott of cromwell's army, "though the koran has done great service for eight hundred years, and the superstition of the pope for a much longer period, yet has the covenant done more since it came out, than the other two have ever done. moreover it is notorious that, whilst the votaries of those two are every day rapidly diminishing, the followers of the covenant are increasing in numbers, over the whole face of the world, and particularly in the island of your enemies britain, whose capital, london, the most noble city under the sun, abounds with them." "pshaw, pshaw!" said lucifer, "if i am rightly informed, the covenant itself is under a cloud, and you are no longer what you were. and now i have one thing to tell the whole of you--which is, that, whatever ye may do in other kingdoms, i will not permit you to trouble mine. therefore rest peaceably, under penalty of worse torments corporeal and spiritual." at those words many of the devils dropped their tails between their hoofs, and all the damned sneaked away to their holes, for fear of a change for the worse. after causing the whole of them to be locked up in their prisons, and the careless wardens to be deprived of their office, for having permitted them to break out, lucifer and his counsellors returned to the palace, and sat down again, according to their rank, upon their fiery thrones. after silence had been called and the place cleared, a huge, wry-shouldered devil, placed a back-load of fresh prisoners before the bar. "is this the road to paradise," said one, (for they all pretended not to know where they were.) "or if this be purgatory," said another, "we have with us an authority, under the hand of the pope, to go straight to paradise without tarrying any where a minute. therefore show us the way, or, by the pope's toe, we will cause him to punish you." ha! ha! ha!--ho! ho! ho! said eight hundred devils; and lucifer himself, parted his jaws half a yard in a kind of bitter laugh. the others were confounded at this; but one said, "well, if we have lost our way in the darkness, we would pay any one who would guide us." "ha! ha!" said lucifer, "you will pay the last farthing before ye go." thereupon each fell to searching for his money, but found, to his sorrow, that he had left his breeches behind him. quoth the arch fiend, "you left paradise on the left hand, above the lofty mountains; and, notwithstanding, it was so easy to come down here, it is next to impossible to go back, owing to the nature of the country, through which the road back lies. for it is a country abounding with mountains of burning iron, immense dismal crags, sheets of eternal ice, and roaring, headlong cataracts; a country, in short, far too difficult for you to travel, unless indeed you have talons of the true devilish length. come, come," said he to his myrmidons, "take these blockheads to our paradise, to their companions." at this moment i could hear the voice of some people who were coming, swearing and cursing in a frightful manner. "o the devil! the blood of the devil! a hundred thousand devils! a thousand million devils take me if i will go farther!" but, nevertheless, they were cast slap down before the judge. "here you have," said the carrier, "a load of as good fire wood as the best in hell." "what are they?" said lucifer. "masters of the genteel art of cursing and swearing," replied the devil; "men who understand the language of hell quite as well as ourselves." "you lie in your mouth, by the devil!" said one of them. "sirrah! do you take my name in vain?" said the arch fiend. "quick! and hang them by their tongues to the burning precipice yonder, and if they call for the devil, be ready to serve them; yea, if they call for a thousand, let them be satisfied." when these were gone, lo! a giant of a devil vociferated to have the bar cleared, and flung down a man whom he bore. "what have you brought there?" said lucifer. "a tavern-keeper," replied the other. "what," said the king, "_one_ tavern-keeper! why they are in the habit of coming to the tune of five or six thousand. have you not been out, sirrah, for ten years, and yet you bring us but one? and he one who has done us much more service in the world than yourself, you lazy, stinking dog!" "you are too ready to condemn me, before listening to me," he replied. "this fellow only was given to my charge, and, behold! i am clear of him. but still i have sent to you from his house, many a worthless chap, after guzzling down the maintenance of his family; many a dicer and card-player; many a genteel swearer; many a pleasant, good kind of belly god; and many a careless servant." "well," said the arch fiend, "though the tavern-keeper has merited to be amongst the flatterers below us, take him at present to his brethren, in the cell of the liquid murderers; to the thousands of apothecaries and poisoners, who are there for making drink to kill their customers--boil him well for not having brewed better ale." "with your permission," said the tavern-keeper shivering, "i have deserved no such treatment. must not every trade live?" "and could you not live," said the fiend, "without encouraging dissipation and gaming, uncleanness, drunkenness, oaths, quarrels, slander and lies? and would you, hell-hound, live at present better than ourselves! pray what evil have we here that you had not at home, the punishment solely excepted? and having told you this bitter truth, i will add, that the infernal heat and cold were not unknown to you either. "did you not see sparks of our fire in the tongues of the swearers and of the scolds, when seeking to get their husbands home? was there not plenty of the unquenchable fire in the mouth of the drunkard, and in the eyes of the brawler? and could you not perceive something of the infernal cold in the lovingness of the spendthrift, and in your own civility to your customers, whilst any thing remained with them--in the drollery of the buffoons, in the praise of the envious and the backbiter, in the promises of the wanton, or in the shanks of the good companions freezing beneath your tables? art thou unacquainted with hell, when the house thou didst keep was hell? go, hell-dog, to thy punishment." at this moment appeared ten devils with their burdens, which they cast upon the fiery floor, puffing terribly. "what have you there?" said lucifer. "we have brought," said one of the fiendish carriers, "five things which were called kings the day before yesterday." (i looked attentively and beheld in one of them old louis of france.) "fling them here," said the king; whereupon they were flung to the other crowned heads, under the feet of lucifer. it was not long before i heard the sound of a brazen trumpet, and a crying of room! room! room! after waiting a little time, what should be coming but a drove of sessions folk, the devils carrying six lumps of justices and a thousand of their fry--consisting of lawyers, attornies, clerks, recorders, bailiffs, catchpoles, and pettifoggers of the courts. i was surprised that none of them attempted to cross-question; but they perceived that the matter was gone against them too far, and so, not one of these learned disputers opened his mouth; only a pettifogger of the courts said, that he would lay a plaint of false imprisonment against lucifer. "you shall now have cause enough to complain," said the fiend, "and yet never have an opportunity of seeing a court with your eyes." then, putting on his red cap, lucifer, with an arrogant, insufferable look, said, "take the justices to the dungeon of pontius pilate and mr. bradshaw, who condemned king charles. parch the lawyers in company with the murderers of sir edmund bury godfrey, {100} and their double-tongued brethren, who dispute with one another, for no other purpose than to be the ruin of any one who comes betwixt them. let them greet that provident lawyer--for they will find him here--who offered on his death bed a thousand pounds for a clear conscience. let them greet him, and ask, whether he is now willing to give any thing more. roast them with their own parchment and papers; hang the pettifoggers above them, with their nostrils downwards, in the roasting chimneys, to receive the smoke, and to see whether they can get their belly-full of law. as for the recorders, let them be cast among the forestallers, who detain the corn or buy it up and mix it, and then sell the unsound for double the price of the pure corn; just as the former demand double the fees for _wrong_, which were formerly given for _right_. as for the catchpoles, leave them at liberty to hunt vermin; or send them to the world, among the dingles and brakes, to seize the debtors of the infernal crown--for what devil among you will do the work better than they?" at this moment twenty devils with packs on their shoulders, like scotchmen, mounted before the throne of despair, and what had they got, on enquiry, but gipsies. "ho!" said lucifer, "how did ye know the fortunes of others so well, without knowing that your own fortune was leading ye to this prison." but the gipsies said not a word in reply, being confounded at beholding faces here more ugly than their own. "hurl them into our deepest dungeon," said lucifer, to the fiends, "and don't starve them; we have here neither cats nor rush-lights to give them, but let them have a toad between them, every ten thousand years, provided they are quiet, and do not deafen us with their gibberish and clibberty clabber." next to these there came, i should imagine, about thirty husbandmen. every one was surprised to see so many of them, people of their honest calling seldom coming to hell; but they were not from the same neighbourhood, nor for the same offences. some were for raising the markets; many for refusing to pay tithes, and cheating the minister of his rights; others for leaving their work, to follow gentry a hunting, and breaking their legs in endeavouring to leap with them; some for working on sundays; some for carrying their sheep and cattle, in their heads to church, instead of musing on the word; others for roguish bargains. when lucifer began to question them, oh! they were all as pure as gold; none was aware of having committed any thing which deserved such a lot. you will not believe what a crafty excuse every one had to conceal his fault, notwithstanding he was in hell on account of it, and this was only done out of malice, to thwart lucifer and to endeavour to make the righteous judge, who had damned them appear unjust. but you would have been yet more surprised at the dexterity with which the arch fiend laid bare their crimes, and answered their vain excuses home. but when these were receiving the last infernal sentence, there came forty scholars before the court, mounted on capering devils, more ugly, if possible, than lucifer himself. and when the scholars heard the husbandmen arguing, they began to excuse themselves the more confidently. but, oh! how ready the old serpent was at answering them too, notwithstanding their craft, and their learning. but as it was my fortune to hear similar disputations at another tribunal, i will there give the history of the whole, in one mass; and will at present relate to you what i next saw. scarcely had lucifer uttered judgment upon these people, and sent them, for the cool impertinence of their reasons, to the vast sheet, in the country of the eternal ice, the teeth of the wretches beginning to chatter before they saw their prison, when hell began once more, to resound awfully with terrible blows, harsh blustering thunders, and every sound of war. i could see lucifer turn black, and become like a statue; at this moment, in rushed a little crooked, horned devil, panting and shivering. "what is the matter?" said lucifer. "the most perilous to you of all matters since hell has been hell," said the imp; "all the extremes of the kingdom of darkness, have broken out against you, and against one another; particularly those who had any old field in common. they are now at it, tooth and nail, so that it is impossible to tear them from each other. "the soldiers are at loggerheads with the physicians, for carrying on their trade of slaughter; there is a swarm of usurers at loggerheads with the lawyers, for seeking to spoil their trade; the jurymen and the duffers are pummelling the gentlemen, for swearing and cursing without necessity; whereas, swearing and cursing formed part of their trade; the harlots, and their associates, and millions of other old friends and acquaintances, have fallen out, and are all in shatters. "but worse than all, is the contest between the old misers and their own children, for dissipating their wealth and their money. 'our property,' say the pigtails, 'cost us much pain, whilst we were upon the earth, and is causing us immense suffering _here_ for ever, yet ye have flung it all away at ducks and drakes.' and the children, on the other hand, are cursing and tearing the old skin-flints, most furiously, charging their fathers with being the authors of their misery, by leaving them twenty times _too much_, to distract them with pride and dissipation; whereas, a _little_, with a blessing, might have made them happy in both their states of existence." "well," said lucifer, "enough! enough! we have more need of arms than words. sirrah, this hubbub is owing to some great neglect; go back, and pry into every watch, and discover who has been neglectful; and what dangerous characters have been permitted to escape, for there are some evils abroad, that are not known." away he went, at the word, and in the meanwhile, lucifer and his potentates arose in terror, and exceeding consternation, and caused the boldest bands of the black angels to be assembled. when these were marshalled, he put himself at the head of his own peculiar band, and marched forth to quell the insurrection, whilst the potentates went other ways with their legions. before the royal troop had gone any great distance, gleaming like the lightning of the black abodes, (and we behind them,) behold the hubbub advanced to meet them. "silence, in the name of the king," said a fiendish herald. there was no hearing; it was easier to tear the old crocodile from his prey than one of these. but when the old tried soldiers of lucifer broke into the midst of them, the buzzing, the butting, and the blows began to slacken. "silence, in the name of lucifer," said the hoarse cryer again. "what is the matter?" said the king; "and who are these?" "there is nothing particularly the matter," was the answer; "but the drovers, happening in the general commotion to come in contact with the cuckolds, they went mutually to butting, to try whose horns were hardest; and this butting might have gone on for ever, if your horned champions had not interfered." "well," said lucifer, "since you are all so ready with your arms, turn along with me to quell other rioters." but when it was buzzed about among the other rebels, that lucifer was coming with three horned legions against them, each slunk away to his lair. thus lucifer advanced without opposition, along the wildernesses of destruction, endeavouring to ascertain what was the commencement of the disturbance, but could obtain no information. after a little time, however, one of the spies of the king returned, quite out of breath. "o most noble lucifer!" said he, "prince moloch has quieted part of the north and has scattered thousands over the sheets of ice; but three or four terrible evils are still out on the wind." "who are they?" said lucifer. "_slanderer_, and _meddler_, and _litigious pettifogger_," said he, "have broken their prisons and are at liberty." "then it would be no wonder," said the arch fiend, "if there should be yet more disturbance." at this moment there came another, who had been on the look-out towards the south, with the information that the evil had begun to break out there; but that three had been taken, who had previously turned every thing topsy-turvy in the west, and these three were _madam bouncer_, _contriver_, and_ coxcomb_. "well," said satan, who was standing next but one to lucifer, "since i tempted adam from his garden, i have never yet seen from his seed, so many evils out upon one piece of business. "bouncer, coxcomb, and contriver on the one side," he added, "and on the other slanderer, pettifogger, and meddler are a compound, enough to make a thousand devils sweat their bowels out." "it is no wonder," said lucifer, "that they are so detested by every body on earth, when they are able to cause us so much trouble here." a little farther on, a great bouncing lady struck against the king, as she was moving backwards. "ho! my aunt of the breeches," said a hoarse devil, "good night to you." "yes, your aunt, indeed! on what side pray?" said she, very wrathful, because she was not called madam. "a pretty king are you, sir lucifer," said she, "to keep such unmannerly blockheads; it is a sin that so large a kingdom should be under one so incompetent to govern them. o that i were made deputy over it!" at this moment behold the _coxcomb_, nodding his head in the dark, "your servant, sir," he would say to one over his shoulder.--"i hope you are quite well," said he to another.--"is there any service which i can render you," to a third, smiling conceitedly.--"your beauty ravishes my heart," said he to the bouncing wench. "oh! oh! away with this hell-dog," said she; whilst every one cried, "away with this new tormentor! hell upon hell is he!" "bind him and her head to tail," said lucifer. after a little time, behold _courts comprised_ held betwixt two devils. "o ho! angel of patience," said lucifer, "are you come? hold him fast on your peril," said he to the satellites. before we had advanced far, there came the _contriver_ and the _slanderer_ bound betwixt forty devils, and whispering in each others ears. "o most mighty lucifer!" said the _contriver_, "i am exceedingly grieved to see so much disturbance in your dominions, but i will teach you a way to prevent such in future, if you will but grant me a hearing. you only need, under pretence of a general parliament, to summon all the damned to the glowing pandemonium, and then cause the devils to cast them headlong into the throat of _unknown_, and the gulf to be closed over them, and then, i warrant you, they will give you no more trouble." "see," said lucifer, frowning very horribly on the _contriver_, "the universal meddler is still behind." on returning again to the porch of the infernal palace, who should come with the fairest face imaginable to meet the king but the _meddler_. "o my liege," said he, "i have a word for you." "perhaps i have one or two for you," said the fiend. "i have been," continued the meddler, "over half _destruction_, to observe how your affairs are standing. you have many officers in the east doing nothing at all; but sitting still instead of looking to the torments of their prisoners, or keeping guard over them, and this has been the cause of all this great disturbance. besides," said he, "many of your devils, and your damned too, whom you dispatched to the world to tempt folks, are not returned, though their time is out; and others have arrived in a sculking manner, and not given an account of their errands." then lucifer caused the herald to proclaim another parliament; and lo! before you could turn your hand, all the potentates and satellites were met together, to hold the infernal sessions again. the first thing which was done was to change the officers, and to cause a place to be made about the throat of unknown, for the reception of the coxcomb, the bouncing lady, and the rest; the two first were tied nose to nose, and the other rioters tail to tail. then a law was promulgated, that whoever should henceforth neglect his duty, whether imp or lost man, should be cast there among them until the day of judgment. at these words you might see all the goblins--yea, lucifer himself--tremble and look agitated. the next thing was to call some devils and some damned to reckoning, who had been sent to the world to hunt up recruits: the devils gave a very good account of themselves; but some of the damned were lame in their reckoning, and were sent to the hot school, where they were scourged with twisted fiery serpents, for not learning their lesson better. "hear my complaint," said a little informing devil. "here is a pretty woman when trimmed out, who was sent up to the world, to hunt subjects for you by means of their hearts; and to whom did she offer herself, but to a hard-working labourer coming home late from his occupation, who instead of enjoying himself with her, went upon his knees to pray against the devil and his angels: at another time, she went to a sick man." "ha!" said lucifer, "cast her to that lost useless wench, who loved of yore einion ab gwalehmai, {108} of anglesey." "stay," said the fair one, "this is but the first offence. it is not yet above a year, since the day when i breathed my last, and was damned to your accursed government." "she speaks true, o king of torments! it is not yet a year by three weeks," said the devil who had brought her there. "therefore," said she, "how would you have me so well versed as the damned, who have been here for three hundred, or out abroad depredating for five hundred years. if you desire from me better service, let me go into the world another time or two unchastised; and if i do not bring you twenty harlot-mongers, for every year that i am out, inflict upon me whatever punishment you please." but the verdict went against her, and she was condemned to punishment for a hundred long years, that she might remember better the second time. at this moment, behold another devil pushing a fellow forward. "here you have," said he, "a pretty dog of a messenger. as he was prowling about his old neighbourhood, above stairs, the other night, he saw a thief going to steal a stallion, and could not so much as help him to catch the horse without showing himself, frightening the thief so by his horrible appearance, that he took warning and became an honest man from that time." "with the permission of the court," said the fellow, "if the thief had got the gift from _above_ to see me, could i help it? but at worst this is a single peccadillo," said he; "it is not above a hundred years since the day which terminated my mortal career, yet how many of my friends and neighbours have i not tempted hither after me, during that time? may i be in the deepest pit, if i have not as much inclination for the trade as the best of you; but now and then the craftiest will err." "here," said lucifer, "cast him to the school of the fairies, who are yet under the rod for their mischievous conduct of old, in strangling some people and threatening others; startling by such behaviour their neighbours from their heedlessness, upon whom the terror which they caused, had probably more effect than twenty sermons would have had." next appeared four catchpoles, an informer, and fifteen damned, hauling two _devils_ forward. "see," said the informer, "lest you should lay the blame of all that is mismanaged on the seed of adam, we bring you two of your old angels, who have spent their time above, quite as badly as the two preceding. here is a fellow who has been making as great a fool of himself, as the devil did at shrewsbury the other day; who, in the midst of the interlude of doctor faustus, whilst some, according to the custom on such occasions, were committing adultery with their eyes, some with their hands, others making assignations for the same purpose, and doing various other things profitable to your kingdom, made his appearance to play his own part; by which blunder, he drove every one from taking his pleasure to praying. in like manner did this numskull act; for, whilst journeying over the world, on hearing two wenches talking of walking round the church at night, in order to see their sweethearts, he must needs show himself in the figure he wears at home, to the two fools, who on recovering their senses, which at first they lost from fright, solemnly abjured all frivolity for ever. there's a ninny-hammer for you! instead of appearing like a devil, he ought to have divided himself and assumed the forms of two dirty, unlicked boors; for the girls would have imagined themselves bound to accept them, and then the filthy goblin might have lived as husband with the two female parties, without troubling a clergyman to perform the marriage. "and here is another," said he, "who went the last dark night, to visit two young maidens in wales, who were _turning the shift_; and instead of enticing the girls to wantonness in the figure of a handsome youth, he must needs go to one with a _hearse_ to sober her; and to the other with the _sound of war_ in an infernal whirlwind, to drive her farther from her senses than she was before, and there was no need for that. but this is not the whole, for after going into the last girl, he cast her down and tormented her furiously, so that her parents in horror, sent for some of our enemies the clergy, to pray over her and cast him out, which they did. now, if he had been wise, instead of kicking up such a hubbub, he would have tempted her quietly to despair, and to make away with herself. on another time, wishing to gain some of the conventiclers, he went to preach to them, and revealed the secrets of your kingdom; thus, instead of hindering, assisting their salvation." at the word _salvation_, i could see some emitting living fire for madness. "capital stories both, i won't deny," said the goblin; "but i hope that lucifer will not permit one of adam's race of dirt, to put himself on an equality with me who am an angel, of a species and descent far superior." "ha!" said lucifer, "he may be sure of his punishment. but, sirrah, answer to these accusations speedily and clearly, or by hopeless destruction i will--" "i have brought hither," said the goblin, "many a soul since satan was in the garden of eden, and ought to know my trade better than this novice of an informer." "blood of an infernal fire-brand!" said lucifer, "did i not command you to answer speedily and clearly." "do but hear me," said the sprite. "as to preaching, by your own command i have been a hundred times _preaching_, and have forbidden people to follow several of the roads which lead to your territories, and yet silently, in the same breath, have led them hither safe enough, by some other vain paths; as i have done by preaching lately in germany, and in one of the faroe isles, and various other places. "thus through my preaching," he continued, "have come many of the _superstitions_ of the papists, and the _old fables_ first to the world, and the whole under the shape of some goodness. for who ever swallows the hook without some bait? who ever would believe a story if there were not some measure of _truth_ mingled with the falsehood; or some semblance of _good_ to shade the _evil_? thus if i find an opportunity in preaching, to push in amongst a hundred correct and salutary counsels, one of my own, with this one i will do you, either through _contentiousness_ or _superstition_, more advantage than all the rest of my counsels will do you harm." "well," said lucifer, "since you are of such utility in your pulpit, i order you for seven years, to take up your abode in the mouth of one of the barn-preachers, who will be sure to utter the first thing which comes to his tongue's end. then you will find an opportunity to put in a word now and then, to your own purpose." there were still many more devils and damned who were twisting through one another like lightning, around the throne of terrors, to give an account of what they had done, and again to receive commissions. but suddenly and unexpectedly, an order was given to all the messengers and the prisoners, to go out of the palace, every one to his hole, and to leave the king and his chief counsellors there alone. "had we not best depart," said i to my companion, "lest they should find us?" "you need not fear," said the angel "no unclean spirit will ever see through this veil." thus we continued there invisible, to see what was the matter. then lucifer began to speak graciously to his counsellors, in this manner:--"o ye, the chief spiritual evils!--ye, who for subtlety are unequalled in unknown, i request you in my need, to exert to the uttermost your malicious wiles. no one here is unaware, that britain and the surrounding isles, constitute the kingdom most dangerous to my authority, and most abounding with my enemies; and what is a hundred times worse, there is at present there a queen, who does not offer to turn once hitherward, either by the road of rome on the one hand, or the road of geneva on the other. notwithstanding, all the service which the pope has rendered us there for a long time, and oliver for some years past, how far are we from our object? what shall we do now? i am afraid that we shall lose there our ancient possession, and our market entirely, if we do not pave immediately some new way for its inhabitants to walk in, for they know all the old roads which lead hither too well. and, since yonder invincible fist shortens my chain, and prevents me from going myself to the earth, counsel me, i pray you, as to whom i shall make my deputy, to oppose yonder detestable queen, who is the deputy of our enemy." "o mighty emperor of darkness!" said cerberus, the devil of tobacco, "make a deputy of me, from whom the crown of britain derives the third part of its revenue. i will go and will send to you a hundred thousand of the souls of your enemies, through the hollow of a pipe." "well, well," said lucifer, "you have done me excellent service, by causing the proprietors of tobacco in india to be slaughtered, and those who take it to die of diseases, and sending many to vend it idly from house to house, and making others to steal in order to obtain it, and thousands to love it so far, that they cannot be a day without it in their right senses. "therefore go and do thy best; but, i tell thee, that thou art little better than nothing in the present exigency." thereupon cerberus sat down, and uprose mammon, devil of money, and with a morose sinister look said:--"i showed men the first mine from which they got money, and therefore, i am always extolled and worshipped more than god; men undergo for me trouble and danger, and place their whole mind, their delight, and their trust upon me: there is no one easy, because he has not obtained somewhat more of my favour, and the more they obtain the farther are they ever from rest, until at length by seeking _easy circumstances_, they arrive at the country of eternal torments. how many a crafty old miser have i not deluded hither, along paths more difficult than those which lead to the kingdom of happiness? at fair or market, sessions or elections, or any other assemblage of people, who has more subjects? who has more power and authority than i? cursing, swearing, fighting, litigating, plotting, deceiving, striking, hoarding, murdering and robbing, sabbath breaking and uncharitableness, all proceed from me: and there is no other black mark, which stamps men as belonging to the fold of lucifer, which i have not a hand in giving, on which account i am called 'the root of all evil.' therefore if it seem good to your majesty, i will go." and having said that he sat down. then arose apollyon. "i do not know," said he, "any thing that will bring the britons hither, more certainly than what brought yourselves--that is _pride_: if she ever plant her pole within them and inflate them, there is no reason to fear that they will stoop to lift the cross, or go through the narrow gate. i will go," said he, "with my daughter pride, and will cause the welsh, by gazing on the magnificence of the english, and the english, by imitating the frivolities of the french, to tumble into this place before they know where they are." next arose asmodeus, devil of wantonness. "you cannot but be aware," said he, "o most mighty sovereign of the abyss! and you, ye princes of the country of despair! how i have crammed the nooks of hell through debauchery and lasciviousness. what need have i to speak of the time, when i kindled such a flame of lust in the whole world, that it was necessary to send the flood, to clear the earth of its inhabitants, and to sweep them to us in the unquenchable fire; or of sodom and gomorrah, fair and pleasant cities, whose people i burnt with wantonness, till their infernal lusts brought down a fiery shower, which drove them hither alive to burn to all eternity; or of the vast army of the assyrians, which was slain all in one night on account of me? sarah i disappointed of seven husbands; solomon, the wisest of men, and many thousand other kings i blinded by means of women. therefore," said he, "suffer me to go with my _sweet sin_, and i will kindle in britain the sparks of hell so universally, that it shall become one with this place of unextinguishable flame; for there is not much chance, that any one will return from following me, to lay hold of the paths of life." and thereupon he sat down. then arose belphegor, prince of _sloth and idleness_. "i am," said he, "the great prince of listlessness and laziness; great is my power on myriads of men of all ages and degrees. i am the still pool, where 'the root of all evil' is generated; where coagulate the dregs of all destructive corruption and filthiness. what would you be worth, asmodeus; or you, ye other master spirits of evil, without me who keep the window open for you, without any watch, so that you may go into man by his eyes, by his ears, by his mouth, and by every other orifice which he has, whensoever you please. i will go, and will roll to you all the inhabitants of britain over the precipice in their sleep." then arose satan, the devil of _deceit_, who sat next to lucifer on his left hand, and after turning a frightful visage on the king,--"it is unnecessary for me," he said, "to declare my deeds to you, o lost archangel! or to you, black princes of destruction! because it was i who struck the first blow which man ever received; and a mighty blow it was, causing him to remain _mortal_, from the beginning of the world to its end. do you imagine that i, who despoiled the whole world, cannot at present give counsel which will serve for a paltry islet? and cannot i, who cheated _eve_ in _paradise_, vanquish _anne_ in _britain_? if no natural craft will avail, and continued experience for more than five thousand years, my counsel to you is, to dress up your daughter _hypocrisy_, to deceive britain and its queen; you have not a daughter in the world, so useful to you as she; she has more extensive authority and more numerous subjects, than all your other daughters. was it not through _her_ that i cheated the first woman? it was: and ever from that time she has remained and increased exceedingly upon the earth. at present indeed, the whole vast world is but one _hypocrisy_; and if it were not for the skill of hypocrisy, how should any one of us do business in any corner of the world? because if people were to see _sin_ in its own _color_, and under its own _name_, who would ever come in contact with it? the world would no more do so, than it would embrace the devil in his infernal shape and garb. if hypocrisy were not able to disguise her _name_, and the _nature_ of every _evil_, under the similitude of some _good_, and were not able to give some evil nickname to all _goodness_, no one would approach, and no one would covet evil at all. traverse the whole city of destruction, and you will see her in every corner. go to the street of _pride_, and enquire for an _arrogant man_, or for a pennyworth of _coquetry_, mixed up by pride; 'woe's me,' says hypocrisy, 'there is no such thing here; nothing at all i assure you in the whole street but grandeur.' or go to the street of _lucre_, and enquire for the house of the _miser_; fie, there is no such person in it: or for the house of the _murderer_ amongst the physicians: or the house of the _arrant thief_ amongst the drovers, and see how you would fare; you would sooner get into prison for enquiring, than get any body to confess his name. yes, hypocrisy creeps between man and his own heart, and conceals every _iniquity_ so craftily, under the name and similitude of some virtue, that she has made every body almost unable to recognise himself. _avarice_ she will call _economy_. in her language _dissipation_ is _innocent diversion_; _pride_ is _gentility_; a _perverse_ _man _is a _fine manly fellow_; _drunkenness_ is _good fellowship_, and _adultery_ is only the _heat of youth_. on the other hand, if _she_ and her disciples are to be believed, the _devout man_ is only a _hypocrite_ or a _blockhead_; the _gentle_ but a _sneaking dog_; the _sober_ a mere _hunks_, and so on. send her, therefore," he continued, "thither, in her full array, i will warrant that she will deceive every body, and that she will blind the counsellors and the warriors, and all the officers, secular and ecclesiastical, and will draw them hither in multitudes presently, by means of her _mask of changeable hue_." and thereupon he sat down. then beelzebub arose, the devil of _inconsiderateness_, and with a rough, bellowing voice,--"i am," said he, "the mighty prince of _bewilderment_; to me it pertains to prevent man from reflecting upon and considering his condition. i am the principal of those wicked, infernal _flies_ which craze mankind, by keeping them ever in a kind of continual buzz, about their possessions or their pleasures, without ever leaving them with my consent, a moment's respite, to think about their courses or their end. it ill becomes one of you, to attempt to put himself on an equality with me, for feats useful to the kingdom of darkness. for what is tobacco but one of my meanest instruments, to carry bewilderment into the brain? and what is the kingdom of _mammon_, but a branch of my vast domain? yea, if i were to recite the ties which i have on the subjects of _mammon_ and _pride_--yea, and on the subjects of _asmodeus_, _belphegor_, and _hypocrisy_--no man would tarry a minute longer under the rule of one of them. therefore," said he, "i am the one to do the work, and let none of you boast again about his merits." then lucifer the great arose himself from his burning throne, and with a would-be complaisant but nevertheless frightful look on both sides,--"ye master-spirits of eternal night! ye supreme possessors of the cunning of despair!" he said, "though the vast black gulf and the wilds of destruction, are indebted to no one for inhabitants, more than to my own royal majesty since i of yore, failing to drag the omnipotent from his possession, drew millions of you, my swarthy angels to this place of horrors, and have since drawn millions of men to you; nevertheless, it cannot be denied, that ye too have all done your part, to sustain this vast infernal empire." then lucifer began to answer them one by one. "for one of late origin, i will not deny, o _cerberus_, that thou hast brought to us many a booty from the island of our enemies, by means of tobacco, a weed the cause of much deceit; for how much deceit is practiced in carrying it about, in mixing it, and in weighing it: a weed which entices some people to bib ale; others to curse, swear, and to flatter in order to obtain it, and others to tell lies in denying that they use it: a weed productive of maladies in various bodies, the excess of which is injurious to every man's body, without speaking of his _soul_: a weed, moreover, by which we get multitudes of the poor, whom we should never get, did they not set their love on tobacco, and allow it to master them, and pull the bread from the mouths of their children. "and as for you, my brother _mammon_, your power is so universal, and likewise so manifest upon the earth, that it has become a proverb that '_any thing can be got for money_.' and undoubtedly," said he, turning to apollyon, "my beloved daughter _pride_ is of great utility to us; for what is more capable of injuring a man in his condition, his body, and his soul, than that _proud_, _haughty idea_, which will make him squander a _hundred pounds_ for display, rather than stoop to give a _crown_ for peace. _she_ keeps people so stiff-necked, with their sight so intent on lofty things, that it is a pleasure to see them, by staring and reaching into the air, falling plump into the abysses of hell. as for you, _asmodeus_, we all remember your great services of yore; no one keeps his prisoners more firmly under the lock, and no one meets with less rebuke than yourself--the whole rebuke, indeed, consisting in a little laughing, at what is called wanton tricks. yes, asmodeus, i admit that your power is very great; though i cannot help reminding you," he added, with a jocular though truly infernal grin, "that you were all but starved, above there, during the last dear years. as for you, my son _belphegor_, lousy prince of sloth, nobody has afforded us more pleasure than yourself, so very great is your authority amongst gentle and simple, even down to the beggar. nevertheless, if it were not for the skill of my daughter _hypocrisy_, in coloring and disguising, who would ever swallow one of your hooks? and after all, if it were not for the diligent firmness of my brother _beelzebub_, in keeping men in _inconsiderate bewilderment_, i question whether all of you united would be worth a straw. now," said he, "let us review the whole. "what would you be worth, cerberus, with your excessive sucking, if it were not for the assistance of mammon? what merchant would ever fetch your leaves from india, through so many perils, if it were not for the sake of mammon? and if it were not for _his_ sake, what king would receive it, in britain especially? and who, but for the sake of mammon, would carry it to every corner of the kingdom? but, notwithstanding this, what wouldst thou be worth, mammon, without pride to squander thee upon fine houses, magnificent garments, needless litigations, music, horses and costly appurtenances, various dishes, beer and ale in a flood, far above the _means_ and _rank_ of the possessor; for if money were used within the limits of _necessity_ and _propriety_, of what advantage would mammon be to us? thus you would be worth nothing without _pride_; and little would _pride_ be worth without _wantonness_, because bastards are the most numerous and the fiercest subjects, which my daughter _pride_ possesses in the world. "you too, asmodeus, prince of _wantonness_, what would you be worth, if it were not for _sloth and idleness_; where but for them would you get a night's lodging? you could hardly expect it from a labourer or toiling student. and you, belphegor of idleness, who would welcome you a minute, attended as you would be with shame and reproach, if it were not for hypocrisy, who conceals your ugliness under the name of _internal sickness_, or of a _well meaning person_, or under the shape of _despising riches_ and the like. "and she too, my dear daughter _hypocrisy_, what is she worth, or what would she ever be worth, skilful and resolute sempstress as she is, if it were not for your help, my eldest brother _beelzebub_, mighty prince of _inconsiderateness_. if he would leave people leisure and respite, to seriously consider the nature of things and their difference, how often would they spy holes in the folds of the gold-cloth robe of _hypocrisy_, and perceive the hooks through the bait? what man, did not inconsiderateness deprive him of his senses, would chase baubles and pleasures--evanescent, surfeiting, foolish and disgraceful--and prefer them to _peace of conscience_, and glorious _everlasting happiness_? and who would hesitate to suffer martyrdom for his faith, for an hour or a day, or to endure affliction for forty or sixty years, if he would reflect that his neighbours here are suffering in an hour, more than he can ever suffer upon the earth? "_tobacco_ then is nothing without _money_, nor money without _pride_; and pride is but feeble without wantonness, and wantonness is nothing without _idleness_; idleness without _hypocrisy_, and hypocrisy without _inconsiderateness_. but," said lucifer, (and he raised his fiendish hoofs on the fore claws,) "to speak my own opinion, however excellent all these may be, i have a _friend_ to send against the she-enemy of britain, better than the whole." then i could see all the chief devils, with their ghastly mouths opened towards lucifer, in anxious expectation of learning what this friend might be, whilst i was as impatient to hear as they. "the one i allude to," said lucifer, "is called _ease_; she is one whose merits i have too long disregarded, and whose merit, satan, you yourself disregarded of yore, when in tempting job you turned the unpleasant side of life towards him. she is my darling, and her i now constitute deputy, immediately next to myself, in all matters relating to my earthly government; ease is her name, and _she_ has damned more men than all ye together, and very few would ye catch without _her_. for in _war_, _or danger_, _or hunger_, _or sickness_, who would value _tobacco_, _or money_, or the pomposity of pride, or would entertain a thought of welcoming either _wantonness or sloth_? or who in such straits, would permit themselves to be distracted either by _hypocrisy or inconsiderateness_? no, no! they are too awake then, and not one of the infernal _flies of bewilderment_, which shows its beak, will buzz, during one of these storms. but _ease_, smooth ease, is the nurse of you all: in her calm shadow, and in her teeming bosom ye are all bred, and also every other infernal worm of the conscience, which will come to gnaw its possessor _here_ for ever, without intermission. "as long as _ease_ lasts, there is no talk but of some species of diversion, of banquets, bargains, pedigrees, stories, news, and the like. there is no mention of _god_, except in idle swearing and cursing; whereas the _poor_ and the _sick_, who know nothing of ease, have god in their mouths and their hearts every minute. "but go ye also in the rear of her, and keep every body in his sleep and his rest, in prosperity and comfort, abundance and carelessness; and then you will see the poor honest man, as soon as he shall drink of the alluring cup of ease, become a perverse, proud, untractable churl--the industrious labourer change into a careless, waggish rattler--and every other person become just what you would desire him. because pleasant _ease_ is what every one seeks and loves; she hears not counsel, fears not punishment--if good, she will not recognise it--if bad, she will foster it of her own accord. _she_ is the prime-temptation; the man who is proof against _her_ tender charms, ye may fling your caps to--for we must bid farewell for ever to his company. _ease_, then, is my terrestrial _deputy_, follow her to britain, and be as obedient to her as to our own royal majesty." at this moment the huge bolt was shaken, and lucifer and his chief counsellors were struck to the vortex of _extremest hell_; and oh, how horrible it was to see the throat of unknown opening to receive them! "well," said the angel "we will now return; but you have not yet seen any thing in comparison with the _whole_, which is within the bounds of _destruction_, and if you had seen the whole, it is nothing to the inexpressible misery which exists in _unknown_, for it is not possible to form an idea of the world in extremest hell." and at that word the celestial messenger snatched me up to the firmament of the accursed kingdom of darkness, by a way i had not seen, whence i obtained, from the palace along all the firmament of the black and hot _destruction_, and the whole _land of forgetfulness_, even to the walls of the _city of destruction_, a full view of the accursed monster of a _giantess_, whose feet i had seen before--i do not possess words to describe her figure. but i can tell you that she was a _triple-faced giantess_, having one very atrocious countenance turned towards the heavens, barking, snorting and vomiting accursed abomination against the celestial king; another countenance very fair towards the _earth_, to entice men to tarry in her shadow; and another, the most frightful countenance of all, turned towards _hell_, to torment it to all eternity. she is larger than the entire earth, and is yet daily increasing, and a hundred times more frightful than the whole of hell. she caused hell to be made, and it is she who fills it with inhabitants. if _she_ were removed from hell, hell would become paradise; and if she were removed from the earth, the little world would become heaven; and if she were to go to heaven, she would change the regions of bliss into utter hell. there is nothing in all the universe, (except herself,) that god did not create. she is the mother of the four female deceivers of the city of destruction; she is the mother of _death_; she is the mother of every _evil_ and _misery_; and she has a fearful hold on every living man--her name is sin. "_he who escapes from her hook_, _for ever blessed is he_!" said the angel. thereupon he departed, and i could hear his voice saying, "_write down what thou hast seen_, _and he who shall read it carefully shall never have reason to repent_." the heavy heart. heavy's the heart with wandering below, and with seeing the things in the country of woe; seeing lost men and the fiendish race, in their very horrible prison place; seeing that the end of the crooked track is a flaming lake, where dragon and snake with rage are swelling. i'd not, o'er a thousand worlds to reign, behold again, though safe from pain, the infernal dwelling. heavy's my heart, whilst so vividly the place is yet in my memory; to see so many, to me well known, thither unwittingly sinking down. to-day a hell-dog is yesterday's man, and he has no plan, but others to trepan to hell's dismal revels. when he reach'd the pit he a fiend became, in face and in frame, and in mind the same as the very devils. heavy's the heart with viewing the bed, where sin has the meed it has merited; what frightful taunts from forked tongue, on gentle and simple there are flung. the ghastliness of the damned things to state. or the pains to relate which will ne'er abate but increase for ever, no power have i, nor others i wot: words cannot be got; the shapes and the spot can be pictured never. heavy's the heart, as none will deny, at losing one's friend or the maid of one's eye; at losing one's freedom, one's land or wealth; at losing one's fame, or alas! one's health; at losing leisure; at losing ease; at losing peace and all things that please the heaven under. at losing memory, beauty and grace, heart-heaviness for a little space can cause no wonder. heavy's the heart of man when first he awakes from his worldly dream accursed, fain would be freed from his awful load of sin, and be reconciled with his god; when he feels for pleasures and luxuries disgust arise, from the agonies of the ferment unruly, through which he becomes regenerate, of christ the mate, from his sinful state springing blithe and holy. heavy's the heart of the best of mankind, upon the bed of death reclined; in mind and body ill at ease, betwixt remorse and the disease, vext by sharp pangs and dreading more. o mortal poor! o dreadful hour! horrors surround him! to the end of the vain world he has won; and dark and dun the eternal one beholds beyond him. heavy's the heart, the pressure below, of all the griefs i have mentioned now; but were they together all met in a mass, there's one grief still would all surpass; hope frees from each woe, while we this side of the wall abide- at every tide 'tis an outlet cranny. but there's a grief beyond the bier; hope will ne'er its victims cheer, that cheers so many. heavy's the heart therewith that's fraught; how heavy is mine at merely the thought! our worldly woes, however hard, are trifles when with that compared: that woe--which is known not here--that woe the lost ones know, and undergo in the nether regions; how wretched the man who exil'd to hell, in hell must dwell, and curse and yell with the hellish legions! at nought, that may ever betide thee, fret if at hell thou art not arrived yet; but thither, i rede thee, in mind repair full oft, and observantly wander there; musing intense, after reading me, of the flaming sea, will speedily thee convert by appalling. frequent remembrance of the black deep thy soul will keep, thou erring sheep, from thither falling. footnotes: {3} probably cheshire; the north welsh commonly call chester caer. {23} it is the custom of mahometans, to lay aside their sandals, before entering the mosque. {49} taliesin lived in the sixth century; he was a foundling, discovered in his infancy lying in a coracle, on a salmon-weir, in the domain of elphin, a prince of north wales, who became his patron. during his life he arrogated to himself a supernatural descent and understanding, and for at least a thousand years after his death he was regarded by the descendants of the ancient britons, as a prophet or something more. the poems which he produced procured for him the title of "bardic king;" they display much that is vigorous and original, but are disfigured by mysticism and extravagant metaphor. the four lines which he is made to quote above are from his hanes, or history, one of the most spirited of his pieces. when elis wynn represents him as sitting by a cauldron in hades, he alludes to a wild legend concerning him, to the effect, that he imbibed awen or poetical genius whilst employed in watching "the seething pot" of the sorceress cridwen, which legend has much in common with one of the irish legends about fin macoul, which is itself nearly identical with one in the edda, describing the manner in which sigurd fafnisbane became possessed of supernatural wisdom. {50} a dreadful pestilence, which ravaged gwynedd or north wales in 560. amongst its victims was the king of the country, the celebrated maelgwn, son of caswallon law hir. {84} llyn tegid, or the lake of beauty, in the neighbourhood of bala. {93} the reader is left to guess what description of people these prisoners were. they were probably violent fifth monarchy preachers. {100} an active london magistrate, treacherously murdered by a gang of papist conspirators in the reign of charles the second. {108} a celebrated welsh poet, who flourished in the thirteenth century. a short account of him will be found in owen's cambrian biography. the unknown sea by clemence housman [decoration] london _duckworth and co._ 3 henrietta street, w.c. 1898 _all rights reserved_ edinburgh: t. and a. constable, printers to her majesty the unknown sea chapter i a solitary fisher ploughed the lively blue of a southern sea. strength of limb, fair hair, and clear grey eyes told of a northern race, though his skin had been tanned to a red-brown, dark as the tint of the slender, dark-eyed, olive-skinned fishers born under these warm skies. in stature and might a man, he was scarcely more than a boy in years; beardless yet, and of an open, boyish countenance. as his boat raced eagerly forward he laughed for pride of heart, and praised her aloud after a fashion native to the south: she was his beloved, his bird, his blossom, his queen; and for his warrant well built she was, promising strength and speed in due degrees, and beautiful obedience to him. her paint was bright, her ruddy canvas unstained, in contrast to a pile of tackle, black from age and use: the nets and the weighted cross-beams of coral fishing. white wings against the sky, and white crests upon the sea, broke the entire blue. far away to eastward, faint and hazy, suave lines extended; but a coast that the boy neared lifted gaunt and desolate cliffs, overlooking a waste of roaring breakers. midmost of these, sheer and black as the crags beyond, a dark mass rose dominant, like a sullen outcast from the land holding rule, whose mere aspect fitted well the name, isle sinister, without an evil implication that went therewith. the young fisher's memory was stored with dark tales, born long ago to night and fear, cherished by generations into fine growth, not by such as he to be utterly scouted. the sound of buoy-bells reached his ears for warning, but he eyed the intricate lines of breakers, he recalled ominous reports, only to estimate the nerve of body and mind needful to any mortal bent there upon a perilous trespass. for a tale went that kept every fisher well aloof, to shun a danger worse than shipwreck. little gain was it held for any once driven within the buoy-bells to work clear again to open sea, since sorrow and disaster would dog thenceforward, nor cease till due forfeit were paid: the boat broken up and burnt, her very ashes delivered to the sea. woe even to the man who dare take any least splinter to burn on his hearth, for sickness and death would desolate his home. nay, if a shifting wind but carried the ashes landwards, blight or murrain would follow surely. so went tradition, and conviction attended it well, since not within memory had any hardy or unfortunate supplied a living test. now truly this boy, who came coasting perilously, needed to have in his veins the blood of an alien race, over and above youth and great strength, to be traversing a superstition of such dark credit, in others bred deep and strong. years ago he had been fascinated by the terrors and mystery of the place, and with a human desire after the unattainable, most strong and unregulated in youth, he had fearfully longed for a strength to do and a heart to dare more than all his world: to get footing where never man had stood: to face black luck and its befitters with a higher faith, defying a supremacy of evil. very early, out of the extravagant vagaries of a child's brain, an audacious word had escaped, sped by a temper aflame, for which he had suffered--from youngsters a day's derision, from a strict elder a look that was worse disgrace. he deemed that might come to be recalled to his credit. now that he was grown to a strength unmatched, with a heart proud and eager, impatient of any mastery not of love and reverence, a notion pleased him that like enough these tales had been magnified to recover the self-esteem of balked adventurers: a presumption not extreme in one whose superb strength had lowered old records, who found that none could withstand him to his full satisfaction. here in the bright sunshine of high day, the year's eager spring quick in every vein, young virile audacity belittling all hazards, the lad's heart rode so high and sure that he could laugh outright in answer to the expostulation of the sinister buoys. yet he crossed himself more than once. 'we will do it, beloved, you and i.' to and fro he hovered awhile to consider the lie of the reefs and select his way. then the sail clapped and swelled again, and the boat heeled, as boldly he turned her, and steered within the buoy-bells away for the breakers. again he crossed himself as now were he and his boat committed on a challenge to fortune. gracious to bold and dexterous handling the boat glided into the maze. the disposition of the outer channels was so favourable as to have gone far in beguiling the boy to his rash undertaking; but there were hedges of wicked breakers that thwarted him and turned him aside disappointed. creeping along warily with only a corner of sail, steering with fine sleight through the narrows, and avoiding eddies, he carried his boat unscathed where never another man he knew could dare to follow. but ah! how meagre was that satisfaction, since far, yet too far from him the isle sinister held reserve. but at least he was able to scan the rocky mass to advantage. it towered up with straight, repellent walls towards the land; it sloped down steeply where he desired to win; but there to balk him, minatory in aspect, stood the warders--five detached rocks--so lofty that the highest columns of surf spouting there fell short of their crowns. the ugliest threat he recognised bided there, close against success. 'no fault is yours, beloved, if we cannot do it: nor hardly mine either, i think. were but one other with us we might be well-nigh confident. with philip at the oars! none we wanted to share with us--and yet! ah! no. not he nor any would.' he was deeply involved. at least a mile of grim discouragement stretched on every hand. then he came upon the sunken hulk of an old wreck. fiercer eddies and narrower channels constrained him to drop sail and take to the oars. a hard, dangerous, disheartening struggle set him nearer by a poor measure, but lost him in hope on the way. 'fools and cowards all! pleased would they be were i foiled, they knowing. how they would jeer; ay, with worse, too. it might go hard with me. but you, beloved, never fear that i should fail you, if they tried--no, they would not,--not if they care for whole bones. 'to think that if we win, not for months may i praise you by the tale, not till we both have disproved and outlived the following of bad luck. defend us from one spying us here.' the boy glanced about with anxiety, giving special scrutiny to one high cliff opposite. there, scarcely distinguishable from the crags, stood up a grey tower, the bell-tower of an ancient devout institution, the house monitory. his face grew rigid under a sudden apprehension. if he were sighted from above, what should stay those bells from knelling for him. he held his breath, and listened for them to break silence on the instant, realising one peril which he had not before considered. 'hark!' would go the word, 'why does the house monitory ring? in daylight, in fair weather? who can be in peril off the isle sinister?' from cliffs to coves the word would drop, and start the swiftest sails out to investigate, for his exposure to ridicule or worse. in a past century three bells had been towered there: consecrated and named after three saints, to knell for souls that passed, unconfessed, unhouseled, in that place of wrecks; to be potent against the dominion of powers darker than death, too regnant there. the best, the only, succour was this that human fellowship could accomplish for doomed lives. now, though cultured intelligence smiled at the larger superstition, the simple held it at its old worth; and still, to the comfort of their souls, a pious community kept the custom, serving the bells; and for their more tangible welfare tended a beacon light. a little chill ran in the boy's veins as he anticipated the outbreak of those ominous bells; never yet had they rung for any, far involved as he, who had known escape. he betook himself more desperately to his endeavour. necessity pressed him hard, for the tide ran, and suddenly declared that retreat to the open sea was cut off: where he had sailed free channels rocks grinned; reason withstood a fancy that they had lain in ambush, and risen actually to hem him in. twice he risked with the narrowest of chances, and slid safe on the heave of a wave; on the third challenge a treacherous, swirling eddy caught the boat, swung it aslant, crashed it upon a lurking rock. a plank gave way splintered, and water spirted within. the boy rowed desperate, straining by quick strokes and few, after deliverance from the narrows. yet when he dared to lay aside the oars for an instant to check the leak, the boat was pitching with threats close in on every side. he could spare only a moment to catch up his coat, plug with it hastily, and drag atop the heavy cross-beams of his tackle; quick upon the oars again he needed to be, desperate of baling. still the water oozed and trickled in, to lie up to his ankles and slowly to rise. there was no making out to sea; from the isle sinister he owned himself cut off by thick-set barriers; only the shore remained not absolutely unattainable though furthest it was. patiently and cautiously the boy felt his way. from stroke to stroke he held on safely, steady, quick-eyed, but told by the gradual water against his shins that his boat must shortly founder. conscience smote him hard; the near sure prospect of swimming for bare life among the breakers opened his eyes. he had held as his very own to risk at will his boat and his life; now, with pangs of remorse, he recognised the superior claim of a grey-haired couple, who had been parents to him, who bereft of him would go down to the grave in grief and poverty. of life, and the means of living, but little right had he to dispose, considering their due and their need. the gunwale sank low, lower, till a lurch might displace the cross-beams, for they lost in weight as the water within the boat deepened. yet point by point success attended, and released the foolhardy lad and his boat from dire extremity. they have chance of clean deliverance; they are past the last girdle of breakers, hardly a furlong from the shore; they are upon sleek water, with the tide against them but lazily. the boy rowed on with long, smooth strokes; the mere sway of his body was as much as the boat could carry, so little above the water was the gunwale. he had halved the distance, when down she went beneath him; and he swam, waded, stood ashore, the first man who had ever won there living by way of the sea. but little elate could he be. he could glean drifting oars and stretchers, his boat might be recovered from the out tide, but the isle sinister lay remote as ever. and his heart had fallen. ugly necessity gave no choice but to face the breakers again in retrace of his perilous way; for an alternative he could not entertain that would entail certain evils more to be dreaded than any risk. straying aimlessly along the desolate shore, the boy pondered, nervous now of many risks he had braved hardily. he stopped once at sight of a grey patch of calcined rock. there it must have been that, not so long ago, wreckage had been gathered and burned scrupulously, and with it the bodies of two drowned men, according to the custom of the coast. instinctively he crossed himself, with a brief prayer for the souls of those two, cut off from life in that evil place, where no help had reached but the heavy knell, pitiful. greatly desiring the silence of the bells, if he were to escape with life, the boy turned his eyes aloft, inclining to bespeak it. a lively suspicion of hunger impelled decision; and up the cliff he went, his abashed vigour fain of any new output. an uncertain path promised fairly till half way, where a recent lapse turned him aside on to untried slopes and ledges: a perilous ascent to any not bold and sure and practised. the spice of danger kindled the boy's blood; he won to the top with some loss of breath, but his head was high, and his heart was high, and ultimate failure envisaged him no longer. he stood among graves. chapter ii the lonely community had laid its bones to rest in a barren acre. no flower could bloom there ever, only close, dun turf grew. below, the broken, unquiet sea dirged ceaselessly. the spot was in perfect keeping with the sovereign peace of the grave; that blank, unadorned environment of nature had the very beauty that can touch human sense with the concord of death. the young fisher stood motionless, as if his presence were outrage to the spirit of the silent dwellers below, so eager was he for life, so brim with passion and play and hearty thirst for strong years of sunshine and rain. 'yet how so,' said his heart, 'for i too shall come to die?' softly and soberly he took his way past the ranks of low mounds, and considered his approach to the house monitory, whose living dwellers might be less tolerant of his trespass. for he realised that he had come within their outer precincts unallowed. on the one hand lay a low wall to indicate reserve; on the other he approached the base of the bell-tower itself, and the flanks of the house monitory. he looked up at the walls, fully expecting to be spied and brought to rebuke; but all was blank and quiet as among the dead outside. the tower rose sheer into the air; for the rest, a tier of the cliff had been fashioned for habitation by the help of masonry and some shaping and hollowing of the crude rock. the window lights were high and rare. except from the tower, hardly could a glimpse below the sky-line be offered to any within. he came upon a door, low and narrow as the entrance of a tomb. it looked so obdurate he never thought to knock there. then the sound of low, monotonous chanting, by women's voices, poor and few, told him that he stood without their chapel; and he understood that the low door giving upon the place of graves had not been fashioned for the living. truly he was alien and incongruous, although that day he had surely been many degrees nearer death than any dweller there. he made for the boundary wall, overleaped it, and then by legitimate pathways came before the entrance door. there he stood long, not finally determined what he had come to say. it was repugnant to him to ask of any mortal cover for his doings, the more when they were somewhat amiss. while he stood, casting about for decision, he was a-stare heedlessly on a rocky spur near by that bore the moulding of three figures. high upon its face they stood, where a natural suggestion had been abetted by man, a rough pediment shaped above, a rough base below, and the names hewn large: st. mary, st. margaret, st. faith. of life size they were, and looked towards the sea. ashamed of his own indecision, the boy lifted his hand and knocked at the wicket, so to force a resolution within the limit of seconds left. the stone figures clapped back an echo. his heart sprang an invocation in response, and straightway he relinquished thought of asking an irksome favour of lower agents. so when the wicket opened, this was all he had to say: 'of your charity give food to a hungry body.' to the pale, spare monitress, half shrouded in the gloom, the ruddy young giant, glowing in the sunshine, said this: 'of your charity give food to a hungry body.' she paused and looked at the boy, for his great stature, his fair hair, and grey eyes made him very singular. the questioning he half feared and expected did not come. the monitress withdrew silently, and presently returning handed a portion of bread. she said, 'not food for the body, but prayer for the soul is chiefly asked of our charity.' the boy's face flamed, understanding how he was rebuked. thanks stumbled on his tongue, and no word to excuse could come; so the wicket closed upon his silence. not so closely but that the monitress could look again, to sigh over that creature of gross wants with angel-bright hair. surprised, she saw that he was instantly away, and mounted high by the three stone saints. she saw that he touched their feet reverently, that he knelt down, crossed himself and prayed, in a very seemly fashion. she went away, of her charity in prayer for his soul. he stood there still, after his prayer was finished, and his bread, and looked over the sea long and earnestly; for from that high ledge he saw away to the isle sinister, encompassed with its network of reefs; the tide running low showed them in black lines, outspread like a map below. an audacious design he revolved, no less than to achieve the isle sinister yet. the long lines of reefs forbade his boat, but him they fairly invited, if strong swimming and deft footing could pass him on, from rock to wave, and from wave to rock, out to the far front of the great mass where the warders stood. he argued with his conscience, that it was no such risk as that he was bound to encounter for regaining the open sea, since this attempt need never commit him past retreat. sighting his boat uncovered, without delay he went down. he got it emptied, the leak plugged quite sufficiently for the time, the anchor set out against the return of the tide; then he raced, plunged, and swam for the isle sinister. the first stretch went fairly; he met the rough handling of the waves as a sturdy game, and opposed with an even heart. before long he had to recognise grim earnest, and do battle with all his might, so hard were the elements against him and so cruel. the waves hustled and buffeted and hurled; and though he prevailed by slow degrees, the rocks connived for his detriment. again and again he won to a resting-place, so battered, breathless, and spent, that to nourish fortitude, he needed to consider the steady ascent of the vast rock up from the horizon against his nearing. a moment of elation it was, when, looking back to compare, he noted that the shore cliffs were dwarfed by the nearer proportions of the isle. but his stout heart made too little allowance for the strain upon loyal members, so that at last he bungled, fell short at a leap disastrously, and was swept away, hardly escaping, gashed and stunned. his memory afterwards could but indistinctly record how he fared thenceforward with rock and wave. a nightmare remained of swirling waters mad for his life, and of dark crags swinging down upon him; coming nearer, swinging lower; with a great shock they smote him. so he came to the isle sinister. he clung precariously, lashed by the waves into an effort after a higher ledge. as he drew himself up to safety, his brain was clearing and his breath extending, nor was it long before his faculties were in order for wonder, gratulation, exultation. then he shouted aloud. against the roar of the surf his voice struck out wild and weak. the ledge was so narrow, that while his back rested against the rock his feet dangled; he was nearly naked; he was bleeding; soon for return he must face peril again. looking down at the waters below, leaping and snarling, and over the wild expanse he had passed, to the shore half a league away, counting the cost in wounds and bruises, still his young heart mounted above pain and doubt, to glory in indomitable strength. he flung back his wet head to laugh and shout again and again, startling sea-birds to flight and bringing out echoes hearty enough to his ears. surely that rock answering so was the first warder. spite of weariness and unsteadiness of head, he got on his feet, and passed from that difficult ledge of rock round to the front, where by steep grades the isle showed some slight condescension to the sea. as he advanced he tried for ascent, unsatisfied still. the five warders stood in full parade; their rank hemmed him round; against his level the shadow of the isle rested above their knees, between each and each a narrow vertical strip of sea and heaven struck blindingly sweet and blue. sea-birds wheeled and clamoured, misliking this invasion of their precincts. to his conceit the tremendous noise of the breakers below sounded an unavailing protest against his escape. he came upon a sight that displaced his immediate desire to scale the heights above: from the base below the tide had withdrawn, and there lay a stretch of boulders and quiet rock pools within a fringe of magnificent surf. down he sped straightway to hold footing debatable with the jealous sea. close against the line of surf, at a half-way point between the solid wall of the isle and the broken wall of the warders, he looked up at either height north and south. equal towards the zenith they rose, here based upon sombre quiet, there upon fierce white tumult, that sent up splendid high columns, whose spray swept over the interspace of tumbling sea and touched the shine of the pools with frore grey. he sighed towards those unattainable warders. the air was charged with brine; its damp stayed on his skin, its salt on his lips. thirsting, he went about with an eye for a water-spring, and made straight for a likely cleft. darkest among the many scars of the rock it showed; deep it went, and wound deeper at his nearing. he entered the gape over boulders, and a way still there was wide before him; he took nine paces with gloom confronting, a tenth--aslant came a dazzling gleam of white. amazed he faced to it, held stone-still an instant, sped on and out; he stood in full sunlight, and winked bewildered at the incredible open of fair sands before him. the wonder dawned into comprehension. though far eyes were deluded by a perfect semblance of solidity, the half of the isle was hollow as a shell. over against him rose the remaining moiety; high walls of rock swept round on either side, hindered from complete enclosure by the cleft of his entrance. he turned and looked back through the gorge, and again over the sunlit open; it was hard to believe he was out of dreamland, so eden-bright and perfect was this contrast to the grand sombre chasm he had left. white and smooth, the sands extended up to the base of the dark rocks. there rich drapery of weed indicated the tide-mark; strips of captured water gleamed; great boulders lay strewn; coves and alcoves deeply indented the lines of the enclosing walls. to the boy's eyes it looked the fairest spot of earth the sea could ever find to visit. its aspect of lovely austere virginity, candid, serene, strictly girt, touched very finely on the fibres of sense and soul. he stepped out on firm blanch sand ribbed slightly by the reluctant ebb. trails of exquisite weed, with their perfect display of every slender line and leaf betokened a gracious and gentle outgoing of the sea. in creamy pink, ivory, citron, and ranges of tender colour that evade the fact of a name, these delicate cullings lay strewn, and fragile shells of manifold beauty and design. there, among weed and shell, he spied a branch of coral, and habit and calling drew him to it instantly. he had never fetched up its like, for the colour was rare, and for its thickness and quality he wondered. suddenly the coral drops from his hand; he utters an inarticulate cry and stands amazed. his eye has fallen on a mark in the sand; it is of a human footstep. blank disappointment at this sign of forestalling struck him first, but startled wonder followed hard, and took due prominence as he looked around on his solitude encompassed by steep black heights, and heard the muffled thunder outside that would not be shut off by them. he stooped to examine the naked footprint, and was staggered by the evidence it gave; for this impression, firm and light, had an outward trend, a size, a slightness, most like a woman's. it was set seaward towards the gorge. he looked right and left for footprints of return--none were there! a lone track he saw that led hardly further, growing faint and indistinct, for the feet had trodden there when the wash of the ebb was recent. he turned, and following reversely at a run, came to the far wall, where every sign failed among pools and weedy boulders; circled with all speed, snatching a sight of every cove and cleft, and then sprang back through the gorge. the gloom and the fierce tumult of that outside ravine smote with a shock upon masculine wits that now had conceived of the presence of a woman there. compassion cried, poor soul! poor soul! without reservation, and aloud he called hearty reassurance, full-lunged, high-pitched. though but a feeble addition to the great noises there, the sea-birds grew restless: only the sea-birds, no other living thing moved in response. he made sure of a soon discovery, but he leapt along from boulder to boulder, hunting into every shadow, and never a one developed a cave; but he called in vain. the sea limited him to a spare face of the isle; when that was explicit, he was left to reckon with his senses, because they went so against reason. the irreconcilable void sent him back to the first tangible proof, and again he stood beside the footprints pondering uneasily. had he scared a woman unclothed, who now in the shame and fear of sex crouched perdue? but no, his search outside had been too thorough, and the firm, light, even pace was a contradiction. up and down he went in close search, but no other sign of human presence could he find, not a shred of clothing, not a fragment of food. that single line of naked footprints, crossing the level sands from inscrutable rock to obliterate sea, gave a positive indication circumstantially denied on every hand. the bewildered boy reckoned he would have been better satisfied to have lighted on some uncanny slot of finned heels and splay web-toes, imperfectly human; the shapely print excited a contrast image of delicate, stately, perfect womanhood, quite intolerable to intellect and emotion of manly composition. the steeps all round denied the possibility of ascent by tender feminine feet; for they thwarted his stout endeavour to scale up to the main rock above, that from the high wall receded and ascended in not extreme grades to the topmost pitch, where the sun was hanging well on the ponent slope. his strict investigation took him round each wide scallop of the enclosure, a course that was long to conclude by reason of exquisite distractions that beset every hollow of the way. for the clear rock pools he found in these reserves held splendours of the sea's living blossoms: glowing beds of anemones full blown, with purples of iris and orchis, clover red, rose red, sorrel red, hues of primrose and saffron, broad spread like great chrysanthemums' bosses. and above the wavy fringes, never quite motionless, dark wet buds hung waiting for the tide; and the crystal integrity mirroring these was stirred by flashes of silver-green light, the to-and-fro play of lovely minute rock-fish. he had circled two-thirds and more when to his vigilant perceptions a hint came. some ribbons of glossy weed hanging from shoulder height stirred a trifle overmuch in their shelter to the touch of wind. instantly the wary boy thrust a hand through and encountered, not rock, but a void behind; he parted the thick fall of weed, and a narrow cleft was uncurtained, with blackness beyond, that to his peering dissolved into a cool, dim sea-cave, floored with water semilucent, roofed with darkness. eagerly he pressed through, and dropped knee-deep into the still, dark water. involuntarily his motions were subdued; silently, gently, he advanced into the midst of encompassing water and rock and darkness. such slight intrusion of daylight as the heavy kelp drapery allowed slanted into the glooms in slender, steady threads; from his wading hosts of wan lights broke and ran for the walls, casting up against them paler repeats; when he halted, faint sound from them wapped and sobbed, dominant items in a silence hardly discomposed by the note of far-off surf, so modulated by deflecting angles as to reach the ear faint and low as the murmur that haunts the curves of a shell. for a long minute he stood in the midst motionless, while the chill of the water told on his blood, and the quiet darkness on his spirit. mystery stepped here with an intimate touch, absent when under the open sky the sands presented their enigma. his heart did not fail; only resolution ordered it now, not impulse. he spoke again to presumable ears. only his own words he heard multiply in fading whispers through the hovering darkness. silence came brooding back as he stood to hearken. as his eyes dilated to better discernment, he suspected that an aisle withdrew, from a faint pallor, narrowing as it tended towards his height, explicable if water receded there, gathering vague translucence from some unseen source of light. to verify, he was advancing when a considerate notion turned him about. he left the dim cavern, returned in the blinding sunshine to the footprints, knelt by the last, and set his fingers in the sand for inscription. for a long moment he considered, for no words seemed effectual to deliver his complexed mind. when he wrote it was a sentence of singular construction, truly indicative of how vague awe and dread had uprisen to take large standing beside simple humane solicitude. he traced three large crosses, and then three words. simple construing would read thus: 'in the name of the father, the son, and the holy ghost at your service.' moderately content with that rendering, he transcribed it thrice on the rocks, graving with the branch of coral. at either end of the entrance gorge he set it, and again large and fair above the hidden mouth of the cave. back into darkness he dived to take up research, and wading towards the tremor of light, entered a long recess that led under low arches of rock, till light grew more definite, and the water-way ended, closed in by a breastwork of rock. but, this surmounted, the boy saw water again, of absolute green, dark as any stone of royal malachite. the level was lower by several feet, perhaps the true tide-level, perhaps yet another limited reservoir that the sea replenished daily. he slid down the scarp and went on, heartened by the increase of light. the depth of the water varied, and the boy swam more often than he waded. the colour of the water varied; now it strengthened into a lucent green, now darkness threatened it, and he swam warily till it altered again, unaccountably. as his passing troubled the placid water, and ripples of colourless light, circling away from him, sent wavering lines of dim light rippling in response upon the sides of the passage, he caught vague, uncertain glimpses of dark rich colour mantling the rocks. suddenly, when light and colour were strongest, his way was barred, a wall of rock closing it abruptly. baffled and perplexed, the boy swam to and fro in vain quest of an outlet, till his wits leapt on a fair surmise that inlets for light there must be submerged. down he dived, groped, found justification in the arching rock, emerald flooded, struck boldly through it, and rose to the surface beyond. a glory of light and colour dazzled him, momentarily repulsing his faculties from possession of a grand cavern, spacious, lofty, wonderful, worthy to be the temple of a sea-god. he found recovery, he found footing, then straightway lost himself in wonder, for such splendours he had never dreamed could be. fathoms overhead the great vault hung unpropped. sunlight shot in high up in rays and bars through piercings and lancet clefts, and one large rent that yet afforded no glimpse of the blue. the boy's eyes wavered and sank for solace to the liquid paving below, flawless and perfect as the jasper sea of heaven. there pure emerald melted and changed in subtle gradations to jade green and beryl green; from pale chrysoprase to dark malachite no stone of price could deny its name to colourings else matchless. and there reflection struck down a rich inlay that sard could not excel: not sard, agate, essonite, chalcedony, in master work of lapidaries; for the sombre rocks were dressed with the deep crimson of sea-moss, velvet fine. amid the sober richness of weeds hung the amber of sponge-growths, blonds to enhance intense tertiaries. he saw that nature's structure showed certain gracious resemblances to human architecture: sheer rocks rose up from the water like the shattered plinths of columns; there were apses; there were aisles receding into far gloom; rayed lights overhead made a portion raftered, and slanting down a way hinted gothic sheaves and clerestory ruins. temple and palace both it was to the eyes of the intruder. he could not conceive of any mortal, though noble and exalted among men, entering, possessing, presiding adequately in this wonderful sea sanctuary that nature had fashioned so gloriously, and hidden away so cunningly, with a covering of frowning crag, and fencing of reef and wave. he amended the thought to except the noblest dead. supreme in dignity, excellent even here, high death crowning high life might be worshipped duly by such sepulture. a slab of rock like an altar tomb in the midst touched his perceptions to this issue. chapter iii importunate above measure grew the question, barely displaced in the full flood of discovery: was the unseen habitant familiar here? present here by some secret, easier ingress? he drew himself up from the water on the first rock, and, quiet as a watching otter, leant prone, till his faculties, abroad with wonder and awe, returned to level service. not a sound, not a ripple came to disprove his utter solitude. he slipped back into the water to examine further; a sense of profanation, not to be shaken off, subdued his spirit, and constrained him to diffident movement through the exceeding beauty of those jewelled aisles. wherever he went play of light and colour encircled him: luminous weavings that strayed into shadowy angles, investing and adorning with delicate favours. slender isles crept away into gloom, extending into mystery the actual dimensions of the great cavern: these he must enter, every one, for his thorough satisfaction. more than once the marbling and stains of the rocks deluded him, so like were they to frescoes--of battle array in confusion under a fierce winged sunset, of sea-beasts crouched and huddled, prone and supine, and again of sea-beasts locked together in strife. he came upon the likeness of a skull, an ill omen that dealt him a sudden thrill of superstitious fear. it needed close scrutiny in the vague light to decide that no hand of man had shaped all these. once light broke in from above, and he saw overhead a narrow strip of intense blue, and a white flash from the wing of a passing sea-mew. he tried to scale the cleft, so to reach the heights of the main island; but the steep rocks gave no sufficient foothold, and he dropped back into the water bruised and discomfited. tunnels and archways there were, too low and strait to let him pass. attempting an arch, submerged like the way of his entrance, his broad shoulders got wedged, and he struggled back, strangling, spent, and warned against needless hazards. he never noticed that in the great cavern one after another the rays of sunlight overhead shifted and withdrew, till twilight, advancing below, surprised him. his reckoning of time had been lost utterly, charmed out of him in the vast of beauty and mystery. in a moment he also realised that the lowest tiers of rocks had vanished below the water. the tide was rising. hurriedly he shot away for return, and groped along the dim passage. the water had risen half-way towards the upper level, so that he mounted there with no difficulty, and made his way on, through the entrance cave, through the kelp-curtained cleft, and out again upon the smooth white sands. too late! that he knew by the sound of heavy waves booming from the outer ravine before his eyes could certify how the tide had made hours' advance, and was coming in with a strong, resistless swell that would make short work with the best swimmer alive. he scrambled up to a shoulder to get a sight of the reefs that had helped him on his way; the nearest was already gone, and a tumbling whirlpool marked its place. except in the slack of the ebb it were madness to make the attempt. sunlight still touched the heights, but the quick southern twilight makes short stand against night. without question, till daybreak came with another ebb, on the isle sinister must he abide. to make the best of his case, he sought while daylight lasted after shell-fish to stay his growing hunger. then in the dusk he gathered dry weed and spread it for his couch on a ledge as high above the tide-mark as he could reach. it was a lateral cleft, as good for his purpose as any there. but he selected it not wholly with regard to comfort of body; its high remove above the mysterious footprints lent it best recommendation. for with growing darkness came a dread upon him; in an access of arrant superstition he conceived of some unimaginable thing stealing near upon woman's feet. reason stood up for a mild human presence if any, but on ground no better than a quicksand, very lacking in substantial elements. whence had those feet come? whither had they gone? he could not imagine a hiding too fine for his best vigilance, not in the open at least, in directions that the footprints positively indicated. as darkness fell, all the tales that had made the place sinister in name and reputation came thronging his mind, assuming an aspect more grim than they ever before had worn. the resolution, the firm reason he had relied on for defence, began to quail before dread odds. what wonder? that day such an assault against reason had been made, such a breach lay wide and unrepaired, as left self-possession hard bestead. then was he faithful to right worship; he prayed, and mortal terror invested him no longer. though faulty, ignorant, superstitious, the young fisher was, a rare sincerity ruled his spirit, an essential quality if prayer be to any purpose, even great in efficacy by its own intrinsic value. as, crossing himself, he lay down and turned to sleep, plainly above the surf the warders returned him the sound of a far-off bell--of three bells tolling together. he knew the voice of the house monitory. most comfortable was it, an expression of human commiseration extended to him, of special virtue also, he believed, to succour souls against leaguers of darkness. all night he knew, aloft on the cliff in the desolate bell tower, a monitress would serve each bell, and two would wait on a beacon-light, and the prayers of the five would not cease for souls of the living and souls of the dead, victims to fell powers of the sea. ah, blessed bells! and ah, dear saints whose names they bear!--st. mary, st. margaret, st. faith! the house monitory prays to the dear saints; but the simple, the ignorant, who go most in peril of that dangerous coast, when they bless three names--st. mary's, st. margaret's, st. faith's--do not discriminate consciously between the saints whose influence lives in heaven, and the bells that ring in evidence of how that influence lives on earth. he fell asleep. the tide came in, crept up the sand, blotted out footprints and weeds, covered anemone pools and boulders, reached the full, turned and ebbed back again. the moon rose, and as she mounted the dark clear-cut shadows of the rocks shrank. the lad slept the dreamless sleep of healthful weariness, till midnight was long past, and a wide stretch of sand lay bare again. then in her course the moon put back the shadows that had covered his face; his breathing grew shorter; he stirred uneasily, and woke. looking down, he saw the sand bared of the sea, white and glistening in the moonlight. quite distinct came the even stroke of the bells. the night wind had chilled him, half naked as he was, so he crept from his niche and dropped to the sands below, to pace away numbness. only a few steps he took; then he stood, and not from cold he trembled. a line of footprints crossed the sand, clear and firm, and so light, that the dainty sand-wrinkles were scarcely crushed out beneath them. and now the mark of the heel is nearest the sea. he knelt down to peer closer, stretched a hand, and touched one footprint. very fact it was, unless he dreamed. kneeling still, he scanned the broken lights and shadows that clung round the margin of rock-girt sand. ha! there in the shadow moves something white; it is gliding half hidden by boulders. a human figure goes there at ease, rising, stooping, bending to a pool. long it bends, then with a natural gesture of arms flung up, and hands locked upon the nape, steps out into the full moonlight, clear to view. the kneeling boy thrills to the heart at the beautiful terror. whiter than the sands are the bare, smooth limbs, and the dark, massed hair is black as are the night-shadows. oh! she comes. does she see? does she care? the light, swift feet bring her nearer, straight on, without a falter. her shadow falls upon him, and she stays and stands before him, beautiful, naked, and unabashed as a goddess. could she be one of god's creatures? no! yet because she was shaped like a woman, youthful pudicity, strong in the boy, bent his head, lowered his eyes to the ground. he felt a shame she could not know, for her shadow moved, her white feet came within the range of his lowly vision. perfect ankles, perfect feet, foam-white, wonderfully set! when the evil one wrought in human shapes, surely his work was ever flawed as to feet! still kneeling, he lifted his head, encountered her gaze, and made the sign of the cross. she met his eyes with a merciless smile, but before the sign stepped back uneasily; yet her beauty remained unblighted. then must it be that a sea-witch could be young and fair, of loveliness innate, not spell-wrought to ensnare him. he dreaded her none the less, afraid as never he had been in his life before. and yet, because his eyes were steady to meet hers, she read such defiance as she would not suffer. she clapped her hands together, and laughed in cruel triumph till echoes sprang. 'you are a dead man. do you know?' he stood and fronted her boldly now, recovering faith, most needful for the encounter. by what he could see of her face it was cruel and cold as death itself, and the gleam of her eyes was like the keen, sharp glitter of a treacherous sea. for he had not seen, when his eyes had been on the ground, on her feet, a flash of wonder and pity, for one instant softening. wonder at his large-limbed youth remained covert; but his defiant eyes, his gesture, had routed pity. 'your bones shall lie apart,' she cried. 'i will choose a fair nook for you in the great sea sepulchre. all the bones of other wretches who have perished among these rocks lie piled in a common heap--piled high! but you alone of many a score having set foot alive in this my garden--by strength, or courage, or cunning--no matter how, your momentary success shall receive some recognition. maybe, if i remember, when your skull is white and bare, i will crown it with sea-blossom now and then; and whenever i pass by, cast you a tribute of coral, till the hollows of your ribs are overfilled.' he felt that she had the power to make good her taunting words. 'i have faced death before now,' he answered simply. she was angered, and hated him, because he stood upright before her, with eyes that did not waver, and words like proud disdain. she longed to abase him before she compassed his death. 'how shall i take the forfeit? shall i bid sea-serpents crawl from the ooze of the deep to crush out your life in scaly folds; or set a watch of sharks about my garden to tear your live limbs piecemeal when you venture hence; or make the waves my agents to toss you and wrestle with you, to batter out all comeliness of form, and break your bones as reeds beneath the gale?' look, tone, gesture, drove home the full horror of her words. brave as the boy was, the blood forsook his cheek, a momentary tremor passed, and involuntarily his eyes turned to the eastern sky, whereunder lay a well-known shore, and his home, and the grey-haired couple, who, bereft of him, would go to the grave sorrowing. they faced each other in silence, as two wrestlers mark each the other's strength. a strangely unequal pair! the tall lad, long-limbed, muscular, broad-chested, the weight of whose finger was stronger, than her full-handed might, knew he was powerless, knew at least that no physical strength could prevail against the young witch; she, slender, smooth-limbed, threatened him with torture and death, strong in witch-might and witch-malice. keen-eyed, she had seen that he quailed, and softening, was half minded to forgive his trespass. 'kneel again and pray for your life; perchance i yet may grant it you.' should his christened body grovel to her, a witch? a ring of scorn was in his answer. 'not to you,' he said; 'i kneel and pray only when i love and fear.' she hated him again: he meant that her he hated and despised. 'fool!' she cried, raging, 'you defy me? do you not know that you are wholly in my power?' 'not wholly--no. though, because i have done amiss, my life be given into your hands, my soul is in god's.' she put her hands to her brow suddenly, as though she had received a blow. she stood quite silent. then she looked about her as though she sought vaguely for something she could not find. anger had passed away. 'your soul!' she said, on a note of wonder. 'your soul!' she repeated, and broke into a scornful laugh. 'ay, i remember something: i had a soul once; but it is gone--dead. i gave it in exchange for sea-life, sea-power, sea-beauty. i drank of the nepenthe cup, and in it my past was washed out and my soul was drowned.' 'wretched creature!' he cried, 'better for you had it been your death-draught.' she read in his face horror, pity, loathing, and longed with her whole being to abase him lower than she was in his eyes. better than to slay outright would it be to break down the self-respect that would not stoop before her even to escape death. oh, but she would try for very perfect revenge; not by quick death, cheap and insufficient; not by captivity and slow death--no, not yet. he should live, yes--and go free, and then she would conquer him body and soul; biding her time, plotting, waiting in patience, she would so make her triumph full, complete, absolute, at last. involuntarily she had drawn away into the shadow of the rocks, leaving the lad standing alone in the moonlight. she saw that his lips moved. he was praying silently, unmindful of her. with her dark brows drawn together and a smile of scorn she wove cunning plans for his ruin. swiftly she chose her line: for a witch confident, audacious, subtle, it was a game easy and pleasant to play. again the boy saw her stand before him. her face was mild, her voice low and gentle. 'tell me your name.' 'christian.' she threw back her head with an uneasy movement, but recovering instantly, resumed her part. 'how came you here? and why?' though not to be lightly reassured, he told her frankly. her dark eyes were intent upon his face; then they dropped, and then she sighed, again and again. her breast was heaving with a storm of sighs. 'oh!' she broke out, with a voice of passionate grief. 'oh, shame! you, who have the wide world whereon you may range, you will not leave me this one poor shred of land. a greedy breed it is dwelling ashore, that must daily be rifling the sea of its silver lives, of its ruddy thickets, and will yield no inch in return. and you have outpassed your fellows in greed--you have owned it--you have boasted. ah! i grant your courage and strength excellent, taken by the measure of the land; but, oh, the monstrous rapacity!' her voice broke with indignation. she turned aside and surveyed the moon-white level. soon she resumed in a quick, low whisper. 'how can i let him go? how can i? oh dear, fair garden-close, mine, mine, all mine alone till now--if your shining pools never mirror me again, if your sands take the print of my foot never again--oh no--i cannot--no--no--' swift pity responded as her lament sank away to a moan. 'never think so! one brief trespass made in ignorance is all you have to resent--is all you shall have: not a soul shall have word by me of your favoured haunt. moreover,' he added and smiled, 'i know no man who could win here, were he minded to more strongly than i.' she smiled back. 'then go in peace.' she passed him by to follow the sea. this sudden grace struck him dumb. all too briefly glanced and worded was it for his satisfaction. so fair at heart she was too. a first young flicker of male worship kindled in the boy's eyes as he turned to look after her going. she halted, facing, and lifting her hand to him. 'your boat was broken, you say,' she said as he came. 'i tell you, your peril will be more extreme when you try the reefs again for an outlet, except you have a pilot of me.' 'you!' he said. 'not i,' she laughed. 'the guide that i shall send will be a gull pure white, whose flight you shall follow. i have trusted you; do you trust me?' 'i will, i will.' 'a strict promise! though you seem to be going upon certain death, you will trust and follow?' 'i will trust and follow, on my word, strictly kept as the oaths of the many.' 'your pilot you will know by his call. listen: "diadyomene! diadyomene!"' she shrilled like a sea-bird. 'it is my name--diadyomene--of a good signification for you. i hold your promise; when you hear "diadyomene" you are pledged to follow.' she waited for no answer; with a gesture of farewell was away for the sea, from the moon-white sand springing into the shadows over the harsh interval of boulders. the vista let a vague moving shape show, lessening as she sped across the desolate chasm without. one strip of moonlight lay half-way, at the edge of the retreating sea. there a swift silver-white figure leapt clear, with dark hair flying an ineffectual veil, with arms rising wide in responsive balance to the quick free footing. it was gone--gone utterly--a plunge beyond restored her to her sea. christian stood motionless long after she had disappeared, so long that the moon paled, that dawn quickened in the east, that day spread wide. responding to the daylight, broad awake rose reason to rebuke his senses for accepting fair words and a fair shape as warranty for fair dealing. and till midday reason domineered; while he abode the slack, while he battled for shore, while he mended and launched, while the cry 'diadyomene! diadyomene!' swept down on white wings, went before, shifted, wheeled; while, so guided, reefs and breakers threatened close on every hand, fell behind and left him scatheless. oh, safe upon the waveless blue reason fell prostrate, abashed; and the heart of christian, enfranchised, leapt high in exultation, so that with laughter, and glad praise, and proud and happy calls of farewell, he set sail for home and was carried away from the isle sinister. chapter iv though day was high, lois, the mother adoptive of christian the alien, sat in shadow, for her small lattice was nearly blinded by the spread of vivid fig-leaves jealous for the sun. flawless order reigned in the simple habitation. no sign of want was there, but comforts were few, and of touch or tint for mere pleasure there was none. over an opened bible bent a face worn more by care than time. never a page was turned; the hands held the edges, quiet, but a little tense. for an hour deliberate calm held. then the soft, quick pat of bare feet running caused a slight grip and quiver. the door swung wide, not ungently, before christian flushed and breathless, and a flash of broad day framed with him. he peered within with eager, anxious eyes, yet a diffident conscience made him falter. 'what have i done? oh, mother!' so frail she seemed to his large embrace. in his hand hers he felt ever so slightly tremble. he knelt beside her, love and reverence big in his heart. 'why should you trouble so?' he said. she laid her hands on his head for pardon. 'christian,' she said, 'were you in peril last night?' 'yes.' she waited for more to follow, vainly. 'what was it? where have you been? what have you done?' 'mother, you were praying for me!' 'answer, christian.' 'i gave a promise. i thought i owed it--yes, i think so,' he said, perturbed, and looked in her eyes for exoneration. there he read intelligence on a wrong tack that his honesty would not suffer. 'no, mother, it was not on a venture--i have come back empty-handed. i mean not such a venture as you think,' he corrected, for among the fishers the word had a special significance, as will show hereafter. 'say at least,' said lois, 'you have done nothing amiss--nothing you would be ashamed to tell me.' 'but i have,' he confessed, reddening, 'done amiss--without being greatly ashamed--before.' his heart sank through a pause, and still lower at his mother's question, spoken very low. 'then i am to know that though i should question, you would refuse an answer to me?' he could not bear to utter the word till she insisted. her face twitched painfully; she put him back, rose, and went pacing to and fro. helplessly he stood and watched her strange distress, till she turned to him again. 'my boy--no--you can be a boy no more; this day i must see you are a man. listen, christian: i knew this day must come--though it seems oversoon to me--and i was resolved that so soon as you should refuse any confession to me, i--i--must make confession to you.' she silenced his pained protest, and went on. 'when my child was born, eighteen years ago come christmas eve, our priest was no worthy man as now; little good was known of him, and there was bad guessed at. but there was this that none here guessed--i only. and you must know--it is part of my confession.' she spoke painfully, sentence by sentence. after eighteen years her voice yet vibrated with hot, live passion. 'my sister--my young sister--came to make her home with us; she would, and then she would not, for no cause--and went away. she died--she died on the night my child was born--and hers. then i vowed that neither i nor my child should receive sacrament of god from that man's hands. he dared no word when i passed by with my unbaptized child in my arms; he met my eyes once--never after. we were two living rebukes, that he but no other could read plain enough. 'twas in those days that my man giles went seafaring, so the blame was the more all mine. he indeed, knowing all from me, would have had the child away to be baptized of other hands. but in those days the nearest were far, and i put him off with this plea and that; and come a day, and gone in a day, and months away, was the way with him then. for this thwart course, begun out of fierce resentment, so long as that did not abate, i found i had no will to leave. yet all along i never meant to hold it over a week more, or a week more, or at most a month more. so two years went, and a third drew on, and that wolf of the fold was dead. 'on the day he was laid underground god took my child from me. 'i knew--the first word of missing--i knew what i had done. conscience struck away all hope. from the print of children's feet we traced how the smallest went straying, how little hands shell filled went grasping for more. i gleaned and keep. they said it was hours before, at the ebb. then the tide stopped us, and that was all. 'in my bitter grief i said at the first that god was just but not merciful; since he took the dear body from me and hid it in the sea that i, who had not wrapped it for christening, should never wrap it meetly for the grave. most just, most merciful! afterwards he sent you to me by the very sea. i knew and claimed you as you lay on the shore, a living child, among twoscore dead men, and none withstood me. 'in ignorant haste, eager to atone, i was loath to believe what the cross at your neck told, with its three crosses inscribed, and your sole name "christian," and on the reverse a date. like a rebuff to me then it was, not realising that i was to work out an atonement more full and complete. i have tried. o christian, it will not be in vain! 'all these years your conscience has been in my keeping; you have freely rendered to me account of thoughts and deeds, good and ill; you have shared no secret, no promise apart from me. to-day you tell me that your conduct, your conscience, you will have in your own sole charge. 'my boy, you do no wrong; this is no reproach, though i cannot but grieve and fear. but know you must now, that in you i present to god my great contrition; in you i dare look for his favourable grace made manifest; a human soul seeks in you to see on earth salvation.' christian shrank before the passionate claim. his sense of raw, faulty youth was a painful shame, confronted by the bared remorse of this austere woman, whom his heart held as mother and saint. 'o god, help us,' he said, and his eyes were full of tears. 'ay, christian,' she said, 'so i prayed last night.' 'mother,' he said, awed, 'what did you know? how did you know?' 'nothing, nothing, only great fear for you, and that sprung of a dream. often the wind and the waves have crept into my sleep and stolen you from me. last night i dreamed you lay dead, and not alone; by you lay my little one, a small, white, naked shape crouched dead at your side. i woke in great fear for you; it would not pass, though the night was still; it grew rather, for it was a fear of worse than death for you. yes, i prayed.' through his brain swept a vision, moonlighted, of the fair witch's haunt, and her nude shape dominant as she condemned him. the omniscience of god had been faint sustenance then compared with this feeble finite shadow of the same that shot thrilling through the spirit of the boy. so are we made. outside a heavy step sounded, and a voice hailed christian. 'here, boy, lend a hand.' he swung out into the clear world. there giles, empty-handed, made for the rear linhay, and faced round with a puckered brow. 'what the devil have you been up to?' 'trying her paces,' said christian. 'who's to blame then--you or she?' 'oh, not she!' said christian hastily, jealous for the credit of his new possession. 'well, well, that ever such a duffer should be bred up by me,' grumbled giles. 'out with it all, boy. how came it?' christian shut his mouth and shook his head. 'what's this? don't play the fool. as it is, you've set the quay buzzing more than enough.' 'who cares?' 'and you've broken philip's head within two minutes of touching, i believe.' ''twas done out of no ill-will,' protested christian. 'a dozen swarmed over, for all the world as if she were just carrion for them to rummage like crabs. so i hitched one out again--the biggest by preference,--and he slipped as you called to speed me off here. if he took it ill, 'tis no great matter to square.' 'i would for this once he or any were big enough to break your head for you as well as you deserve,' said giles savagely. 'we're of a mind there,' said christian, meekly and soberly. giles perversely took this as a scoff, and fumed. 'here has the wife been in a taking along of you; never saying a word, going about like a stiff statue, with a face to turn a body against his victuals; and i saying where was the sense? had you never before been gone over a four-and-twenty hours? and now to fix her, clean without a cause, you bring back a hole to have let in judgment-day. now will come moils to drive a man daft. 'and to round off, by what i hear down yonder, never a civil answer but a broken head is all you'll give. "look you there now," says philip, and i heard him, and he has a hand clapped to his crown, and he points at your other piece of work, and he says, says philip: "look you there now, _he_ was never born to drown," and he laughs in his way. well, i thought he was not far out, take it either way, when i see how you have brought the poor thing in mishandled. it passes me how you kept her afloat and brought her through. let's hear.' though giles might rate, there was never a rub. years before the old man and the boy had come to a footing strangely fraternal, set there by a common despair of satisfying the strict code of lois. again christian shook his head. giles reached up a kindly hand to his shoulder. 'what's amiss, boy? it's new for you to show a cross grain. a poor spirit it is that can't take blame that is due.' christian laughed, angry and sore. 'o dad!' he said, 'i must blame myself most of all. have your say. give me a taste of the sort of stuff i may have to swallow. but ask nothing.' giles rubbed his grey locks in perplexity, and stared at the perverse boy. 'it can't be a venture--no,' he thought aloud. 'nor none hinted that. 'well, then; you've been and taken her between the tortoises, and bungled in the narrows.' christian opened his mouth to shout derision at the charge, gasped, and kept silence. 'there's one pretty guess to go abroad. here's another: you've gone for the land's end, sheared within the sinister buoys, and got right payment. that you can't let pass.' 'why not that?' christian said, hoping his countenance showed no guilt. 'trouble will come if you don't turn that off.' 'trouble! let them prate at will.' 'well,' complained giles, 'i won't say i am past work, but i will own that for a while gone i had counted on the near days when i might lie by for a bit.' 'but, dad, that's so, all agreed, so soon as i should have earned a boat of my own, you should have earned holiday for good.' 'then, you fool, speak clear, and fend off word of the sinister buoys, or not a soul but me will you get aboard for love or money.' eager pride wanted to speak. giles would not let it. 'you think a mere breath would drive none so far. ay, but you are not one of us, and that can't be forgot with your outlandish hair and eyes. then your strength outdoes every man's; then you came by the sea, whence none know, speaking an unknown tongue; and then----' giles paused. the heart of the alien swelled and shrank. he said very low: 'so i have no friends!' 'well,' giles admitted, 'you would be better liked but for a way you have sometimes of holding your head and shutting your mouth.' he mimicked till christian went red. 'do i so? well,' he said, with a vexed laugh, 'here's a penance ready against conceit. the tortoises! i indeed! and i must go humble and dumb.' 'such tomfoolery!' cried giles, exasperated. 'and why? why? there's something behind; you've let out as much. i don't ask--there, keep your mystery if you will; but set yourself right on one point--you will--for my sake you will.' christian looked at the old man, bent, shrunken, halt, and smiled out of bland confidence. 'the burden shall not light on you, dad. and has no one told you what i have done single-handed? just for display of her excellent parts, worked the boat and the nets too, and hauled abreast of any. not a boat that watched but cheered the pair of us.' 'i heard, i heard,' said giles ungraciously. 'a show off for an hour or two. what's that to work week in, week out?' christian was looking aside. he saw the head of lois leaning out, attentive to all. he took a heavy heart out of her sight. 'she does not trust me,' he said of her face. chapter v scattered far and wide over the fishing-grounds lay the coral fleet. there, a solitary, went christian to a far station. yet not as an outcast. he had tried his strength against his world, and the victory inclined to him. for a week he had been baited hard and cut off, as giles had forewarned; and through it all he had kept his own counsel, and his temper, and his place with the fleet, defiant, confident, independent. and luck attended his nets. therefore another week saw unsubstantial suspicion waning; scoffs had their day and died of inanition; and the boy's high-hearted flouting of a hard imposition annulled its rigour. not a few now would be fain to take their chance with him. for giles's consolation he had not rejected all advances, yet as often as not he still went alone, declining another hand. thrift and honest glorying in his strength so inclined him, though a perverse parade may not be disclaimed. yet none of these accounted for a distinct gladness for solitude that grew unawares. what colour were her eyes? the moonlight had withheld certainty, and he had not given his mind to it then. dark, he knew, to match her hair: rare eyes, like pansies dewy in shade? down swung with their swags of netting the leaded cross-beams from his hands into the shadowed water, and its dark, lucid green was faced with eddies. down, deeper than the fathoming of his eyes, plunged his spirit, and walked the sea's mysteries in vain imaginings. mechanically he set the boat crawling while he handled the guys. a trail of weed swam dim below; it entangled. his wits said weed, nothing but weed, but his pulse leapt. day after day, not to be schooled, it had quickened so to half-expectancy of a glimpse at some unguessed secret of the deeps. he was glad to be alone. body and mind he bent to the draught, till the cross-beams rose, came out dripping up to the gunwale, and neatly to rest. a ruddy tangle hung among the meshes. he paused before out-sorting to resolve an importunate doubt: was this more than mere luck to his nets? it was not the first time he had had occasion to debate an unanswerable question. the blank westward seas, near or far, returned no intelligence to his eager survey, nothing to signify he was not quit of obligation. a witch she was, of an evil breed, one to be avoided, pitied, and abhorred. no conscious impulse moved christian to seek her again, though her beauty was a wonder not to be forgotten, and she had dealt with him so kindly. yet of the contrary elements of that strange encounter the foul stood unchanged, but the fair had suffered blight, because from the small return demanded of him his mother's heart had taken hurt. a full confession would indeed but change the current of distrust. he sighed, yet smiled a little; he would have to own that a wish persisted to know the colour of those eyes. from the sweat and ache of toil he paused a moment to see where he lay. under a faint breath from the south he had been drifting; the fleet also had drifted to leeward. within a grand enclosure, satisfying coolness and peace, and splendid shade reigned, for no man's solace and reward. the sun rode high, and the west breathed in turn, bringing a film of haze. a delicate blue veil, that no eye could distinguish from the melting blue of sea and heaven, an evanescent illusion of distance, hung, displacing the real. above the boy's head a seagull dipped and sailed. it swooped low with a wild note, 'diadyomene, diadyomene,' and flew west. christian upturned a startled face. the drifting fleet had vanished; he was alone with the gracious elements. too loyal of heart to dream of excuse, he rendered instant obedience to the unwelcome summons, headed round, hoisted every stitch, and slanted away after the white wings. yet he chafed, angry and indignant against so unwarrantable an imposition on his good faith. go he must, but for a fair understanding, but to end an intolerable assumption that to a witch creature he owed payment indefinitely deferred at her pleasure. he owed her his life; no less than that she might exact. he found he was smiling despite a loath mind and anxious. now he would see of what colour were her eyes. the young witch diadyomene leaned forward from a rock, and smiled at the white body's beauty lying in the pool below. she was happy, quivering to the finger-tips with live malice; and the image at her feet, of all things under heaven, gave her dearest encouragement. her boulder shelved into a hollow good for enthronement, draped and cushioned with a shag of weed. there she leant sunning in the ardent rays; there she drew coolness about her, with the yet wet dark ribbons of seaweed from throat to ankle tempering her flesh anew. no man could have spied her then. by a flight of startled sea-birds, he nears. she casts off that drapery. through the gorge comes christian, dripping, and stands at gaze. with half-shut eyes, with mirth at heart, she lay motionless for him to discern and approach. she noted afresh, well pleased, his stature and comely proportions; and as he neared, his ruddy tan, his singular fair hair and eyes, she marked with no distaste. the finer the make of this creature, the finer her triumph in its ruin. he came straight opposite, till only the breadth of water at her feet was between. 'why has "diadyomene, diadyomene" summoned me?' he said. against the dark setting of olive weed her moist skin glistened marvellously white in the sun. a gaze grave and direct meeting his could not reconcile him to the sight of such beauty bare and unshrinking. he dropped self-conscious eyes; they fell upon the same nude limbs mirrored in the water below. there he saw her lips making answer. 'i sent you no summons.' christian looked up astonished, and an 'oh' of unmistakable satisfaction escaped him that surprised and stung the young witch. he stood at fault and stammered, discountenanced, an intruder requiring excuse. 'a seagull cried your name, and winged me through the reefs to shore, and led me here.' 'i sent you no summons,' she repeated. a black surmise flashed that the white bird was her familiar, doing her bidding once, this time compassing independent mischief. then his face burned as the sense of the reiteration reached his wits: she meant to tell him that he lied. confounded, he knew not how to justify himself to her. there, below his downcast eyes, her reflected face waited, quite emotionless. suddenly her eyes met his: she had looked by way of his reflection to encounter them. down to the mirror she dipped one foot, and sent ripples to blot out her image from his inspection. it was a mordant touch of rebuke. 'because i pardoned one trespass, you presume on another.' 'i presume nothing. i came, unhappily, only as i believed at your expressed desire.' 'how? i desire you?' she added: 'you would say now you were loath to come.' 'i was,' he admitted, ashamed for his lack of gratitude. 'go--go!' she said, with a show of proud indifference, 'and see if the gull that guided you here without my consent will guide you hence _without my consent_.' insult and threat he recognised, and answered to the former first. 'whatever you lay to my charge, i may hardly say a word in defence without earning further disgrace for bare truth.' 'you did not of yourself return here? for far from you was any desire ever to set eyes on me again?' so well did she mask her mortal resentment, that the faint vibration in her voice conveyed to him suspicion of laughter. 'on you--i think i had none--but for one thing,' he said, with honest exactitude. 'and that?' reluctantly he gave the truth in naked simplicity. 'i did desire to see the colour of your eyes.' she hid them, and broke into charming, genuine laughter. 'do you know yet?' she said. 'no, for they are set overdeep for a woman, and the lashes shadow so.' 'come nearer, then, and look.' he stepped straight into the pool knee-deep and deeper, and with three strides stood below. she bent her head towards him with her arms upon her knee, propping it that a hand might cover irrepressible smiles. her beautiful eyes she opened wide for the frank grey eyes to consider. many a breath rose and fell, and neither offered to relinquish the intimate close. beautiful eyes indeed! with that dark, indescribable vert iris that has the transparent depth of shadowed sea-water. they were bright with happy mirth; they were sweetly serious; they were intent on a deep inquiry into his; they were brimming wells not to be fathomed; oh, what more? what haunted their vague, sad, gracious mystery? 'are you satisfied yet of their colour?' she asked quietly, bringing him to a sense of the licence he indulged. 'of their colour--yes.' 'how, then, are you not satisfied?' 'i do not know.' 'bare truth!' 'what thoughts, then, lay behind while you looked down so?' she kept her mouth concealed, and after a pause said low as a whisper: 'looking at your eyes, i wondered if they would alter greatly when your time came--to die.' 'ah, no, no,' he said, startled; 'how could you!' his mind only caught the suggestion to reflect upon her transparent eyes stricken with the tragedy of death. from so gentle a tone he could not gather a sinister hint; moreover, she smiled to effect a blind. 'now that your quest is over, i in turn desire certain knowledge. gratify me, and so shall your rash footing here to-day stand redeemed.' she signed for him to follow, and led the way by rock and pool to the entrance of the cave. there upon a boulder she leaned, and pointed him up to the rock above, where the rough inscription he had set there remained unimpaired. 'that is your handiwork?' 'yes.' 'what does it mean?' his heart thumped. to her he had addressed that legend, not knowing what she was. 'i do not know that you are fit to hear.' her just indignation refrained from him, and his heart smote him. 'ah! i should not judge. hear then!' and he read. for an instant her face fell, troubled, and she moved restlessly. 'and who are they? who is the father?' 'god the father almighty, maker of heaven and earth.' 'he did not make me.' 'but he did.' 'say that he made you if so you please: i speak for myself. pass on now. who is the son?' 'jesus christ his son, our lord, who suffered and died to save us from our sins.' 'suffered and died!' she exclaimed, and then added, 'i have no sins.' 'ah, you have!' said christian, aghast. 'you may have, may be, but not i. pass on. who is the other one?' 'the holy ghost the comforter.' 'whose comforter? theirs? yours? not mine--i need no comfort.' when he said, 'o poor, lost soul, god have mercy!' she rose to passion. 'you shall not say so; i will not endure it. and why should you look at me so? and why should you speak it low? am i to be pitied--and pitied of you, who but for my pity would by now be a shredded and decayed patch sunk deep?' 'my body.' diadyomene recovered herself instantly, recalled to the larger conquest she designed. 'yet pass on again: there is more--"at your service!" whose?' 'yours.' 'mine! that is not possible,' she said coldly; 'nor of the whole can i make sense.' 'it means that i offered to serve her whose footprints i had seen--yours,--and pledged myself by the sacred names that she should have no fears.' 'fears!' christian flushed painfully. it was not possible to intimate to her how he had considered that a woman unclothed would surely shrink from a man's presence. 'you make for a simple end by strange means!' 'how is it,' she resumed, 'that since quite freely you pledged yourself so sacredly to my service, you came most unwillingly when you thought i had need of you?' before her penetrating gaze shame entered. 'for your need i would have come gladly; yes--i think so--in spite of incurring worse; but for your pleasure----' 'not, for instance, had i wished to see the colour of your eyes?' it was but poor sport to put him out of countenance. quite kindly she asked, 'what now have you incurred that worse should be to dread?' he began of the name 'sinister,' and of all it implied. she laughed, asking him why he should expound that. he went on to the definite ills that had beset him, because the injury to his boat betrayed him to inquisition. 'but how?' she asked; 'you admitted nothing, else you failed in your promise to me.' 'no, but challenged, i could not deny i had dared here.' 'why not?' 'it would not have been true,' he said, puzzled. diadyomene opened her eyes wide and laughed. 'and do you use your powers of speech only to say what is true?' 'yes,' he said, indignant. 'how else?' 'now i,' she said, 'use speech to disguise truth, with foul or with fair, or sometimes to slay and bury it out of sight.' 'then, when you declared you had not summoned me, was that untrue?' 'if i now answered "yes" or "no," you could be no nearer satisfaction; for you have not the wit to weigh my word with mood, disposition, circumstance, to strike a balance for truth.' christian pondered, perplexed and amazed at that perverse argument. 'i would another were here to unreeve this tangle you are in. there is one, wise, tender, a saint.' diadyomene levelled her brows. 'a woman! and you love her!' she said, and astonished the inexperienced boy. 'above all! she is mother to me.' he said timidly: 'of all evils incurred by my presumption here, the worst is that between her and me your secret stands a bar to perfect confidence. i did not guess it would gall her so. i may not tell you how.' 'yes, tell me.' 'i cannot.' 'a secret.' 'not strictly; some day i might, but not now.' she shot a keen glance, suspicious by that heedless reservation that, after all, he was shrewdly playing his own game. he went on. 'with her your secret would be absolutely safe; and if her you would but include----' 'but i will not,' she said peremptorily, 'nor shall you take counsel with her, nor come back well charged for convincing me of what you may be pleased to call sin; for presently we part for ever--for ever, alive or dead.' that struck silence for a minute. then christian straightened and said: 'i have then much to say first. i have a message to you.' 'to me--a message!' 'the message of the gospel. in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy ghost.' 'ah yes,' she said; 'we were to return to that. "suffered and died," you said of one--the son.' the young gospeller took up his task void of all vain conceit; but humility, simplicity, and honesty alone could not prevail over the quick-witted witch when she was bent on entangling him. a long hour he laboured with the story of the redemption, she questioning to his bewilderment, involving him in contradiction, worsting him again and again, though he would not know it; till, weary of harassing, she heard him in silence, with an unmoved attention that was worse discouragement. his own incompetence he had known, but he had not thought himself so unstable that the pressure of patient eyes could weigh down his clear sense; that the lifting of night-black hair in the light wind, the curve of a neck, the slow play of idle hands, could distract him. he knew he had failed utterly, that he did not deserve to succeed before ever her comment began. 'o the folly of it!' she said with wonder and scorn. 'truly i am well quit of a soul if it bring intelligent creatures of flesh and blood to worship, as highest excellence conceivable, a joyless life, a degraded death. for others? the more foolish. and you would have me repent and be converted to that? i--i repent, who have gained this?' she rose to her feet, flung up head and arms; her bosom heaved with a breath of ecstasy, her lips parted, her eyes shone; the glory, power, magic, of the deep flashed into visible embodiment in her. the perfect woman, possessed by the spirit of the sea, unawares took worship of the boy's heart. to seal her supremacy, a wave leaping in the gorge broke to him the unnoted advance of the tide. he thrilled as though the sea had actually responded to her passion. to a new, wonderful note of power and sweetness she began, with a face and gesture that alone were eloquent: 'o poor mortal! the deeps to you are abysses of death, while the storm-winds, ravening, hunt you. oh, 'tis pitiful! deep, deep in the heart of the sea dwells eternal peace, and fear is dead to all who dwell there. starry sea-blossoms grow stilly, by the winnowing of broad fins stirred only. when stormy terrors fall with black night on you above, with me below is a brooding blank of light and sound, and a darkness that can be felt lulls every sense. from that deep calm i float, i rise, to feel the upper pulses of the sea; to meet strong currents that in the very hair wake vigour; to leave silence far underfoot; to taste of the glorious battle of wind and wave. strong, foam-headed bearers take me, whirl me as i will. there is madness, rout, and drunken frenzy of the elements for honour of my presence. o the roar! o the rains! o the lightning! 'deep, deep in the heart of the sea the broad glare of this full sunlight is softened into a mystery of amber twilight, clear and cool; and quivering cloud-shadows dim it to pearl, and sunset throbs into it a flush. there the light of the white moon is a just perceptible presence of grey silver to tell me a night is cloudless. she draws me--she draws me--to her i yearn. my heart, my love, my life, rise large and buoyant in worship of her. to her fair face you have never looked up as i, at poise, with earth far below and the air fathoms above. ah, so large and near and gracious she lies! in the faint swell of a calm she shrinks and expands, as though she breathed with me--with the sea; a ripple of wind will comb her into quivering lines of silver; and the heave of a wave shatter her to fragments that vainly slide and dance to close back into the perfect disk. involuntarily your hands would snatch at the near splinters of living silver. i rise through them to rarer air, and lo! my moon has fled up immeasurably, and shines remote, concentrated, placid. 'deep, deep in the heart of the sea, within unhewn walls, are splendid courts, where marbles discover their shy translucence, and drink mellow life from widespread floors of sand, golden, perfect, unwrinkled and unstained from age to age; and drink milky fire that hangs where nebulous sea-stars cluster that night may never prevail. inmost wait vacant shrines to gratify worship of sleep and dreams--pure amber one, great crystals one, and rainbow spars. one there is of moony mother-of-pearl, meetest covert of rest, when life grows a little weary of conquest and play, and greatly enamoured of dreams. ah, dreams! you with a soul--can you dream? nay--but i will not know. 'deep, deep in the heart of the sea hide brine-bred monsters; living there, dying there; never touching the thin, vacant air, never facing the broad eye of heaven. quick death by the grip of huge jaws meets the drowning there. your might--yours--is puny: you never could cope with the fierce sea-wolves. and your limbs are heavy and slow: you could not play with the dolphin and mock at the shark. to me come all by love or fear. the frailest shape afloat, that fears a shadow, into my palms drops from the waves; and uncouth herds leave browsing to hustle their finned heads under my hands. and the terrible breeds, the restive, i catch by the mane and school, against their resistance driving sharp ivory hard between the joints of their mail. how they wrestle and course, as pride of their strength is mine, and joy of their speed is mine--ah! most supremely when they most dispute it. your eyes declare wonder, since your broad limbs could match the banded strength of a score of my slight mould. i grant it here, where the touch of the earth and the touch of the air are dull, faint, weak, to flesh and blood nourished of the deeps; but life and vigour and strength transcendent evolve from the embrace of the salt, cold sea, from deep indraughts of keen brine. 'down in the deepest lies sleeping the oldest of living creatures, placid in a valley of the sea. his vast green coil spreads out for leagues; where his great heart beats slow the waters boil; he lifts an eyelid, and the waves far, far above are lit with phosphor light. runs a tremor because of his dreams, i sink to the weedy ears and chant peace, unaffrighted, sure that no fret can withstand my song. shall he once roar and lash with all his spines, your coasts will crumble and be not. 'what, you--you with a soul, get quickened breath and eager eyes from a few empty words, as though even in you woke the sting of a splendid desire for entering the reserves of the sea, with intimacy and dominion like mine. no--no--stand off! content you with the earth and air. never--never shall you lay your hand upon my breast, nor set your lips to mine, nor gain the essential word, for you count your soul as priceless, and never will let it go.' she ceased. christian suddenly crossed himself, turned his back, and went from her and her magic. the forward tide checked his feet; its crisp murmur and great undertones uttered a voluble, soft chorus on that strange monologue. he came to himself to know that he offered outrageous offence to virgin pride, unwarrantable, and far from his mind. her free, bold words were too coldly proud for any thought of disrespect. he turned again hastily. she was gone. he sprang to the brimming cave. 'diadyomene,' he called; 'diadyomene,' and followed up the moving water; but he had no definite sight of her, and got no answer till he came to the great cavern. no witch she looked beside the jasper mirror, but just a slender, solitary maiden. she did not lift her pensive head, nor move nor look at him as he drew to her. 'diadyomene,' he supplicated, 'have out on me all that is in your mind. call me dumb-squint, beetle-head in mind and manners.' with a quite impassive countenance she answered gently: 'it is in my mind that the sun is low and the tide high. it is in my mind to put you in a way where both may yet serve for your safe homing.' out came a sovereign smile of humour, sweet raillery, and condonation blended, instant on her investigation of his eyes. humbled and exalted at one fine touch, christian's judgment surrendered to her. she hindered a word of it. 'i can show you an outlet that will take you to a sheltered reach behind the landward walls of this isle. so will you evade the worst races of the tide. furthermore, from the mainland to the open you will need aid.' he answered unsuspiciously that of her grace he had learned the reefs fairly. 'ah yes, and conned through but once,' she said smoothly, and eyed him. 'conned twice--once either way.' 'i sent you no summons,' she expostulated quietly. 'do you think that i have lied to you?' she did not answer. with indignant emphasis he repeated, 'do you think i have lied?' 'do you think _i_ have?' not a quiver crossed her front with the mendacious alternative; not even for laughter, when the face of christian lent ample occasion; for, as a fish with a barb in the gullet not to be spewed out, was he impotent and spun. while still he gasped, diadyomene slid forward into the deep and bade haste for daylight. fine swimmer he was, but his strokes compared ill with an effortless ease like a wing-wide bird's. refraction gave her limbs a lovely distortion, and pearly soft they were through the beryl wash. behind her merged head the level just rocked and quivered; cleft by his chin it rebelled in broad ripples. she turned her head, curious of his clumsy method; she could not forbear a smile; she reverted hastily beyond the blind of her floating hair. but he could not follow where she offered to lead, for she dropped her feet, and sank, and walked the under-floor of rock, entering a deep gallery. he dived, entered after, then breath gave out, and he shot back to gasp. she presented a face of grieved surprise. 'there is another way to the same end,' was all she said on his deficiency. he mounted after her then, by shelf and ridge, an intricate, retiring way, till she showed him a dark gulf at their feet. 'leap!' she said, 'no hurt lies there.' utter blackness lay below, repugnant to his nerves; yet not therefore he stayed. 'diadyomene,' he said, with desperate temerity, 'you do not forbid me ever to see you again.' daylight struggled feebly in there. her answer was not direct, and it laboured. 'i have no--desire--ever to see you again.' quick for once: 'have you a desire never to see me again?' he said, and held his breath. he saw her step to the verge, lift her arms, and poise. she delivered an ingenious masterstroke to wound. 'be under no such apprehension. i will convince you: for your assurance i will go first.' 'hold back!' with a savage sob cried christian; leapt, and dropped with straightened feet perpendicular in the gulf. with a thin sigh and a vigorous kiss two elements received his descent. diadyomene leaned over the dark, and called 'farewell.' the word was echoed back by him hoarsely; and again from further distance it came, ringing sound. beneath her breath she said, 'some day i will have grey eyes weeping before my face.' then laughter possessed her, and away she sprang, to revel in the release of peals of wicked delight. very cold-hearted the sea-bred are, and their malice is very keen. chapter vi lois drew forward a young creature, whose dark head did not fully uplift. 'christian,' she said, 'this is your cousin rhoda.' he blurted out 'cousin!' in astonishment. two faces stiffened; the girl's eyes declined. 'my niece,' said lois briefly, 'and so cousin by adoption.' giles kicked his heel, so he guarded his tongue duly. considerate of embarrassing the girl with open observation, he took note discreetly how kin was just legible on the two faces. the eyes of both were set overdeep for womankind; they were alike in the moulding of the bones; but the face of rhoda gave promise of a richer beauty than could ever have been the portion of lois. for a minute it bloomed in a vivid blush, for their eyes met as she, too, by stealth was observing him for his great height and breadth and alien complexion. when afterwards his mother said, 'you know whose child she is?' he answered, 'yes.' 'christian, i thank god for my good man.' her sense he could not adjust till long afterwards, when a fuller account of rhoda's past was given to him. now giles told but little. 'no, she had never set eyes on her before. i? oh yes, i had--the pretty little piece! but when i bring her in, and have said no more than one cough, the wife goes clean past me, and has the girl in her arms, and calls her by her sister's name, and sobs hard and dry like a man. it turned me silly and rotten, it did. i knew for a minute she didn't fairly know it was not somehow her sister; no older than rhoda she was, poor thing, when she last stood under our roof; and their last parting had not been over tender. well, i had messed the business--i knew i should,--for there was the wife going on, saying things, and there was rhoda getting scared and white, and putting out a hand to me. and then i go one worse, for i get hold of her, and say, "she takes you for your mother, child," that the wife may get the hang of it; and at that down she sits sudden, all of a shake. but the poor wench says, "my _mother_!" for--well, i suppose i had lied sometime--she thought she was the truly begotten orphan of an estranged brother. nothing would come handy but the truth--the wife being there; so i even told it all. yes, i did, though it did seem cruel hard for a young wench to have that story from a beard. but it worked well; for when the poor child knew not how to bestow her eyes, nor to bear the red of shame, up stands the wife to her, just woman by woman, and looks fierce at me, and to her rhoda closes all a-quiver, and in a moment the wife has kissed her, blight and all, and rhoda is crying enough for both. that was over an hour before you came in on us, when out jumped "cousin" and "niece" to clinch the business. i knew she would never go back on them. to think that all these years--well--well.' 'well, dad--all these years?' said christian, incited by lois's words to be curious of giles's conduct; for he was a comrade of easy imperfection, not insistent of the highest rectitudes, nor often a consistent exemplar of lois's strict precepts. giles drew in. 'a grape has grown from a thorn, that's all,' he said. 'but how came you----' 'and a pumpkin has overgrown too. here--clear out, you've left a moderate body no room to turn.' so christian understood he was to be excluded from full confidence. loyal every inch of him, he respected giles's reserve and never questioned rhoda herself. he did but listen. clear, colourless years, regulated under convent control, was all the past she knew; serene, not unhappy, till the lot of a portionless orphan lay provided for her in a sordid marriage, that her young instinct knew to be prostitution, though the church and the world sanctioned it as a holy estate. to her this blessed transplantation into a very home gave a new, warm atmosphere that kindled fresh life. the blanch bud expanded and glowed, fresh, dewy, excellent as the bloom of her name. and very sweet incense her shy gratitude distilled. it was to giles she gave her best affection, to lois most reverence and devotion. but to christian went a subtle tribute, spontaneous even in an innocent convent-girl, to an admirable make of manhood; some quick shivers of relief that a certain widower with yellow teeth did not possess her. and in christian thrilled an equivalent response; though he knew not how rhoda's maiden charm, her winning grace, her shadow even, her passing breath, evoked unaware, with a keen, blissful sting at heart, vivid remembrance of the sea-witch diadyomene. 'she likes the old hunks best of the lot,' said giles with complaisance. 'my bright little bird! there's never a one of you young fellows stands to cut me out.' he cocked an eye at christian. 'now philip comes along, and will have her for seeing the caught frigate-bird. and off she is flying, when back she skims and will have me too. oh! but he looked less than sweet, and he's a fine figure too for a maid's eye, and a lad of taste--he is.' 'he! may be, for his fancies are ever on the brew, hot or cold,' said christian in scorn. 'she's a rare pretty wench, and a good,' said giles, with a meditative eye. 'she is: too rare and good for any of philip's make; an even blend of conceit and laziness is he.' 'that's so, that's so,' returned giles coolly to this heat, 'but i don't say he would make a bad pair for just so much as the boundary walk.' 'how!' said christian 'but she will walk with me--she's my cousin.' 'have you asked her?' 'no.' 'well, i think she's worth an asking. she's shy, and she's nice, and she's got a spirit too, and more than one, i wager, won't be backward. rhoda! rhoda! why, what's this grave face you are bringing us, my pretty?' the girl's eyes addressed christian's with childlike candour and wonder. 'why is it,' she said, 'that the mother of that tall philip doubles her thumb when you pass by?' he flushed with knit brows, but laughed and jested: 'i guess because she does not like the colour of my hair.' but rhoda had noted a pause, and a quick turn of the eye upon giles. 'when the boundary is walked, rhoda, will you pair with me?' 'oh!' she said, 'philip wanted to bespeak me, and i said him no, till my uncle should have had the refusal of me first.' she curtsied before the old man in bright solicitation. 'ah! my maid, here's a lame leg that can't manage the steep. you must take my proxy, christian here.' 'but that's another matter,' she said; 'i doubt if i be free.' christian's face clouded, but he had no notion of pressing her to exchange obligation for inclination. when he was away, rhoda asked, troubled and timid: 'i have vexed him. is it for this? or that i was curious----' 'about that doubled thumb? not that. he'll clear that to you himself if i know him. well, then, i will, to spare it him.' he set forth christian's position and the ordeal not yet quite suspended. rhoda went straight after christian. she presented both hands to him. with a glowing cheek and brave eyes, 'i will walk with you!' she said. 'i am proud, cousin! but so? what of philip?' with a saucy sparkle she said, 'do not flounces become a girl's wear, then? you shall see. or do you expect a broken head of him?' there was more of childish mischief than of coquetry in her face. 'stay, rhoda, i have to tell you something.' 'no need--no need. can you think i have not heard?' and she left him to slow enlightenment. thereafter brotherly solicitude and responsibility developed in christian, and his liking for the bright young creature grew warm, in natural degree to match the shy preference and grateful glow that answered for her appreciation. soon, so soon, his jealousy, his honest, blameless jealousy, came to be piercingly sweet to the girl's heart. how else, when day by day giles instructed her of his worth with tales of his champion feats, and of all his boyhood, its pranks and temerities, its promise by tender honour and fortitude of the finest quality of man; when her own observation told her that in the ranks of youth he was peerless, in strength, in outward fashion, in character, in conduct; generous, gentle, upright; of a sensitive conscience that urged extremes of pride and humility; and brave. and to her this worshipful youth condescended; nay, but it was even with deference that he honoured her and attended. one touch of saintliness that had rarefied him was dispelled to her naughty content. 'rhoda, my child,' said lois, 'where is the book? bring it.' and away the girl went. lois had found that the bible, formerly left mostly to her sole use, had, since rhoda's coming, made unseen departures and returns. well pleased with the girl's recluse piety, she was awhile patient of its want. 'do you leave the book outside, child? when it is out of hand, you should lay it back here.' 'it was in the linhay,' said rhoda, 'and not out of hand. and do you think 'tis i who take it? 'tis christian.' 'christian!' said lois, in a voice of such surprise that rhoda was disillusioned. 'then do you never study the book alone?' 'no,' confessed rhoda, 'i but listen to your reading and the church's.' lois was disquieted. she had ever secretly deplored the infirm masculine constitution of giles and christian, who accepted from her a spiritual ration with never a sign of genuine, eager hunger of soul. yet this departure was little to her liking. though fain would she have recognised the working of the spirit, she dreaded rather that this was no healthy symptom in christian's raw development. a cruel stroke to her was this second reserve of independence, invading the fastest hold of a mother's influence. back came the earlier conviction that her boy's withdrawal from her must be for wrong-going, and the strain of watchful scrutiny and prayer returned. it had slackened when her god had shown such favour as to take out of her soul that iron that for years had corroded there, that she had vainly striven to expel. she approached christian with a diffidence that was painful to him to perceive; she recommended counsel in any difficulty--not her own, she said sincerely, though with a touch of bitterness. he was embarrassed by her close, tender surveillance. 'i have already taken counsel,' he admitted, 'and i think i have got understanding--at least i have got certain information by heart.' 'of his reverence?' 'yes.' 'christian, you are not of the doubters?' 'no, mother, of the ignorant.' her piercing eyes examined his. 'who has told you so? you did not know it of yourself. what evil communication corrupts you?' there was no answer but the sufficient one of the boy's conscious face. there was that in the fire of it that inspired lois to groan in her heart: 'my boy has met a daughter of perdition.' she did not miss her bible again. lois's divination of the truth preceded christian's, though again into the presence of diadyomene had he made his way. there he went high-hearted on a service that sanctioned all risks--the recovery to the fair witch of her lost soul, fair too he was sure. when he summoned her to baptism with the first breath, she laughed him off. no, no, she would have none of it. let him tell her first that of the nature of a secret, as he said he would some day. and christian, seeing it was indeed germane, delivered the story of the child cut off unbaptized, to the mother's undying remorse. she rewarded him. 'and she would have cared for the little dead body to kiss! ah, poor mother!' she said softly and regretfully, so that his eyes grew moist. 'diadyomene, if i die of the sea, would you be so far pitiful as to render to her my body again?' 'no,' she mocked; 'i myself would keep it. did i not promise as much at the first?' then she derided the poor limitation that would die of the sea through foolish preference of a soul. he took up his mission with all his best powers well ordered; but to no purpose he persisted--she fenced too well for him. she began by denying any value to her soul; before they ended she challenged him to prove his own existence; and, to his amazement, he found that he could not against her, and rude demonstration he did not dare. he brought off with unsuccess, great joy by her least favour, sharp stings by her least resentment, yet no suspicion that the sea-witch had him in the toils. giles mending rhoda's shoes clacked fondly: 'a pretty little foot she has. such a pit-a-pat little pair i never did see.' away to sacred white sands flew christian's thoughts: he wondered if slender footmarks lay there, and which way set. a little folly came into his mind: to plant his bare feet over those dints pace by pace--delicate near paces; for the soles of his feet to walk intimate with the mould of hers. the little folly in his mind extended, set also his palm to the sand, his cheek, his brow. he came to himself from foot to face tingling, and amazed. 'a sweet, pretty wench!' was giles's refrain. 'eh?' christian assented. 'one more to my taste does not tread shoe-leather. eh?' with a singular expression christian gave a 'no' of sufficient emphasis. he looked at rhoda and grew red. rhoda and christian went amidst the fig-tree and trained it up to the eaves. lois and giles looked on from the porch; when they spoke, it was low as the rustle of the boughs. 'young adam and eve' slid to christian's ears. he looked at giles; saw the fond, complacent smile and the shrewd eye; saw his mother's face, grave, concerned, tender; glanced down at rhoda, and met her shy, happy eyes. he understood, and like lightning shot the revelation that with body and soul he loved diadyomene. chapter vii he found her curved in a nest of sleep full in the sun. her breath was gentle as childhood's, and as guileless her face. her head was regal, for the hair dried crowned it in a dark coil wound and bound with wisps of splendid pearls. the young lover's passion resolved itself into prayer. as never before in his life, with concentration and fervour he importuned his god for the redemption of her lost soul. the shadow of his crest edged her shoulder; a movement brought to the line of her cheek the shadow of his. at that, prayer failed for an amorous instant; eclipse dipped across her brow; sleep parted; she was looking at him. 'ah, grey eyes!' she said, and smiled. 'be gracious by one little word, diadyomene. why never yet will you call me by my name?' 'your name? no, 'tis an ill-made name. put it away and bear another that i will choose.' 'i could not. yet what would you choose?' 'diadyomenos, may be!' she said softly, smiling. the honour of the consort name caught his breath. 'but i could not; not even for that could i lay aside the name i had in baptism.' 'baptism ever!' she frowned. 'inadvertently did i utter diadyomenos. asleep, i had dreamed--of you--enfranchised.' from scorn to regret she modulated, and his blood sang to the dominant close. she strained to dislocate sleep, on her back-thrown head planting both hands. her fingers, with careless grip, encountered the pearls; they sprang scattering, and her dark hair drifted down. with languid indifference she loosened and fingered the length of soft splendours; another lustrous morsel flew and skipped to the boy's feet. covetous longing fastened upon it, not for its rare beauty, its immense value. a thing that had passed through her hands and lain in her hair was to him beyond price; and yet he forbore sternly to seek after possession, because an honest scruple would not allow that an orient pearl could come to his hands but by magic purveyance. 'if a name were to seek for me?' she was pleased to inquire, on the watch for colour which sprang when her words were gracious. 'i know,' he said, 'what most fitly would express you--oh! too well, for it is over a defect that secretions of the sea have constructed a shape of perfect beauty; the name of a pearl only--margaret. if you--when you shall come to be baptized----' 'you dare!' she said, and froze him with her look. 'it has come into my mind that you may be a traitor.' 'no!' 'hear now! look me in the eyes and deny it if you can. it is for the sake of another that you seek after me; that persuading, beguiling, if you can coercing me--me--who spared you, tolerated you, inclined to you, you would extract from the sea an equivalent for her loss, and proclaim that her reproach is taken away.' there was such venom in look and tone, that his face grew strained and lost colour. 'for your sake first and foremost.' 'by no means for your own?' 'diadyomene, i would lay down my life for you!' he breathed passionately. 'but not give up your soul--for me?' ever so gently she said this. the boy quivered and panted against suspecting the words of their full worth. she directed her eyes away, to leave him to his own interpretation. the sunlight turned them to gems of emerald; the wind swept her hair about her clear throat; one hand clasped the curve of her knee. never yet had he touched her, never felt so much as a thread of blown hair against his skin. one hand lay so near, straitly down-pressed on the rough rock, fragile, perfect; shell-pink were the finger-tips. he said 'no' painfully, while forth went his hand, broad, sunburnt, massive, and in silent entreaty gently he laid it over hers. cold, cold, cold, vivid, not numbing, thrills every nerve with intense vitality, possesses the brain like the fumes of wine. the magic of the sea is upon him. rocks, level sands, sky, sun, fade away; a misty whirl of the sea embraces him, shot with the jewelled lightnings of swift living creatures, with trains of resplendent shapes imperfectly glimpsed, with rampant bulks veiled in the foam of their strength. a roar is in his ears, in all his veins; acclaim and a great welcome of his presence swells from the deep, all life there promising to him dominion. intangible and inarticulate the vision spins; and through it all he knows, he feels, that beneath his palm lies the cold white hand of the fairest of the sea-brood; he perceives dimly a motionless figure seated, and the hand not in his clasps her knee, and the eyes look away, and the hair drifts wide. then to his ears through the great murmurs comes her voice, soft and low and very clear, but as though it has come from a great way off: 'lay your hand upon my breast--set your lips to mine--give up your soul.' 'christ! christ! ah, lord christ!' diadyomene's hand lay free. christian stared at his palm to find that it had not come away bleeding. his lips were grey as ashes; he shook like a reed. with haggard eyes he regarded the serene visage where a smile dreamed, where absent eyes did not acknowledge that she had verily spoken. virtue was so gone from him that he was afraid, of her, of the sun. he dropped to his knees for escape. when he lifted his head, it was to solitude and long shadows. her feet bruised his heart as he tracked the signs of her going; for they had approached him, and then retired; they had gone toward the sea, and half-way altered back by two paces; they had finished their course to the gorge and again turned; there they had worked the sand. a little folly! enacted it was a large frenzy. yet he took not a single pearl away. heavily drove the night, heavily drove the day over christian, comfortless, downcast, blank. was her going with anger and scorn divided by pity? or with stately diffidence? adorable, rendering him most condemnable. the dredge rose and swung in to great sighs of labour. black coral! in choice branches hard from the core, all rarity was there; delicate pink and cream, scarce green, and the incomparable black. precious--oh! too precious for the mart--this draught was no luck, he knew, but a gift direct from diadyomene; a goodwill token of her generous excuse sent for his solace. fair shone love in the sky, and the taste of the day grew sweet. no scruple could hold out against this happy fortune. when the black coral was sighted by giles from the quay, he raised such a shout as gathered an eager knot. in a moment one flung up a hand, palm outwards, to display the doubled thumb. every hand copied. christian saw and went hot with anger, too plainly expressed in his dangerous eyes. yet would he have little liked to see his treasures go from hand to hand. 'not for present trade, i reckon?' asked giles. 'no,' said christian, 'my price can bide,' and he carried his prize away with him home. not even rhoda could admire and handle that coral void of offence; lois and giles only. one little branch, shell-pink, took the girl's fancy; she turned it over, frankly covetous. christian saw by her shy eyes and pretty, conscious smile she made sure he would presently say, 'keep it, cousin.' he could not. a gift, fresh from the cold white hands of the sea-maid he loved, he could not give straightway into the ardent hold of one who offered, he feared, to him her young love. so sweet and dear had rhoda grown as cousin, as sister, he hated the suspicion that she could care for him more than he desired or deserved; he hated himself when, loving her most, for her sake he was cold and ungracious. rhoda, wounded, resented the change with a touch of malice; she allowed the advance of the handsome idler philip, no friend of christian's liking, she knew, though to her his faults were not patent. that gift withheld, on the morrow began philip's benefit. giles and lois looked on, and neither wholly condemned the girl's feminine practice. then what could christian do, harassed and miserable, but return to brotherly guardianship to keep a dear heart safe from the tampering of an arrant trifler. too fatally easy was it to win her away, to keep her away. she came like a bird to the lure, with her quick, warm response, making christian wretched; he gladdened a little only when he encountered philip's scowl. compared with this sore trouble, but a little evil to him seemed the sharp return of the public ban for comment on diadyomene's gift. he was ready to flout it as before, not heeding more ominous warnings plain in bent thumbs, in black looks, in silences that greeted him, and in mutterings that followed. a day came when hootings startled him out of his obstinate indifference, when from ambush stones flew, one with bloody effect; a later day, when a second time he had brought in too invidious a taking. 'i sent no gift!' had declared diadyomene, with wide, steady eyes, but that time christian did not believe her, though hardly with blame of the untruth. on the morrow her second gift rose. when the boy sought her again she disclaimed once more; and curious of his perplexity and of his gashed face, drew from him something of his plight. her eyes were threatening when she said, 'fling away, then, what you fear to take.' to her face then he laughed for pride and joy that she should prove him. when that same hour came round, he drew up her third gift. he cared too little that in the interim a mischance had fallen against him; he had at last been descried fairly within the sinister buoys, and chased by an unknown sail far west, escaping only under dark to circle for home beneath midnight stars. 'o damnation!' was giles's exclamation on the third prize. 'this won't do--'tis too like devil's luck. ah, lad!' he faltered, caught at christian, and peered in his face: 'you have not--you have not--got fee-penny of them below!' christian reeled. 'dad, o dad!' he gasped. 'steady, lad, steady! here come spies as usual. there's no stowing a scrap unseen. ah, they gape! here, clear off home with this confounded stuff. i'll see to the nets.' rhoda's eyes shone like stars, her cheeks were like angry dawn. she hovered about christian with open devotion, at once tender and fierce, playing the child for some cover to that bold demonstration. christian's heart shrank, for he could not understand her nor appreciate her. but giles had a tale to unfold that brought light. rhoda had come in flaming from a stormy passage with philip. he had gained her ear to hint a warning against christian, justifying it against her passion with a definite charge and instance that he had the evil eye. she, loyal in defence, carried away into attack, had rashly invaded with exasperating strokes. 'she's made bad blood, i doubt--the little hawk!' said giles. 'he's mortal savage now, and there's mischief enough brewing without.' 'what do you know?' 'a sight more than i like, now i've gone to pry it out. it looks as if not a beast has gone and died by nature or mischance, not a bone gets out or broken, but there's a try to fix it on you with your evil eye. we've been in the dark overlong--though an inkling i must own to.' 'i too, by token of doubled thumbs.' 'christian,' said the old man with authority, 'never again bring in the black or the green or any rarity; you can't afford it again.' christian's head rose defiantly. 'drop your airs, you young fool! why, your inches are enough against you as it is. if you weren't so uppish at times, there would now be less of a set against you.' 'on my word,' protested christian, 'i have borne much and been silent. i know the young cur i owe for this scar, and have i laid a finger on him? to turn the other cheek is beyond me, i own,' he added, with some honest regret. it so fell out that on the very morrow that same toleration witnessed against him fatally. from the snap of a rabid dog a child died, under circumstances of horror that excited a frenzy against christian, who had been seen handling the beast after the night of stoning, when the victim's brother it was who had marked him for life. so his iniquities crowned the brim, to seethe over with a final ingredient when mooting came along the coast of a trespasser off the isle sinister, by timing, incontestably, the alien. when the fleet lay spread dredging, christian, obedient to direction from giles, stationed his boat in the midst; but one by one his neighbours edged away, till he lay isolated deliberately. this manifestation of mislike was not unexpected, but it galled that weary day when the burdens of his life were weighing heavy. exceeding the gross of more solid apprehensions, rhoda's face haunted him to disquiet. by an unjust transfer, shame possessed him, even as when diadyomene had advanced naked and unabashed before his diffident eyes. indefinite reproach clamoured all day at his conscience, what have i done? what have i done? and a further unanswerable question, what can i do? beset him to no purpose. before his mind hung a vision of prompt, delicious escape, which he did not banish, only because he did not think it could seriously attempt his will. but the hours told so on the aching boy, that for once he abandoned his own strict standard of fortitude, and his distress cried aloud to solitude, 'diadyomene! o my love, diadyomene, diadyomene!' first, a silver shoal close beneath his eye leapt into air and slid again; then his stare discerned a trail of weed upfloating tranquilly: no weed, two dim hands part it to the showing of a moony countenance graciously inquisitive, and pearly shoulders brightening as they rose, till glistening white to the air diadyomene lay afloat cradled by happy waves. 'diadyomenos!' she said softly, and her eyes invented dreams. for an instant, so mad was christian rendered by this consummate favour, that he clutched the gunwale on an impulse to over-leap it finally. like hounds straining on the leash, natural passions tried the control of the human soul. he dared not speak. diadyomene drifted gently lower with never a word more, and lower yet imperceptibly, till her upturned face began to dim. she poised. ah, beautiful reluctance! unaffronted? o heart that aches, that breaks to give worthy response! he saw her lips moving; he knew what speech they framed as certainly as though he could hear: your hand upon my breast--your lips to mine--demanded of him. christian fell back, and crouched, and lay sobbing dry-eyed until twilight drew. home he came. by the way none greeted him of all he met, and a many they were for the hour; and none hooted after him, but shrilling whistles at his back made him turn to wonder what was afoot. quick figures dodged past him and sped. apprehension dawned when he crossed the threshold to find two scared women, and giles ghastly and bandaged. 'who did this?' 'an accident, an accident,' muttered the old man, seeing the boy ablaze with wrath and pity before ever he heard a word. out came a tale of outrage: while the house was empty, lois and rhoda away bleaching, the linhay had been forced, and the coral laid there, christian's store of precious, sacred coral, looted entire. giles, coming on the scene, had been tripped up and left for stunned by one unaware how an unhappy blade had gashed his fall. 'and who did it?' said christian, hoarse with his passion. 'don't say!' ordered giles, and the women were mute. 'i will know,' he cried, stamped out ungovernable, and beat away. the three looked at each other, pale and fearful. then giles staggered to his feet. 'help me after him, wife.' 'rhoda,' said lois, 'go quick for his reverence--if he be abroad, follow him quick.' seething with just indignation, christian sped reckless after vengeance. alarm of his coming sprang up and flew before him along the shore. thence struck the ring of axes, thence shone the flare of torches, showing a black, busy swarm. like a wounded beast he yelled out once: the beloved, his boat, lay there under torture and dismemberment. then he hurled upon the throng, raging to kill. two went down instantly, damaged for life under his bare hands, but the rest by sheer weight of numbers overbore him. axes rose imminent, but there was no room for a sure stroke in the close, desperate wrestle. thrice christian gained his feet again; then had he no need to strike any man but once; those he gripped in the downfall had broken bones of him. cries and curses thickened, he only fought mute. foul strokes on him were fair enough: they struck him together, they struck from behind, they caught him by the knees and toppled him down, they fell on him prostrate, they trampled and kicked. he was on his feet again, breathed and fain, when one from behind got in a stroke at his head with a spar; then he flung up his hands and dropped among them. when christian came to himself he was made fast hand and foot. torches and dark figures flashed and swayed before his giddy sight; all round they hemmed him in. he wanted sense, remembrance, and settled vision. what meant this savage, cruel hate looking out of every face? these yells, curses, and accusations dinning at his ears? he was bound upright in the midst--where? no, where! one came and wrenched off remnants of his shirt; another stood by making ready. the wretched boy understood, and strained and struggled desperately for freedom. such a scene was not unprecedented among the fishers. according to a rough, unwritten law, the punishment of thieves they took into their own hands, and enforced confession and restitution. scrupulous to a fault, honourable, proud, christian maddened at the intolerable degradation threatening. a thief's portion dealt out to him! the shame of it he could not bear. the circle of pitiless, excited eyes watched the swell of splendid strength expended to exhaustion against stock and cord. he could not escape from bonds; he could not escape from life; with bleeding wrists, panting, trembling, sane, impotence confronted him with his inevitable award. the shame of it he had to bear. and he could not even effectually hide his face. he heard the common formula when confession was demanded concerning unlawful takings. truly his eyes looked wicked then, and his teeth showed in a vicious grin. he heard more, charges so monstrous, that he deemed them sprung of mere insolent mockery, or else of delirium. dead silence fell, that he might answer. he would not. oh, frenzy was returning, revolting him against meet despair. the pain that he had to bear broke upon his body. of all the watching throng, none pitied him, none questioned the just rigour of any penal extreme upon him. to the long distrust and the later developed abhorrence, the day had brought forth a new fierce lust after vengeance, exasperated now the might of his hands, superhuman, had done such terrible work. none but with pulse of satisfaction must keep time to the stroke of the subjugated boy's long torture; none but would reckon long fortitude to his last discredit. how long? how long? as, motionless and bleeding, he gave no sign of failing endurance, resentment kindled against his indomitable obstinacy, and silence for his benefit no longer held. a mutter ran: 'the devil has cared for his own--he cannot feel.' and to make sure that he had not passed from consciousness, a torch was shifted to show his face. it was pale as death, and beaded with great sweat; but his eyes were wide and steady, so they cursed and went on. the long-suffering northern spirit, the hardy carcass that did not give out, excelling the make of the south, outstayed the patience of animosity. high upon a clamour swelling anew one cried, 'try fire!' snatched a torch, and tested the substance of an arm. it was philip. when christian's eyes struck at his he defied them with his thumb. yelled a confused chorus: 'there, see there! proof enough. make an end of the creature! send him back to the devil by the way he came!' the note of death was recognised of the victim; he blessed it, for his agony was great. but a little way on was the stretch of sand where, fourteen years before, the sea had cast up a bright alien child. thither was drawn the half-killed boy; and there, made fast to a mooring-post, with his face set to the sea, knee-deep in the tide, he was left to die. along the shore pickets were formed to preclude a miscarriage to justice; and there, while the sea trod forward, the flame of mob violence died down to its underglow of settled vengeance, and torches were douted and silence fell as the eyes of men began to shirk their fellows', and their ears to prickle at a word. christian lifted his head to comprehend immense clear spaces of sea and night, and a black triumph. not death was before him now, but a new life. hopeless patience departed before passions during long torture suppressed, and infernal laughter rolled in his heart at the prospect of a consummate vengeance when the powers of the sea should work with his will. he knew she would come. undoubting the extent of her knowledge, her power, her gracious surveillance, he knew she would come, to offer a splendid exchange for death. o excellent compensation! the touch of her hand, the touch of her lips, the opening world of vast delight, and therewith power to satiate all his hates. with every breath torment heaved over him still; raging thirst was there for fierce affliction, the cruel sting of brine touched his wrists, appalling in its promise of intolerable exasperation to raw wounds. would she come, as before, with sweet despatch if he could call 'diadyomene'? but he would not; because of other ears he would not utter her name; nor ever because of other eyes entreat her from the cover of the wave. ah god, he prayed, give me heart to endure! his sight was unsteady, so that the whirling of the stars and the exaggerated swell of the slow waves vexed his failing brain. but he dared not close his eyes, lest, ignoring her advent, he should lose her and die. the disworship of an earlier hour, the comfortless void days, the bitter, hard reserves, drew form from delirium; they stood in rank, hateful presences, deriding the outcast: but to pass, he knew, as a sleeper can know of a dream--to pass when the magic of the sea should flow through his veins. my past washed out and my soul drowned. ah god, he prayed, grant that i remember! ah god, he prayed, grant that i forget! strong hate and strong affection rose dominant in turn. stronger rose affection: through waves of delirium the dear home faces came and looked at him; the reproach of their eyes pierced deep. what have i done--what can i do? he challenged. god keep you all, dears! oh, shut your eyes, there is no other way. and still they looked--lois--giles--rhoda--sorrow of condemnation, sorrow of pity, sorrow of amazement; till before their regard he shrank and shuddered, for they delivered to his conscience a hard sentence--his god, their god, willed that he should die. the tide was up to his belt before ever the human soul staggered up to wrestle. too swiftly now it rose; too short was the span of life left. he was not fit to die: evil impulses, passions black as murder, were so live and strong in him. he could not die--he could not. to be enforced from mere life were bitter; to choose noble death were bitter; but to choose such a death as this, pitiful, obscure, infamous, to eschew such a life as that, glorious, superlative,--too hard, too cruel a trial was this for human endurance--he could not do it. yet he prayed voiceless: diadyomene, diadyomene, haste to deliver me; for the will of god roars against me, and will devour. for pity, dear faces, keep off, or she may not come. she would quit me of this anguish--who could will to bear this gnawing fire? they, too, shall have torment, and die with horrors. the waves shall batter and break, and sharks shall tear their live limbs piece-meal, and down in the ooze coils of serpents shall crush them out. ah god! ah god! i love her so. would hell be undesirable if you were there, or heaven perfect if you were not? o poor soul, poor soul! who will have mercy? kiss her, mother, dear; upon her breast lay your hand when she comes. o poor mother, who had not a little dead body to kiss! go, go--i cannot bear your eyes. i want----ah, ah, the power and the glory, for ever and ever. amen. he surrendered, and the tide was breast high. solitude drifted back, and cleared vision without and within. the despotism of torture succeeded on the exclusion of throes more virulent. he prayed for swift death, yet shrank humanly as promise swung hard at his face. he prayed against diadyomene, and yet strove with wide eyes to prevent the darkness, quailing, pulsing at gleam of wave and sweep of weed. he would give up his soul if it were possible, not for carnal exchange, but that hers might revive. would she of the cold sea nature care greatly for his death? would she remember where the outcast body lay, and fulfil her word uttered in scorn to lay sea-blossoms about the skull? dead, void of pain, unresponsive to her touch could he be! o fair, calm life of the sea! o fair, calm sea-queen! no, no, not for him--death, only death, for him. god's merciful death. the enfeebled brain fails again; sense and will flicker out into misty delirium; from helpless memory a reek distils, and the magic of the sea is upon him. through waves heaving gigantically to isolate him from the world, the flash and spin of eager life beckoned the blood left in him; great strengths loomed, his on the loosening of knots of anguish; a roar ran in his veins, noise and tremor beating through him, fluid to it but for his bones. came trampling and singing and clapping, promising welcome to ineffable glories, ravishing the heart in its anguish to conceive of a regnant presence in the midst. coming, coming, with ready hands and lips. came a drench, bitter-sweet, enabling speech: like a moan it broke weak, though at his full expense, 'diadyomene.' came she. delirium flashes away. face to face they hang, shattered life and lost soul. he shudders hard. 'deliver us from evil,' he mutters, and bows his head for a fatal breath and escape. chapter viii 'too late. wait till the tide go down. what was there?' hearts quailed at the sound that drove in, for it was not the last voice of a spent mortal, but shrill, but fierce, but like the first voice of his indignant ghost. four only did not recoil; the rest, half-hearted brought to the rescue, urged again: 'wait till the tide go down,' pulling back the two women from insane wading. but giles was forward, staggering in the tide, floundering impotent against it; and his reverence turned upon them as intolerable a countenance as when through his black flock he drove, threatening the curse of heaven. therefore two, though loath, swam out to fetch in the boy's body. they cut the ropes from him, and lifted him along with the waves to hard land. rhoda shrieked at sight of the deathly inertness and the rent flesh, and hopeless, fell to an anguish of weeping; but giles and lois, tearless, mute, with hand and ear over his heart, sought and sought for sign of life, finding none. pitiless aid brought a torch, and held it to dispel all hope of a flicker of life. could any look on the sad, serene face and still pronounce him worthy of death, worthy the burial of a dog? they did, even those whom kindness to the parents had constrained far, for among themselves they said: 'persuade them away, and his reverence. best to serve the body with its grave quick and meet, in the sea, lest they want it laid in holy ground.' but lois, who would not believe her son yet dead, and giles, who could not believe him still alive, would have and hold him, living or dead, and none with heart of flesh could withstand them. so the limp, lifeless burden was taken up along the weary shore, past the doors of the street, close shut every one, and delivered to the weak shelter of home for the nonce. against life and decent burial had christian's last desire been: these to impose was all the service great love for him could conceive, though the broken body, dreadful to see, dreadful to handle, made silent appeal against a common valuation of life. through tireless effort to provoke breath despair hovered, hour-long, till response came in a faintest flutter of life at lips and heart; and chafed with cordials and wrapped about with warmth, the shadow of pain drew over his face and weak spasms flexed his hands as tyrannous vitality haled back the reluctant spirit into bondage. his eyes opened upon them with sense and recognition, a feeble effort to move fetched a groan, and again he relapsed deathlike. so and again all through the long night watches the desperate debate of life and death lasted. through close window and door the sigh of the night and the moan of the far sea spoke continually, and covered to dull and finite ears the sound of the sunrise coming over the distant hills. not dead, and not dead, and yet again not dead! with that recurrent stroke of sense was welded again the mortal unit half gone to dissolution. day came filtering in on wan faces brightened to fearful hope, for christian assuredly lived and would live: consciousness held, and his eyes waked and asked. the four knelt together, and thanked their god aloud for his life, tears running free; he turned his head away in great despair, knowing that he was condemned. whose prayers should prevail, theirs or his? he must die: he would die. but every hour brought firmer denial to his pitiful desire for death. what had he done, his anguish cried up to heaven, that his god should withhold an honest due? for death and its blessed ease and safety had he renounced the glorious sea-life, not for this intolerable infliction of a life miserable, degraded, branded for ever with memory of one disgraceful hour. fever declared that always still he stood within a circle of fire; his skin was hot with the heat of men's eyes; the stroke of his blood was pain and shame that he had to bear; always, always so it would be. healing came to close the wounds of his body, but the incurable wounds of a proud spirit gaped and bled hot and fresh, and even under the pitying eyes of love quivered and shrank. a sound from the outer world, of footstep or voice, crushed him intolerably under fresh weights of degradation. the sound of footstep and voice would start hasty barring of shutter and door, hinting to him that his doom of life was yet remittant. with infinite caution, and despite his great weakness and pain, he got his knife into his own secret keeping. out of sight it lay bare for a fond hand to kiss its sweet keen line: life held some blisses it could promise him yet. indefinite revenge was not enough: the thought of actual elaborate murder grew so dear, he would not for any price forgo it. himself would be satisfied, his hands, his eyes, his ears, with the circumstances of a bloody despatch from life of him, and him, and him, each witness of his torture and shame, beneath whose remembered eye his spirit now shrieked and writhed. let him so doing perish body and soul. so low in the dust lay he, the dear hope of lois, because the heart of his pride was broken. imperfectly he heard a young voice passionately urging for vengeance, retribution, redress, asking after the law of the land against a brutal custom carried to unaccustomed extreme. redress! his eyes he shut when his lips bade the girl believe that he had no desire to invoke any earthly powers to avenge his wrongs. on his hand her tears fell like rain; she bowed her head at his knees, with wonder within at the christian saint of so perfect a heart. back to bare steel crept his hand, tear-wet. but his fierce hate betrayed him. a gust of fever and madness lifted him up, enraged at the body unready, the burnt right arm unready; his left hand and the devil in him snatched out the knife, and drove it at the planks on his level in one instant of exuberant capacity. in and out again it went; he sobbed a great laugh for the cost and its sufficiency, and with spent force fell back a-sweat. swift in trod lois, and he was still, with the blade out of sight, not knowing that clean through the inches of wood the bright blade had looked in a line of sunlight straight to his mother's eye. she was not gentle then, nor cared for his hurts; with quick mastery of him while he cowered and winced in nerveless collapse, she discovered and plucked away his naked paramour. dumb-struck she stood in accomplished dismay. into the impotent wretch defiance entered; with insolent assertion his eyes affronted hers; unmasked, from his face looked the very truth of hatred and lust of blood, shameless at exposure. mother and son drew breath for battle. 'what name shall i call you by?' she cried. 'you have borne that name of christ all your life, and now do renounce his cross.' 'diadyomenos' sang to him out of the past. 'your face is the face of cain already, not the face of my son, my dear son given me by the mercy of god. it is like the curse of god!' she fell on her knees and grasped him hard. her prayers came upon him like terrible strokes; heaviest to reach him were prayers to her god. he would not answer nor say amen; his own one passionate prayer had been unregarded, and he hardened his heart. 'i took you from the death of the sea, and loved you and cared for you as more to me than the child of my body. and when with manhood and freewill came trial by sorrow and pain--hard, oh! hard indeed--then i saw my blessing in you and touched reward. my son, my son, the son that never was, was brave and patient and long-suffering and meek, because he lay at the feet of the lord christ a faithful follower and servant; he never complained, nor cherished an evil hate; he forgave, and asked that none should avenge him. who then, among mothers, could rejoice as i, and so glory in her son? ah! ah! like a serpent tongue it flickered in the sunlight! christian, the wretchedest of mothers asks you to have mercy upon her. ah, you will--must. i will not rise from my knees, nor take my hands from you, except you promise to put vengeance out of your heart. your hate blasts me, me first before all others. your blade threatens my heart, will pierce it through if it strike for another's.' she was moaning for woe of that hurt. he turned his face away, obdurate still, though the reproach of undeserved esteem had gone deep as any of undeserved shame. the moaning fell into low prayer. the guilty soul heard that it was not for him she prayed; the old weary penitence for an unredeemed transgression was all her burden now: a sign she asked, one little sign that her poor effort at atonement was not rejected of heaven. he would not give it; no, he could not. yet he dreaded that her strenuous supplication must win response, in his great ignorance half believing that some power from above would, against his will, force him to concession. he looked again at the dear grey head abased in his unworthy presence out of endless remorse for one error. her god did not answer. himself was weary of her importunity, weary of the pain of her hands: and he loved her so! and her god did not answer: and he loved her so! silently he laid his hand upon hers. his eyes were full of tears, as he said, 'kiss me, mother.' she had conquered: he promised. 'deliver me from blood-guiltiness, o god!' she said; and he repeated, 'deliver me from blood-guiltiness, o god.' 'mother, mother, pray that i may die!' and then he broke down utterly and wept like a child, and was not even ashamed. ah, poor mother! soon she came to know that when her son gave up his will to her he shut up his heart the faster. his misery never spoke, but silent tears would flow unchecked and unconcealed, and she could give him no comfort. helpless need like his is a shadow of the almighty by which men believe; but he could not with a right heart pray because, though he had renounced vengeance, forgiveness was a thing apart and impossible. how to bear the world and its eyes was the prospect that filled his sky. all his waking hours his heart gazed and gazed thereat, and stayed unacquainted, still, and appalled. now that in sleep blood was out of his dreams a vision cruelly sweet came in place, and he was in the presence of diadyomene, following her, reaching to her, close to her, yet never quite winning the perfect pressure of her lips, nor her gracious surrender to the worship of his hand; and waking was to unrighteous regret that he had turned from that splendid offer and lost it. too swift and few ran the suns, and the inevitable time was at hand for bearing the world and its eyes under the hard bond of his promise. the youth and vigour of his body set him on his feet oversoon, while all the soundness his spirit had gained was trembling for its weakness, fear for its cowardice, shame for its shame. 'where shall he go?' 'christian,' said lois, 'where will you go?' he wondered what she said. open talk had passed over him unregarded; he had lost the knack of understanding except he tried hard. giles sighed. 'far, indeed, far; for where is our boy not known, the best fisher for his years, the best at sail and oar, the strongest proved in the pick of the coast. far, indeed, for him not to be known.' that christian understood, for he broke silence hoarsely. 'say out: far indeed for him not to be known as beaten for a thief, drowned like a dog.' rhoda's hand slipped to his, unseen; she drew it softly against her lips. he did not heed. 'my boy,' said lois, 'what will you do?' 'mother, do you bid me go?' his hot brain knew of a grand enclosure where satisfying coolness and peace and splendid shade reigned, for no man's solace and award. 'you bid me go?' 'dare you stay?' she said, 'dare i bid you?' his voice shook. 'what sort--of killing?' he asked, daunted now. giles swore softly after the manner of his kind, under danger of tears. 'where are your senses, lad? great storms can't last. this is over, his reverence will tell you that. not twice in a lifetime, i guess, can the devil brew the like.' 'you bid me go?' 'not now, not yet,' said lois tremulously; 'but sin and shame were to keep you to a trial beyond your strength.' he said quite brokenly: 'you are looking for a broken promise.' 'not that. only--only, we know that 'twould be easier for you to face stranger folk, and hard though it be to let you go, far harder were it for you to stay, and we cannot ask it.' christian's head sank: they all knew that he had not strength nor courage to stand upright under a disgraced life; he need but acquiesce for the last spark of self-respect to be extinct. it was long before he lifted his head; rhoda only was there. he asked after lois. she had gone with his reverence up towards the church. he asked after giles. he had gone down to the quay to his work of refitting the old boat. tears stung his brain for the wicked destruction of his own boat, that like a living creature he had loved, and had not saved, and could not avenge. rhoda left him but for a moment; passing out to the linhay, the door she left ajar. christian stood up, touched his brow once or twice with uncertain fingers, drew sharp breath, crossed himself, and stept out into the world. he reeled in the sunlight. its enmity struck at him, and he put up his hands against an unknown trouble, for in through his eyes into his brain flew strange little white birds and nested there and were not still. he alone stood upright in the midst of a rocking world; under his feet walked the path, the road, the street, bringing up an ambush of eyes, and grey birds and fire. in the street his coming started a scare. only yesterday said he was long a-dying, so that now women fell back afraid of a ghost, for with every trace of sunburn gone his face was of a whiteness astonishing in the south. but some harder men cursed at the stubborn devil in the boy, that kept him alive out of all reckoning, and unsubdued. face to face none met him till the corner where the street beached and the quay branched. there stood an idle group that suddenly gave before a reeling, haggard embodiment of hatred. these very eyes he knew again, and the one memory within them legible; hot, red-hot, they burned him. red birds and black flew in and sounded shrill, and beak and claw tore at a little nook where a promise lay shrunk and small. again he crossed himself, and passed on, till none stood between him and the sea. hot, smooth sand stretched curving round the bay with the hard, grey quay lying callous upon it; tall masts peered, windows gleamed and glared, and behind him lay a lifetime of steep street. but strong salt gusts spoke to him from the blessed, lonely sea. the tide was leaping in fast and white; short waves crested and glittered over the expanse of moving blue. rhoda caught his sleeve and stood beside him panting and trembling, amazed at his strength and temerity. just set afloat by the tide, the old boat rocked against the quay; but giles was pottering afar, and did not see, and could not hear. the weak pair made forward with one consent, till at the boat christian halted and stept down. along the quay came lounging hateful curiosity; philip was there, with half a score more. rhoda faced round bravely; her fear was overborne by intense indignation; she was half a child still, loyal, reckless, and wild to parade before one and all her high regard for the victim of their brutal outrage: her esteem, her honour, her love. from the quay above she called to christian, knelt, reached across, took him by the neck, and kissed him there for all the world to see. afterwards she knew that all the child in her died on the kiss and left her full woman. she kissed him first, and then she saw into his eyes: christian was mad. in terror she sprang up, looking for help vainly and too late. giles was far off, slow of hearing, slow of foot; and the madman was casting off, and the boat began to rock away. in desperation she leapt across the widening interspace, and fell headlong and bruised beside him. the boat slanted off and went rollicking over the tumbled waves. all his mad mind and his gathered strength were given to hoist the sail. far back had the quay floated when the desperate girl rose. giles was discernable making vehement gestures of recall. she stood up and answered with imploring hands, and with useless cries too. christian never heeded. then she even tried her strength against him, but at that the mad eyes turned so fierce and dangerous that she shrank away as though he had struck her. none of the coral fleet was out on the rising wind and sea, and stray sails were standing in; yet christian, frantically blind, was making for his old station on the fishing shoals. the old boat went eagerly over the waves under a large allowance of sail; the swift furrow of her keel vanished under charging crests. low sank the shore, the dark verdure of it faded, the white houses of it dimmed. the strong, terrible sea was feeling his strength as a god when his pulses stir him to play. overhead a sea-gull dipped and sailed; it swooped low with a wild note. christian looked up and laughed aloud. in an instant the boat lay for the west, and leaped and quivered with new speed. scudding for harbourage, under a corner of sail, two stout luggers passed; and the men, watching their mad course, waved to warn, and shouted unheard. then rhoda stood up and signalled and screamed for help. she thought that the wind carried her cry, for both boats put about and headed towards them. hope rose: two well-manned boats were in pursuit. terror rose: in an instant christian, to a perilous measure of sail added more, and the boat, like a maddened, desperate thing, went hurling, bucking, smashing, over the waves, against the waves, through the waves. rhoda shut her eyes and tried to pray, that when the quivering, groaning planks should part or sink, and drop her out of life, her soul should stand at its seemliest in her maker's sight. but the horrible lurches abating, again she looked. pursuit was abandoned, soon proved vain to men who had lives of value and a cargo of weight: they had fallen back and were standing away. the sun blazed on his downward stoop, with a muster of clouds rolling to overtake him before he could touch the edge of the world. in due time full storm would come as surely as would the night. christian over the gunwale stared down. he muttered to himself; whenever a white sea-bird swooped near he looked up and laughed again. wild and eager, his glance turned ever to the westward sea, and never looked he to the sky above with its threat of storm, and naught cared he for the peril of death sweeping up with every wave. a dark coast-line came forward, that rhoda knew for the ominous place that had overshadowed christian's life. the isle sinister rose up, a blot in the midst of lines of steady black and leaping white. over to the low sun the clouds reached, and half the sky grew splendid with ranges of burnished copper, and under it the waves leaped into furious gold. rhoda's courage broke for the going down of her last sun; she wept and prayed in miserable despair for the life, fresh and young, and good to live, that christian was wantonly casting away with his own. no hope dare live with night and storm joining hands, and madness driving on the cruelest coast known. on they drove abreast of the isle sinister. he clung swaying to the tiller, with groaning breath, gaping with a wide smile and ravenous looks fixed intently. a terror of worse than death swept upon rhoda. she fell on her knees and prayed, shrieking: 'good lord deliver us!' christian looked at her; for the only time with definite regard, he turned a strange dazed look to her. a violent shock flung her forward; the dash of a wave took her breath; the boat lurched aslant, belaboured by wave on wave, too suddenly headed for the open sea. the tiller broke from his nerveless hands, and like a log he fell. rhoda's memory held after no record of what her body did then, till she had christian's head on her knee. had she mastered the great peril of the sail? had she fastened the rudder for drifting, and baled? she whose knowledge and strength were so scanty? her hands assured her of what her mind could not: they were chafed by their frantic hurry over cordage. she felt that christian lived; yet nothing could she do for him, but hold him in her arms, giving her body for a pillow, till so they should presently go down together, and both be safely dead. the buoy-bells jangled to windward, to leeward. then spoke the blessed voices of the three saints, and a light showed, a single murky star in a great cave of blackness, that leaned across the zenith to close round the pallid west. ah, not here, not here in the evil place! she had rather they drown in the open. the weak, desolate girl was yet clinging desperately to the barest chance of life. she laid her burden down; with awkward, aching hands she ventured to get out a corner of sail; and she tried to steer, but it was only by mercy of a flaw of wind that she held off and went blindly reeling away from the fatal surf. as night came on fully the light and the voice of the house monitory passed away, and the buoy-bells, and the roar of breakers, and the heavy black of the coast. past the land's end in the free currents of open sea, she let the boat drive. crouching down again, she took up the dear weight to give what shelter she could, and to gain for herself some, for great blasts drove hard, and furious gusts of rain came scourging. through the great loneliness of the dark they went, helpless, driving on to the heart of the night, the strength of the waves still mounting, and the fierceness of the wind; the long gathering storm, still half restrained, to outleap in full hurricane about the time of midnight. chapter ix all night lois and giles were praying in anguish of grief for their children of adoption, even when hope was beaten out by the heavy-handed storm. for three days and nights the seas were sailless, though the hulks of two wrecks were spied drifting; and after, still they ran so high, that a fifth day dawned before a lugger beat in aside her course on a kindly errand. then up the street leapt news to the desolate pair: how rhoda and christian lived; how their boat had been run down in the night, and themselves snatched gallantly from death; how they had been put ashore at the first port a mastless ship could win, and there received by the pity of strangers; and how all the while christian lay raving and dying, and by now must be dead. but to hope reborn this last was unbelievable. lois said she should find him alive and to live, since heaven had twice willed him to escape the jaws of death. and her heart of confidence she kept for more than two weary days of difficulty and delay. but when she reached his bed her hope wavered; she saw a shorn head, and a face blanched and bloodless like bone, fallen out of a shape she knew into strange hollows, with eyes showing but a glassy strip, and grey, breathless lips. 'to-night,' said rhoda. breathless also through the night they watched till came the first shiver of dawn. then his eyelids rose; he looked with recognition at lois, and moved a hand towards hers; and with a quiet sigh his eyes closed, not for death, but for blessed, feverless, breathing sleep. the one who wept then was lois, and rhoda clasped her in a passionate embrace of comfort, and herself shed no tear. the child had deserted rhoda for ever, as the boy christian. she knew it: she had kissed her childhood dead on his lips, and now past any recall it had been buried, and lay deep under such a weight of sorrow as fate can hew only for a woman full. no tear she shed, no word she said, and she ordered her face to be serene. she had a word for lois not at first to be understood. 'god has been good to heal,' she would say; but the whole truth did not declare till lois, regarding the future again, had sighed: 'where shall he go?' 'home,' said rhoda. lois shook her head sadly: 'he could not bear it.' the girl, with arms round her neck and a hid face, whispered again: 'god has been good to heal--i think so--do you not know it yet?' so a day came when a wasted shadow of the old christian was borne along the quay and up the street, while men and women stept out to observe. their eyes he met with placid recognition, clear of any disquiet. the devil had gone out of the fellow at last, they said, when he could not lift a hand for injury, nor gloom a resentful look. and so hard doings were justified; and none intolerant could begrudge him the life he had brought away, even before a guess began that he had not brought away his full wits. out in the porch he would come to bask in the sun for hours with animal content. out to the gate he would come, going weakly to and fro as he was bid. but giles was surly to men, and to women lois was iron cold, and rhoda had deft ways of insult to repulse unwelcome intrusion; and so for a little while those three guarded him and kept close the secret of his ruin. then one at an unguarded moment won in, and spied, and carried her report of his mild, his brute-mild gaze, and his slow labour of speech: it was the mother of philip. rhoda found a token of her left beside christian, a well-intended, small peace-offering, in a cheese of her sole make. 'who brought this?' she asked; and he told. 'she offered it--to you?' 'to us,' he returned quietly. 'and you took it--thanked her and took it?' he looked up and studied her face for enlightenment. 'the mother was not here.' rhoda's passion surged over. 'how dared she, how dared she!' she stormed, and seized on the poor gift, cast it down, stamped it into the sandy path, and spurned it over the sweet herbs into the sluggy kail beyond. like a child, chidden for some uncomprehended fault, he looked at her, distressed at her condemnation, anxious to atone, wondering if his senses told him true. her anger failing under an agony of pity and remorse, from the unendurable pain of his look she fled to hide her passionate weeping. when lois came out to christian he was deeply asleep. soon he carried into the street his brute-mild gaze, and his slow labour of speech. and no thumb turned against him. for all who chose to peer in on his blank mind found how shame and rancour could take no root in a void of memory. he met every face with an even countenance, showing no recall of a debt to any. in a very literal sense it was now said that the devil had gone out of him. willing belief held that he had been actually possessed, and delivered only when a right instinct of severity had spoiled him for habitation. some compunction showed over the mooted point whether the pitiful lasting flaw had not rather come of the last spite of an evicted devil, than of the drastic measures of exasperated men. in nowise did christian's reason now work amiss, though it was slow and heavy; nor had his memory lost all its store, nor quite its power to store. of earlier days his remembrance was clear and complete though a little unready, but of passing hours some only did not float clean out of mind to be forgotten. this was a deficiency that mended by degrees, and in time bid fair to pass. where the break began, none who loved him ventured to discover. once when, as shall be told, giles incautiously touched, christian turned a dazed, painful face, and grew white and whiter, and presently laid his head down on his arms and slept deeply. in those days frequent slumbers fell, and for the most part memory was blurred behind them. lois in her heart sometimes had a secret doubt that oblivion had not entirely satisfied him. his reason seemed too serviceable to lie down without an effort; and it was hard to imagine how it could account for certain scars that his body would carry to the grave; or account for the loss of two boats--the old drudge and his own murdered beloved. yet when in his presence they held anxious debate on the means to a new boat, he listened and made no comment. the poor wronged household was hardly set. restitution was unlooked for, and not to be enforced, for woe betide any who against the tyranny of the fishers' law invoked higher powers and another code. though now the alien was tolerated under a milder estimate, an outcast he remained, and none were so hardy as to offer fellowship with him and his. the cost of a boat was more than giles could contrive on his own poor securities, and none could he find to share for profit or risk in any concern that christian would be handling. it was only on his reverence offering surety for instalments that the dread of ruin and exile for one and all passed them by, and means to a livelihood were obtained. together, as in the long past days when christian was yet a child, and giles was still hale, the old man and the young returned to daily toil on the coral shoals. giles was the better man of the two at the first, for necessity had admitted of no delay; but as the younger gained in strength the elder lost; by the month's end his feeble stock of strength, overdrawn, failed suddenly, not enough remaining for him to potter about the quay as before. in months succeeding, his goings came to be straitened, first to the garden, then to the house, then to one seat, one bed. before the year's end it was to be to the straitest lodging of all--green turfed. alone, quite alone again, with sea and sky whispering together round him, and no sail near, well might those who loved christian pray for him hourly. his first return was so late that terrors beset all three. the two women were on the quay when his boat glided in under dusk, and up he stept with a load. the hearts of both were beating thick for dread of a rich load that would blast him afresh, for thus in old days had he glided in at dusk. but what he bore was only his nets, which he dropped before them. he stood silent and downcast. they saw that one of the cross-beams was broken; they saw that the meshes were torn incredibly. they saw that he was waiting in dumb distress to be told by them if he were to blame. ah, dear aching hearts! not a word, not a look was there to weigh on him in his disappointment. rhoda stripped off the netting and carried it home, with a gay boast of proving her proficiency, for she had learned net-making from christian in his idle days of weakness. half the next day she sat mending, and was proud of her finished task, expecting some reward of praise. but it never came. the fresh netting he had taken he brought back torn hideously, so that dismay fell. christian and giles together had met only poor luck, but here came a stroke of so deliberate an aim that the word misfortune seemed indifferent to describe it. and this was but the beginning of a long course; again and again christian returned with spoiled nets; and, even on better days, few there were when his takings were not conspicuously poor in amount and quality. such loss was the graver since an instalment was due at the season's close, and except the dawning autumn brought fair success, sore straits would come with the winter. rhoda proved good for bread-winning. before, she had practised lace-making, taught her at the convent school, and now she turned to it with all her energy. early and late found her bending over her pillow. no more net-mending for her: for the sake of unroughened hands she had to leave that to christian and the elders. yet her work was but poorly paid, and the sale uncertain. as autumn came in, christian still gained in physical strength up to near his old level; but giles declined slowly, lois grew thin and worn, and rhoda was losing something of her bloom. the heart of the old man yearned over the girl, and he knew that his time was but brief. for hours he would sit and watch, fondly and sadly, her dear bent head and her hands playing over her pillow in a patch of light under the pinned-back blind. at last he told christian his heart, even christian. 'take care of my little maid, lad.' he answered 'ay,' stupidly. 'for i reckon i may not be here long to care for her myself.' that was all he said at first, but that he would say often for some days, till he was sure that christian had taken the sense in full, and had failed to quite disbelieve his foreboding. 'before i lie down in the dark, i would like main to hear you take oath on it, lad.' 'i take oaths never,' said christian mechanically. 'right, right! save in this wise: before god's altar with ring and blessing.' christian examined his face long to be sure of understanding; then he said, 'no.' giles was disappointed, but spite of the absolute tone he would not take a negative. 'when i am gone to lie yonder east and west, and when some day the wife shall come too to bed with me, how will you take care of my little maid? her and her good name?' 'oh, god help us!' 'look you to it, for i doubt she, dear heart, cares for you--now--more than for her mere good name.' 'how can she!' he muttered. said giles hazardously: 'once i knew of a girl such as rhoda; as shy and proud and upright; and a lad she liked,--a lad, say, such as you, christian, that she liked in her heart more than he guessed. until he got shamefully mistook, miscalled, mishandled, when she up and kissed him at open noon in the face of all. and then, i mind, at need she followed him over seas, and nought did her good heart think on ill tongues. there is rhoda all over.' he watched askance to see what the flawed wits could do, and repented of his venture; for it was then christian so paled and presently so slept. but giles tried again. 'do you mind you of the day of rhoda's coming? well, what think you had i at heart then? you never had a guess? you guess now.' christian said, 'i will not.' 'ah! lad, you do. and to me it looked so right and fit and just. that the wife might gainsay, i allowed; but not you. no; and you will not when i tell you all. 'christian, i do not feel that i have left in me another spring, so while i have the voice i must speak out, and i may not let you be. 'you know of rhoda's birth: born she was on the same night as our child. as for me, i could not look upon the one innocent but thought on the other would rise, and on the pitiful difference there was. somehow, the wife regarded it as the child of its father only, i think always, till rhoda stood before her, the very image of her mother. and with me 'twas just the other way about; and i was main fond of the poor young mother; a sweet, gentle creature she was--a quiet dove, not a brave hawk like little rhoda. i wished the little thing could have shared with ours heart and home; but that the wife could not have abided, the man being amongst us too. but i went and managed so that none can cast up on rhoda as a pauper foundling. 'lad, as i would like you to think well of me when i am gone, god knows i can ill afford to have more than is due stand against me; so look you, lad, i was not such a wastrel as you had cause for thinking. i don't deny what may have been in old days before, but for a good seventeen year when i have gone off for a fling now and then, rhoda has been the better for it, not i the worse. it has been hard on the wife, and i own i have done a deal of cheating by her and by you too, and have stinted you unfairly. there, there, hold your tongue, and let me start fair again. 'after our child was taken from us, and the poor wife took on so for our blame, it was borne in on me that the rightest amending was not far to seek; and i put it to her at last. but i spoke too soon, when her hurts were quick and raw, and she could not bear it. she was crazy-like then, and i put my notion by for a bit. you see, it was like this: i reckoned the fatal misdoing was unchristian rancour against the father, and care for his deserted child should best express contrition. but the wife couldn't look that way--and she got from the book awful things to say against the wicked man and his children; and all she repented on was her wrong ways, in neglect of right worship to affront the man; and i think in her heart she cursed him more bitter than ever. a penance it would have been to her to do violence to her griefs and indignations by taking up the child; but it would have righted her as nothing else could, and that i knew, and i looked to bring her to it yet. for me, well, i was on other ground before then, and more than once rhoda's baby hand had closed upon my finger, ay, upon my heart, though then she was not like my own. and that in a way made me slack to drive against the grain, when with me the point ran smooth and sweet. 'now, christian, what came next?' the old man had been very slow with his tale, watching his listener intently all the while to be sure he heeded and understood. christian shook his head, but there was very sensible apprehension on his face as he looked to giles. 'you came, christian. 'you took the place in heart and home that might have come to be little rhoda's, as i hoped. 'you came from the sea that had taken our own, and so the wife said it was the hand of god. i thought the hand of god pointed otherwise. christian, what say you?' he could answer nothing: giles waited, but he could not. 'you will take care of my little maid as i want?' 'i cannot! ah, i cannot!' 'all these years rhoda has wanted a home as i think because of you; and because of you i could not hope for the wife's heart to open to her.' 'she should hate me! you should!' said christian. his face was scared. 'you can make ample amends--oh! ample; and rhoda will count the wants of her youth blessed that shall lay the rest of her days to your keeping. she will--christian, are you so blind?--she will. 'ah, dear lad! i got so well contented that the wife had had her way and had taken you, when i saw what the just outcome should be; and saw her shaping in the dark towards the happy lot of the sweet little slip she ignored. long back it began, when you were but a little chap. years before you set eyes on her, rhoda had heard of you. 'in the end i could fit out no plan for you to light on her; and a grubby suitor was bargaining for her, so i had to make a risky cast. she was to enter as a passing stranger i had asked to rest. the wife fell on her neck, before a word. well, well, what poor fools we had both been! 'christian, why do you say no?' 'i wish her better.' 'but she loves you! i swear she loves you! and i, o good lord! i have done my best to set her affections on you. how shall i lie still in the grave while her dear heart is moaning for its hurt, and 'tis i that have wrought it.' to a scrupulous nature the words of giles brought cruel distress. christian's eyes took to following rhoda, though never a word of wooing went to her. in the end he spoke. 'dear rhoda,' he said, and stopped; but instantly she looked up startled. his eyes were on the ground. 'rhoda, i love you dearly. will you be my wife?' she grew white as death, and stayed stone-still, breathless. then he looked at her, stood up, and repeated resolutely: 'rhoda, dearest, will you be my wife?' she rose to confront him, and brought out her answer: 'no.' he stared at her a moment in stupid bewilderment. 'you will not be my wife?' he said. she put out all her strength to make the word clear and absolute, and repeated: 'no.' his face grew radiant; he caught her in his arms suddenly and kissed her, once, twice. 'o my sister!' he cried, 'my dear sister!' she did not blush under his kisses: she shut her eyes and held her breath when his eager embrace caught her out of resistance. but when it slackened she thrust him back with all her might, broke free, and with a low cry fled away to find solitude, where she might sob and sob, and wrestle out her agony, and tear her heart with a name--that strange name, that woman's name, 'diadyomene.' she had his secret, she only, though it was nought but a name and some love titles and passionate entreaties that his ravings had given into her safe keeping. on the morrow christian's boat lay idle by the quay. before dawn moved he had gone. 'i think--i think you need not fear for him,' said rhoda, when the day closed without him. 'i think he may be back to-morrow.' 'you know what he is about--where he has gone, child?' first she said 'yes,' and then she said 'no.' in the dusk she crept up to giles. against his breast she broke into pitiful weeping. 'forgive me! forgive me! i said "no" to him.' chapter x with its splendour and peace unalterable, the great sanctuary enclosed them. face to face they stood, shattered life and lost soul. diadyomene tried to smile, but her lips trembled; she tried to greet him with the old name diadyomenos, but it fell imperfect. and his grey eyes addressed her too forcibly to be named. what was in them and his face to make her afraid? eyes and face of a lover foredoing speech. the eager, happy trouble of the boy she had beguiled flushed out no more; nay, but he paled; earnest, sad, indomitable, the man demanded of her answering integrity. uncomprehended, the mystery of pain in embodied power stood confronting the magic of the sea, and she quailed. 'agonistes, agonistes!' she panted, 'now i find your name: it is agonistes!' but while he did not answer, her old light came to her for reading the tense inquiry of his eyes. did they demand acknowledgment of her defeat and his supremacy? no, she would not own that; he should not know. 'and have you feared to keep what you got of the sea? and have you flung it away, as i counselled when last you beheld me?' the strong, haggard face never altered for contest. he asked slowly: 'was it a vision of diadyomene that rose up to the waves through the shadow of a fisher's boat?' with an effort she set her eyes at his defiantly. 'it was not i. i? for what cause?' 'he called you.' 'i come for no man's call.' against her will her eyes fell. 'look at me, diadyomene; for an evil dream haunts me, and your eyes have got it hid.' 'an evil dream!' she laughed, but her breath came quick as again their looks encountered. what she met in the steadfast grey eyes brought terror gathering to her own. she shuddered and covered her face. 'an evil dream haunts _me_, and _your_ eyes have got it hid.' he watched, dazed, and muttered: 'you--you.' 'what is it?--what is it?' she cried. 'why have you brought it with you out of season? it is like an air that i cannot breathe. take it away!' never before had she shown so human a weakness, nor had she ever shown so womanly fair. her clear eyes dilated, her whole face quivered, and for an instant a shadow of vague wistfulness crossed her fear. her lover's heart beat free of dreams, for a passion of tenderness responded to her need. 'ah, diadyomene, no! can you so dream it, when, to keep all evil from you, i would, god willing, enter hell?' 'may be,' she whispered, 'it is what you call hell i enter, every year once, when my dream comes.' appalled he heard. 'you shall not, diadyomene, you shall not! come to me, call me, and what heart of man can brave, by my soul i will, and keep you safe.' she found his eyes again, within them only love, and she rallied. 'it is only a dream,' she said. 'and yet to escape it i would give up many choice moments of glorious sea life.' she eyed him hard, and clenched her hands. 'i would give up,' she said, 'the strongest desire my heart now holds; ay, in the dear moment of its fulfilment, i would give up even that, if so a certain night of the year might pass ever dreamless and untroubled.' 'so would not i! though i think my dream cannot be less terrible than yours; though i know my desire cannot be less dear. diadyomene, what is the desire of your heart?' she would not say; and she meant with her downcast, shy eyes to mislead him. but in vain: too humble was he to presume. 'diadyomene, what is your dream?' 'i cannot tell,' she said, 'for it passes so that my brain holds but an echo of it, and my heart dread. and what remains of it cannot be told, for words are too poor and feeble to express it.' he saw her thinking, sighing, and shuddering. 'how near is its coming?' he asked, and but half heeding she told, counting by the terms of the moon. 'agonistes, how i know not, my deep, strong love of the sea grows somewhat faint when the hour draws near to dream; and the land, the poor, hard, unsatisfying land, grows some degrees dearer. ah! but i loathe it after, when my life again beats strong and true with the pulse of the deep. keep you far from me then, lest i hate you--yes, even you--hate you to death.' 'rather bid me here, to watch out the night with you.' 'i forbid it!' she said, suddenly fierce and wary. 'take heed! wilful, deliberate trespass against my express will shall find no pity, no pardon.' quick she saw that, intemperate, she had startled her prey; therefore she amended, smiling sadly. 'see you how those diverse tides sway me even now. agonistes, were you not of the land--did you share the sea--then may be--ah, ah---'i will try to tell you. an awful sense of desolation falls, for i feel dry earth underfoot, and thin air, and i hear the sea moaning for me, but turn where i will i cannot see nor reach it: it lies beyond a lost path, and the glories, blisses, and strengths it gives me wither and die. and then horrors of the land close round me. 'what are they? i know not; they whirl past me so that their speed conceals them; yet, as streaks, are they hideous and ghastly. and i hear fearful sounds of speech, but not one distinct, articulate word. and in my dream i know that if any one stays, stands, confronts me, to be seen fully in the eyes and heard out clear from the din, all my joy of the sea would lie dead for ever, and the very way back would vanish.' christian had his own incomparable vision of the magic of the sea to oppose and ponder. 'ah! you cannot comprehend, for i tell of it by way of the senses, and they are without, but this is within: in my veins, my breath, my fibres of life. it is i--me.' 'i can, ah! i can.' 'yet the dear heart of the sea holds me fast through all; with imperious kindness it seizes my will when my love grows slackest, and draws me out of the shallows; and down, and down i drift, like weed.' 'diadyomene, have you never defied your fear, and kept from sleep, and kept from the sea?' her voice sank. 'if i did--my dream might--come true. 'agonistes, what i saw in your eyes was--i doubted--my dream--coming true. 'no; i will not look again.' christian's voice was as low and shaken as hers. 'what was there?' he said. again and again she gathered her breath for speech, yet at last was scarce audible. 'a horror--a living human body--tortured with fire and scourge--flayed.' she lifted one glance and took the imprint of a strange tranced face, bloodless as death, void of speculation. prone she sank to the edge of the altar rock, for such passions leapt up and grappled in desperate conflict as dissolved her strength under exquisite throes. she never raised her head, till, after long wrestle, malice--strong, full-grown malice--recovered and stood up triumphant over all. and not one word all that while had come from her lover. there lay he, his bright head low within reach of her hand. his tranquil ease, his quiet breath, flouted her before she saw that his eyes were closed in real sleep. his eyes were closed. she sprang up, stung, willing to kill; her wicked heart laughed, gratified then with the doings of men. how grand the creature lay! she stood to feast her eyes on the doomed body. the placid composure of the sleeper, of serene countenance, of slack limbs, touched her as excellent comedy. but it exasperated her also to the verge of a shrieking finish. she ached with a savage thirst in all her members; feet and hands and lips parched in imperious desires to trample, to smite, to bite her resentful hatred into the piece of flesh that mocked her control. the quiet sway of life within his ribs provoked her, with each slow breath he drew, to rend it from him. she turned away hastily from temptation to so meagre a revenge; for his spirit must first be crushed and broken and rent, justly to compensate for insolent offence. 'he cannot escape, for his heart is in my hand already,' she said. ripples of jasper and beryl closed over her swift descent and shimmered to smooth. lone in these splendid fittings for sepulture lay recumbent a make of earth meet to accomplish its void destiny. ripples of jasper and beryl broke from her slow ascent as a reflex current swept her back. the mask of sleep lay over his face; though she peered intent, it would yield nothing, nothing. a want and a dread that struggled together for birth troubled the cold sea nature. strong they thrust towards the light, as her mind recalled the intolerable speech of his eyes and his altered face. so near she bent that the warmth of his breath reached her lips. she shrank back, quivering, and crouched, rocked with passionate sighs. 'but i hate, i hate!' she moaned; for a contrary impulse bade her lay upon his breast her hand, and on his lips hers, and dare all her asking from his eyes. a disloyal hand went out and hovered over his heart. she plucked it back, aware of a desperate peril, vague, awful, alluring to destruction, like a precipice yawning under night. his hair was yellow-brown, matching the mellow sands of the under-sea; it ran into crisp waves, and over the brow curved up to crest like a breaker that stayed unbroken. no such hair did the sea grow--no hair, no head, that often her hand had so wanted to handle; ay, graciously--at first--to hold the crispness, to break the crest; and ever because she dared not did fierceness for tearing arise. so slight an inclination, ungratified, extended to vast dimensions, and possessed her entire. and she called it hate. how long, how long, she complained, shall i bear with this thirst? yet if long, as long shall the quenching be. he shall but abandon his soul, and no doubt shall restrain me from touching as i will. she covered her face from the light of day, for she contemplated an amazement to nature: deadly hate enfolded in the arms of strong love. when the tide brimmed up and kissed him awake, diadyomene was away. another manner of diadyomene vexed her lover's next coming: she was mockery incarnate, and unkind; for she would not condescend to his limitations, nor forsake a golden spongy nest two fathoms and more below breath. yet her laughter and her eyes summoned him down, and he, poor fool, displayed before her derision his deficiency, slow to learn that untiring submission to humiliation would win no gracious reward at last. and the young witch was as slow to learn that no exasperation she could contrive would sting him into amorous close for mastery. christian was no tempered saint. diadyomene gained a barren, bitter victory, for he fled. at sundown a monitress, mounting the night tower, by a loophole of the stair looking down on the great rock saints, spied a figure kneeling devoutly. when the moon rose late the same kept vigil still. in the wan of dawn the same, overtaken by sleep, lay low against the feet of st. margaret. though christian slept, he heard the deep bell voices of the three. articulate they grew, and entered the human soul with reproof and exhortation and promise. he woke, and intrepid rose to face the unruly clamours of nature, for the sake of the cast soul of that most beautiful body, diadyomene. vain was the encounter and the passionate spiritual wooing. diadyomene would not hear, at heart fiercely jealous because no such ardent entreaty had all her beauty and charms ever evoked. she was angered when he would not take dismissal. 'never, never,' she said, 'has any creature of the sea thwarted me so and lived; and you, you dare! hear now. there, and there, and there, stand yet your silly inscriptions. cancel them, for earnest that never again shall mention of those monstrous impossible three trouble my ear.' 'no.' 'hear yet. cancel them, and here, perpetual and irrevocable, shall right of freedom be yours, and welcome. leave them intact, and i swear you shall not get hence scatheless.' 'can you mean this, diadyomene?' 'ah, so! because i relented once, you presume. see, and if those three can deliver you whole, them will i worship with you.' and it came to pass that christian carried home the best member that he possessed broken, for fulfilment of diadyomene's promise. he doubted she had divined a profane desire, and covertly rewarded it. chapter xi one there was who watched christian with curious intentness, who, when the plight of the alien staled on general interest, was singular by persistent advances: his old rival, philip. elder by two years, the tyrant of christian's early day had he been; between them drawn battle raged while the one had yet advantage by a head, soon to alter when the other came stepping up from the ranks of boyhood to match with men, and to win final supremacy at every point. latent challenge had not worn out of meeting glances even before rhoda's coming accentuated an antagonism based primarily on temperament and type. when the world turned upon christian, philip's forwardness was accountable enough; when the world veered, his position might fairly have been backward. and truly slowest he was to get conviction of the perfect cure that had befallen the alien. though for proof he drew near, venturous to tempt a sparkle out of the quenched firebrand, his closest approach could discover none; nay, all lively mislike and jealousy seemed gone with the missing core; old remembered heats kept but indifferent life, and every trace of arrogance had vanished quite. to such an one philip could be generous at no great cost were it not for rhoda's preference. in a character of but poor stuff some strands of good quality ran hid, and a love-liking for the shy, fierce, young girl was strengthening into better worth under reverses. that christian stood first in her regard he knew well, for she made it abundantly clear, with a courage and frankness that brought comment. 'not maidenly!' retorted philip to his mother, 'then is maidendom the sorrier.' he came to respect even the innocent vice in her that woke ever to affront him. that his passion could survive rages of vanity, often and deep wounded, proved its vitality and worth. slowly also and fitfully philip came to think that christian was no rival lover; that he never did, that now he never would, regard rhoda as more than a sister. for his own gain he might be generous; yet among meaner motives stood an honest endeavour to deserve well of the girl who loved christian, overbearing old antipathies; nor should it be to his demerit that he was unconstrained by any touch of compunction: an amended version of christian, harmless, luckless, well-disposed, forbade any such disrespect to past measures. while many wondered that he should be so considerate of the alien, rhoda hardened her heart. even greater than unquenchable resentment was her distress of grief and shame because christian was tamed. unwittingly, philip himself afforded demonstration. no wonder his aim miscarried, and he had ground to complain bitterly of signal injustice. once, at twilight, as rhoda turned towards the quay, looking for christian and his rent nets, philip stayed her, refusing rebuff, and sought to turn her home again with an awkward lie. she caught him out and stared. then sudden terror started her past him, and winged her along the shore towards men clustering thick. but philip was speedy, overtook her, and in desperation held her by main force. 'rhoda,' he entreated, 'you must not go. it is not christian, i say. it is not christian.' she was struggling with all her might, beating at him, biting at his hands. 'i will go, i will! christian, christian! let me go! ah, coward!' 'it is not christian,' and he named another to pacify her. 'not christian.' she did not believe him; as he had caught her she had heard a cry that maddened her so that her brain could take hold of no reason. she was sure that christian was being done to death after some horrible fashion. no; thank god, no. she saw him suddenly safe and free; and she fell to sobbing and trembling pitifully, so that philip without offence for a moment held her in his arms. she saw him coming, one high, fair head conspicuous above the rest; she saw him looking aside, turning aside, when instinctively she knew that what he beheld was a thief bound and beaten according to the custom and law of the fishers. as he halted, overlooking the circle, she read by nods exchange of question and answer. and then on he came again. one or two turned and looked after him: that she noted. she was moaning and rocking for pain, though she did not know it; she was white and cold, for fear so held her heart's blood that not even the agony of shame she felt for christian could urge any to her face. she tried to go forward, but only got free from philip to find she could barely stand, and must hold by the sea-wall. so christian's face came near to be read, and lo! it was utterly blank: no anger, no pain, no shame, altered it by a line; but the lips were grey, and as he set eyes on philip quickly he crossed himself. then he saw rhoda, and oh! the comfort to her of his strong, quiet grasp, and his eyes, and his voice. throbbing yet from rhoda's warm weight, struck with vivid misdoubt and fear of the alien, philip forgot control, and the natural man looked out for one moment with glance of hot challenge at his born rival. he met no response: christian regarded him with resolute mild eyes, without jealousy, or resentment, or any perplexity, till he grew confounded and a little ashamed. 'take me home,' entreated rhoda; and christian, without a question or a comment, took her hand to lead. for one dreadful moment, breathless to rhoda, he looked back and stood. against his palm hers lay listening: it was mute, to her nerved apprehension telling nothing. then home. what could the loon mean with his signing? thought philip, shaken by a doubt. nothing, nothing--blank madness. nevertheless, his sudden, shameful fear of the alien did not soon lie down to sleep again. a further proving awaited christian and philip. to giles came rhoda. 'he says--philip,' she began, choking, 'that except he--he--shall excel in the contests to-day, christian will be wanted for saving to our fleet its lead on the coast. oh, he must not!--he shall not! and he said, with his hateful airs, that he would do his best--to spare christian. and he said, if he failed at that, he could yet promise that none should offend christian with impunity while he stood by--he--he.' there a wretched laugh sobbed and strangled her. 'i said our christian would not--no--not for love, nor fear, nor profit, for he hinted that. i said: with what face dare such asking approach? what part has he with the fleet? never goes he aboard any boat, and never a soul comes aboard his, neither do any dredge alongside him and his ill-luck. the alien they call him ever. him--him their best, their very best, having used worse than the lowest outcast, they desire as their champion at need. are devils so vile and shameless? oh! he must not. forbid it you, and he will not disobey.' the old man shook his head. 'he is no child--even now. he will look at me with those eyes of his, and ask why--and then am i done.' later, rhoda ventured down to christian, mending his dredge on the quay, and persuaded him away. in vain; for some waylaid him, and there in her hearing got his promise, in swimming and rowing to do his best for the credit of the fleet. rhoda dared only press his hand and look entreaty while his answer hung. a dazed look came and passed. afterwards, his face of mild inquiry daunted remonstrance, as giles foretold. philip fetched him away eventually, but had not even the favour of a look from rhoda. she kept down her head, biting back tears and words of rage and grief. 'i think he means well--does philip,' sighed giles unhappily. lois said bitterly: 'like samson blind, he goes to make sport for the philistines.' rhoda broke into passionate weeping. 'ah, ah!' she cried, 'it is unbearable. at every turn strangers i saw--who have come and heard--who will see, and our christian will hear--alone, all alone. oh, would that i were a brother to stand by him! philip mean well! he prides himself on it, he parades it as a virtue, and to himself pretends that he does not hate. but once, he forgot, and looked--and i saw--hate--hate and fear. and i know, though he do contrary, that his blood will dance for joy at any affront to christian. i know--and he takes christian out to show!' giles got on his feet. 'if i am ever to tread the old quay, it may well be to-day.' the remonstrance of lois lacked vigour. he took help of rhoda's shoulder the length of the downward street, and then shambled off alone to christian's protection. one, two, three hours passed, and twilight. then back they came, christian's ample strength charged with the old man's weight. giles swore within his beard in his way that the women knew. 'he takes his way for no asking or need of mine,' he declared gruffly; 'and he might use his strength to better purpose.' 'christian outdone!' 'no,' christian said, 'i think not. no, none say so.' he stretched wearily, sighed, and, laying his head down on his arms, slept profoundly. they exchanged woful looks. 'poor lad, poor lad!' said the old man brokenly. 'ah, yes; he bested the lot: in rowing hardly, in swimming easily. oh, don't ask! it was pretty bad. bad! oh, good lord, but it makes one man sweat again to look back on it. 'oh! god damn their greedy eyes! yet some few of our lot turned fair ashamed of their own handiwork; and when one brute of the islands said--no matter what, but his own fellows muttered shame--and philip would have struck him, yonder poor fool knocked up his arm quick. 'yes, philip, girl! and i tell you i saw no hate: and he looked long and close too.' stirless in sleep, christian offered remonstrance to nerves that quivered under the halting tale. 'the worst? no, the worst was after the young fools in their cups got heady. and in the end--well, the end of all was that philip floored his man. and that should have been christian's business, and he would not stir, though i nudged him to be up and at such foul jests. "i have heard nothing unfit," he says. and i wished i were underground. i never want to foot the quay again. poor lad! ay, and poor spirit! the very man of him has got flawed.' 'no,' said lois painfully, 'however it came he did worthily, up to his name.' giles closed his mouth, but shook his head mournfully, and rhoda drew to him. this fell when late gales were closing the season to the coral fishers. little more than a week after, christian came back with his broken arm. then want came looming straight ahead. every due was paid, but none knew by what hard stinting, for resolute pride uttered no plea, and hid every sign. that the waning life of giles should suffer from no lack, the others fared the harder. a haggard christian, befitting a chastened lot, drew no comment; and if rhoda grew a little pale, and lois shrunk and grey, known cares they had for allowance, barring any guess at scant bread. the hardest of trials to a willing, strong man met christian when, re-knit and sound, he offered for work and found that no man would hire him. his strange ill-luck cut him off from fellowship, so strong was the suspicion that a malignant influence had marked him down jealously. the only one to withstand the general verdict, to link him in, to persuade some favour to his hands, was the unrewarded philip, whose best endeavour but won for him few, and brief, and ill-paid spells of labour. a many there were who would not take his services at a gift, and he knew it. refuse, stranded out of touch of the human tide, he hung idle on the quay, through shortening days from morn to night, resolutely patient of the leaden hours and of the degradation on his famous strength. lois foresaw that bitter need might drive him away at last, but as yet she could not bid him go, for giles was slowly dying. chapter xii philip sought out christian secretly, to hint that on a venture three gold pieces might be his. christian understood him well enough. in the veiled language of the coast, a venture signified honourable service for brave men, though the law of the land held otherwise, and rewarded it as felony. a well-knit league carried on far and near a contraband trade in the lives of proscribed men, and even the scrupulous honesty of christian brought no reluctance to engage. 'when, and with whom?' he asked. 'to-morrow, you and i,' said philip, and watched him anxiously. 'then are you of the league?' said christian indifferently, nettling the other, still in the young pride of a desired association. the alien at his best, he knew, would never have been reckoned fit; for though he excelled in strength, he lacked head. 'you and i together,' he said, 'are fairly equal to any other three, and so can our gains be the larger.' yet christian would not readily close on the rich relief. he fixed on the other a thoughtful eye, pondering a question of fairness that might not be imparted. philip flushed a little. 'i am answerable to the league,' he said nervously; 'and though from outsiders we exact oaths, i will take it upon me to accept as sufficient your bare word for good faith and secrecy.' this was no more than christian's credit had established; for from boyhood, under the strict schooling of lois, he had kept to his word as sacredly as others to their oaths, and from pride and a scruple had ever refused to be sworn. long seemed the pause and the trying scrutiny before christian sighed and said, 'so be it.' 'and secrecy?' 'i promise secrecy.' 'and you will not refuse a strict promise to obey orders--mine?' a vague foreboding warned christian to stay, but reason could not sufficiently uphold it against his dire need of the gold. he promised. 'i take it,' said philip carelessly, 'that your boat would be the easier to handle. mine is over heavy for two.' 'i cannot risk what is not wholly mine.' 'the league makes good all loss. and remember,' he looked away, and his voice had a strange note, 'if we do not come back--for long--or ever--the league sees to it that our folk do not want.' christian looked at him hard. 'agreed,' he said first; and then, 'you think that likely?' 'a venture is a venture; and, well, i may say that two ventures have miscarried, so many and brisk are the chasers; and i know of some who have fought shy of this one. i volunteered,' he said with pride. so they went their ways, philip bidding his conscience lie still and mute, christian questioning his. save giles, never had any man put out in that boat with the alien. as the two slid out under early night, philip looked at him, wondering if his wits were sound enough to tell him this, himself misliking the instance overmuch now. the sea was black and sullen, and the wind chill; christian, silent and indifferent, was no heartening mate; and the shadow of night brought out a lurid streak in the venture that viewed under daylight had been but dull and faint. the stealthy boat crept on till midnight; now and then from the cusp of a bay floated out the faint cry of a quail. then thrice it sounded, when the boat swooped in, touched, and with a third aboard, sprang away swift as a fishing gull. about to the west, then, christian steered as philip gave word; still west and west. he did not scan the stranger with natural interest, nor had he yet asked one question on their goings, though they were stretching for a coast known to him by fatal influence. when the very roar of evil waters sounded, and through it the first expostulation of a buoy bell, philip's scrutiny could still detect no reluctance. oh! fain now would he see a touch of human infirmity for fellowship; night had entered his blood, and shocks of horrid fear coursed; too stark and dreadfully mute was the figure at the helm for him to be void of apprehension. and the terrors of the sinister place, that his venture was to set at nought, according to a daylight mind, came beating in against unstable defences, entered, and took possession. christian stooped over the gunwale, peering into the dark water. at that, philip's hand went searching hurriedly about the bow, and that he sought was missing. he braced himself and approached the alien. 'christian, has she never a twig of rowan at her bows?' the face that turned he could not see to read. 'no,' was the curt answer, and shaken through, he drew off with doubled thumbs. too late now he doubted christian to be no tool for handling with impunity. and worse he dreaded, out of a dark teeming with possibilities, dreadful to human flesh and human spirit. his hair rose, and he flung prayers to the hierarchy of heaven, but chiefly to those three--st. mary, st. margaret, and st. faith. comfort it was to draw to the side of one who abode, as he himself, within the limits of the five human senses. the quiet voice of the adventurer rallied him. 'what goes wrong?' 'we bear no rowan, nor leaf, nor berry.' 'rowan! for protection against evil spirits?' 'ah! name them not. not here and now. rather turn your thumbs against them, and watch him.' 'him! your chosen mate?' 'god forgive me, and help us--yes. sir, i tell you, laughter here is more than folly--it is wickedness. no, i will not be questioned how and why. there--look there!' he grasped the sceptic's arm and pointed; christian again had suddenly leaned down to peer over the boat's side. 'what does he see?' philip's teeth chattered. 'god knows, i dare not think.' he crowded sail recklessly, and the boat leapt along, quivering like a thing in fear. at speed they fled on further west, till the sinister buoys were all passed by, and the land's end drew up and turned behind them. then philip, with a heart lighter by some degrees, hove to, close furled, to wait and watch through the chill, long hours, till nearing dawn turned them back to the safe desolation of the evil place. daylight better than dark speech declared the three to each other. the adventurer considered well the men charged with his life and fortunes. of a splendid make they were, both above the common in stature and strength, and well favoured in singular contrast. a practised student of his kind could read lines of weakness, and some feminine virtues also, in the dark, oval face with luminous, fine eyes, and a mouth too fully perfect for a man, and could read on the face from the resolute north a square threat of obstinacy showing from the bones out, and daring and truth in the grey eyes, deep set, and from brow to chin every imprint of integrity. both faces were set and haggard, and their eyes encountered with a sombre disaffection that augured but ill for success. strife was latent. christian's glance rested on the adventurer, unhooded to the morning light, and he guessed him, and knew him by silver mane and black brows an old lion-lord of a famous herd. the ray of recognition was caught and weighed. 'he has not been trusted, yet his looks are fit,' ran the old man's thoughts. he weighed philip, whose features twitched, whose hands were nervous, who eyed his fellow with an uncertain glance, wavering at a return impassive as stone. without hesitation he questioned for clearance. 'is all well--so far?' 'ay--so far?' 'at your discretion i would hear how our chances lie, and on what side peril. to a landsman we carry on in an aimless fashion.' philip looked at him straight enough, then furtively towards christian. the stranger dropped his voice. 'is danger yonder?' philip did not answer him, and strengthened in misdoubt, he spoke with a note of authority. 'i would know your plans.' 'you shall,' said philip, but still he looked at christian, and found it hard to begin. he took heart of wine. 'hearken--you also, christian. 'sir, my undertaking is to put you aboard a foreigner, due to pass with her consorts off the land's end, may be this day, or to-morrow at latest, whose part is but to contrive so that darkness may cover this bit of contraband trade. 'your flight discovered will for sure have brought an embargo on all the coast. not a sail will be out, but chasers on the watch. ashore now, not a chance were possible; but we took wing betimes; and here may we bide under daylight, and at night make again for the land's end to watch our chance.' 'go on. this contrivance is too incredibly bald to suffice. how, then, when presently a patrol sails round yonder head?' 'may heaven forfend!' 'heaven! are you mad? is all our security to be the grant by heaven of a miracle?' 'first, sir, i will tell you that we are like enough to be unharried; for it cannot be in mortal reckoning that we should dare here, since this place is a death-trap to be given wide berth in winter gales.' 'the very place to seek men fugitive and desperate.' 'by your leave, sir, i came into this venture as a volunteer, and not from desperation. 'the special danger of these coasts you do not know. our winter storms, sudden and fierce, strike here at their hardest. learned men say that high ranges leagues off over sea make a funnel to set them here. we fishers have another way of thinking--no matter what. but 'tis wide known that there is no record of any boat caught in a winter burst within sound of these breakers living to boast of it.' 'is, then, the favour of heaven also to be engaged to preserve from storm as from chase?' philip, tongue and throat, was dry, and he drank again deeply. 'you tell me of risks that i cannot bring myself to believe a volunteer would engage; not though, as i hear, he doubled his price.' wine and resentment mounted a flush. 'you do ill, sir, to fleer at a man who for your service risks freedom, life--ay, more than life--but that you would not believe; for you laughed, under night even, you laughed!' 'by heavens! every look of a death-trap comes out on your own showing; and except you show me the key to unlock it, i myself will hazard the forcing; i and your mate yonder, who well i see is not in your confidence, whose face tells that he has no liking for you and your doings.' christian turned away and made no response. 'for god's sake, sir,' whispered philip then, 'have patience, or you ruin all!' 'let be that wine and speak out.' 'drink you, christian.' he refused. philip fetched breath for a plunge. 'bear me out, christian, when i say that one there is who can do what none other living can--and will.' christian waited with a face of stone. 'who can carry us safe through the reefs. christian--this--you promised--you must undertake this. 'look you, we may never be driven to it; a far ship could not easily make us out against this broken background. 'christian, not another soul knows or shall know. sir, you can tell him that the league had not even a guess. i stood out for that. 'you asked nothing. had you but cared to ask, i would have told you earlier. you may have guessed; you cannot deny you are able. sir, he is; and when i asked his services, he promised--without reserve he promised. 'christian, you never have failed of your word; all your life that has been your pride, and so have i relied on it--a man's life relies on it.' christian kept an averted face, and stared down into the water. 'you can--i know you can!' 'i can.' 'and you will--to your promise i trusted.' 'i promised, and i will.' philip grasped his hand in cordial gratitude; christian suffered it, but his face was sullen. the adventurer saw sweat standing on the brow of each, so that he wondered at what were behind. philip turned with a brightened eye. 'now, sir, you may see that our chances are not so desperate, since, from storm or chase, we can put to safe haven beyond the reefs, to wait or dodge; or at worst, to get ashore and take to the hills--a put back, but to you a good exchange for four walls. only i have a thing to ask of you, sir, come good or ill: that you will never breathe to a soul of this way of escape.' the adventurer eyed him with something of distrust still, while he fingered his beard thoughtfully and smiled, half sneering. 'i understand--you would preserve a monopoly, and continue a good trade. but it looks to me that you have done some cheating by your mate, that might make him decline partnership and seek his own market.' 'by heavens! you are over ready with your imputations!' said philip, angry. 'the alien there is welcome to make what profit he can for me. never with my goodwill shall i be here again. for why i undertook it, i had my own good reasons, which concern you not at all. but i will tell you that i know not of another man who would dare partnership with the alien--ay, ask him, and he will not deny it; or who would put body and soul in jeopardy in this place.' the adventurer turned to christian, smiling, courting friendly intelligence. 'you, it appears, have put body and soul in jeopardy, and know the place; and body and soul are none the worse.' without any answer, christian looked at him, and colour ebbed from his face. philip touched for warning, and with lifted finger indicated the want, half guessed already by that fixed, blank gaze. 'answer only at your pleasure, but for my soul's salvation i do desire to know what threats it here.' for the moment philip did not suspect derision. discreetly he told of the fatal tradition, that the settled conviction of generations had brought men fatally to uphold and abet. so much of reason he had discovered for himself, and he desired that christian should hear. the work was taken out of his hands by a skilled master. the reverend superstition was subjected to all the disintegrating forces that human scepticism can range; and with cold reason, logic, and analogy, went such charm of courteous tolerance, and wit, and wise and simple exposition, as tempered the mordant touch of lurking ridicule. he was but for pastime, trying his practised touch upon two young fools. half scared, half fascinated and admiring, philip responded; christian stayed sullen and silent. chapter xiii at its nearest lay the isle sinister under noon. the adventurer sighed for the land as, cold and uneasy, he couched for needful sleep. philip lay stretched beside him, christian, according to his own preference, taking the first watch. out of new bravado, philip passed on to christian a muttered question: could he now carry them in and land them on the very isle? like a bolt came christian's answer: 'drowned and damned both shall you be before i will.' philip rose up, startled by the answer and the unexpected intimacy it acknowledged. but the voice had been of level quiet, and the alien's face showed no anger. the adventurer watched with a sardonic smile; and philip, forcing a show of unconcern that he did not feel, muttered a word of madness and dropped back. for a while resurgent terrors thwarted sleep; but the quiet breathing of his neighbour, the quiet outlook of the alien, told on his shaken nerves, and slumber overtook him. christian stayed waking alone. ah! the relief. he stood up to take free, deep breath, and stretched his great limbs. long, intently, with shaded eyes, he stared towards the isle sinister. ah! nothing, and well nothing. could she trust that he meditated no trespass? that he would allow none? could she deem that he offered no insane resentment against her severity? a sea-gull flapped close past his head, but was mute. he turned and looked down on the sleepers, and his face, illegible for many a day, showed bitter resentment and scorn. shamefully had he been beguiled, trapped, bound by a promise; and wanton goading had not lacked, all but intolerable. fools! their lives were in his hand; and he was awake. awake, as for months he had not been; his pulses were leaping to full heart-beats, there was stir in his brain; and therewith, dislike and contempt exciting, the keen human passion of hate lay torpid no longer; it moved, it threatened to run riot. who dare claim loyal service from him? philip! one boat had been familiar with these reefs: somewhere in the past murder rested unavenged. philip! in the deep water that the boat shadowed a darkness slid, catching his eye. he peered, but it was gone. before, and not once only, had an impression seized him, by deliberate sight not verified, that a sinister attendance lurked below. now unconstrained he could watch. great dread possessed him. storm and chase were light perils, not to be compared with her displeasure, her mere displeasure, irrespective of how she might exert it. with heavy grief had he borne late estrangement, and her severe chastisement of offence. were his limbs but for his own service, lightly, so soon as they were able, had he risked them again to worship his love and seek grace. alas! she could not know that loyal, and strong, and tender his devotion held; she would but see an insolent and base return, meriting final condemnation. helpless rages of grief urged him to break from all bonds, and plunge headlong to engage her wrath or her mercy. he cast on the sleepers then a thought, with ugly mirth, mocking the control of his old enemy in his heart. how would she take the forfeit! with her rocks and waves she had broken him once, and the surrender of all his bones to them in despair he had firmly contemplated; but human flesh and spirit shrank from horrors unknown, that she might summon for vengeance. could he but see what lurked below. spite of the ripe mutiny in him he minded his watch, and swept the horizon momently with due attention. the day altered as the slow hours dragged: a thin film travelled up the clear sky; the sun took a faint double halo, while the sea darkened to a heavy purple. he knew the signs: small chance was there now of a stormless night. not two hours of full daylight were left when below the sun rose a sail. his hopes and fears took little hold on it, for as yet it was but a speck; and he knew that before it could close darkness would be upon them, and belike storm also. with a desperate remedy before his eyes a devil's word was in his ears: the league makes good all loss. foul play? nay, but had not the league by philip played him foul first, with injury not to be made good. and those for whose sake he had owed regard for his wretched life would be bettered by his loss. when philip rose up from sleep a blackness stood upon the distant sea, threatening the sun; the chill wind had dropped, but a heavy, sullen swell insisted of a far-off tyranny advancing. to him no sail showed, but christian flung him word of it, and his sinking heart caught at high hope. then, since their vigil was soon to pass, philip dared greatly; for he bade christian sleep, set hand himself to sail and tiller, glided in past the buoys, and rocked at trespass. 'it is safer so, should the haze part,' he said, but his voice shook. the alien said never a word; each looked the other hard in the eyes, paling. 'the league makes good all loss,' said philip, low. 'and if so be that only some forgery of a loss can cover a fair claim, you may count on my--what you will--as you please.' christian refused hearing. flung down for unattainable sleep he lay stretched, covering his head to inspect by the light of darkness his wrongs, and philip's treason, that left to him nothing but a choice of transgression. the blackness stood higher and crept on. the sun was captured, shorn, disgraced, and sent bald on his way; a narrow streak of red bleeding upon the waters died slowly; all else was slate-black. above the gloom of the cliffs the sky showed blanched, clear and pale. ghostly white the sea-birds rose and fell. the tide was rising, deepening the note of the surf; between the warders white columns leapt up with great gasps. it was rhoda's name that philip whispered over, to strengthen his heart at the perilous outlook. the make of his love had a certain pride in overbearing such weak scruples as a tough conscience permitted. half he feared that the alien's poor wits had yet not recognised the only path left open by a skilful provision; for there he lay motionless, with the slow breath of untroubled sleep. he would not fear him; with rhoda's name, with hope on the unseen sail, he fortified his heart. in the deep water unshadowed by the boat a darkness slid, catching his eye. he peered, but it was gone. his heart stood in his throat; a palsy of terror shook him. oh speak, speak, st. mary, st. margaret, st. faith, help a poor body--a poor soul! when he could stir he headed about, and slunk away for the open, out of the accursed region. a draught of wine steadied him somewhat, and softly overstepping christian he roused the adventurer, to get comfort of human speech. he told of the coming storm, he told of the coming sail, but of that other thing he said nothing. yet presently the adventurer asked why he shook. 'it is for cold,' and he drank again. and presently asked, what did he look for over the side? 'a shark's fin,' he said, 'that i thought i saw,' and he drank again. at their feet christian lay motionless, heeding nothing outside his darkness. yet presently the adventurer said further: 'he sleeps. from what disquiet should you eye him so?' 'if you list you shall know of his past,' muttered philip. his speech was a little thick. from the coming from the sea of the alien child he started, and rambled on, with fact and fiction very inextricably mingled; but the hearer could make out the main truth of the blasting of a proud young life, and pitied, and was minded now to make large allowance for any misdemeanour. from their feet christian rose, and without a look removed to the bows. they were stricken to silence. suddenly philip clutched the other, staring down. both saw and blanched, though what they glimpsed gave to them no shape for a name. it was gone. 'what is it?' 'no rowan! not a leaf.' at that the old man mastered his nerves and laughed scorn in his beard. philip cast a scared look towards christian. 'last night,' he whispered, 'he looked over the side. i saw him--twice--it was for this.' 'what is it?' 'you saw. that was his familiar.' 'now look you,' returned the other with grave sarcasm, 'that is a creature i have seen never, and would gladly. you, if you be skilled as a fisher, catch me that familiar, and i will pay you in gold; or in broad silver if you win me but a fair sight.' philip, ashy white, crossed himself. 'heaven keep us! the one bait were a human soul.' not with all his art and wisdom could the adventurer now reinstate the earlier hardihood of his companion. against a supplement by wine he protested. 'sir,' said philip, sullen, 'i have braved enough for you and my conscience, and more. longer here i will not bide; no, not for any price. we go to meet our fortune yonder of friend or foe.' the adventurer looked at him and smiled. 'you miscount. should i and he yonder, the alien, be of another mind, your course may be ordered otherwise.' taken in his own toils, philip glared in wrath and fear, sundered from a common cause, an adversary. from the shrouded sea grew a roar; christian sprang up; the darkness swayed forward, broke, and flew shredded; a line of racing waves leapt upon them as with icy stroke the squall passed. through the broken vapours a rim of sun showed on the horizon; and there full west beat a tall three-master; a second was standing nearer; of a third a sway of mist withheld certainty. here rose hope wellnigh clear of doubt. but the mists spread down again with twilight adding. the house monitory woke and spoke far behind as they went to windward. now christian steered. again was he aware of a stealthy threat moving below, and again looking he could nothing define. he was seen of both: the adventurer came boldly to his side, and philip dare not bide aloof. they peered, and he would not. for an intolerable moment he forbore them, gripping the tiller hard. 'there is it!' said the old man. 'what say you is the creature? your mate has named it--your familiar,' and he laughed. even then christian forbore still, though the stress of long hours of repressed passion culminated in a weight of frantic anger and loathing, cruel to bear. then philip lied, denying his words, and christian knew that he lied; his crafty wits disturbed by wine, reverse, and fear, he blundered, protesting overmuch. said the adventurer grimly: 'now my offer holds good for silver or gold; be you man enough to back your words, you who would give me the lie?' without tackle men take fish by flamelight, spearing; and thus fell the wording of philip's menace, as, reeling between fear and resentment on either hand, he cried wildly: 'i care not--though, by heavens! a famous take may come of it. we have but to try fire.' christian gripped him, very death in his face and in his strength; swayed him from his feet; gripped the harder for his struggles, till the ribs of the poor wretch gave, and cracked within his arms; with a great heave had him shoulder high; with another could have flung him overboard. and did not. on the finest verge of overpoise he held, swung round with a slackening hold, and dropped him like a cast bale to the bottom of the boat. then he caught the tiller and clung to it with the strength of a drowning man. philip lay groaning, broken and wrung in body and mind. he realised a dreadful truth: for one brief second he had seen in christian's eyes fierce, eager hatred; clear, reasonable, for informed by most comprehensive memory; mad he was, but out of no deficiency; mad, with never a blank of mind to disallow vengeance; as cunning and as strong he was as ever madness could make a man; unmasked, a human devil. the adventurer lifted him and felt his bones, himself half stunned and bleeding, for he had been flung heavily from unpractised balance, as suddenly the boat lurched and careened in the wallop of the sea. the menace of an extreme peril closed their difference, compelling fellowship. they counselled and agreed together with a grasp and a nod and few words. philip fumbled for his knife, unclasped, and showed it. 'our lives or his. have you?' 'better,' returned the other, and had out a long dagger-knife sheathed, that he loosened to lie free for instant use. 'it has done service before. can you stand? are you able?' it was darkening so that sight could inform them but little concerning the alien. christian was regarding them not at all. from head to foot he was trembling, so that he had ado to stand upright and keep the boat straight. not from restraint his lips were bitten and his breath laboured hard: quick revulsion had cast him down, so passion-spent, conscience-stricken, and ashamed, that scarcely had he virtue left for the face of a man. their advance strung him, for he saw the significant reserve of each right hand. that his misdeed justified any extreme he knew, not conscious in his sore compunction of any right to resist even for his life. he waited without protest, but neither offered to strike. reason bade for quick despatch--very little would have provoked it; but not philip at his worst could conduct a brutal butchery, when conviction dawned that a human creature stood at their mercy by his own mere resolute submission. with names of coward and devil he struck him first, but they did not stir him to affording warrant. the adventurer took up the word. 'brutal coward, or madman, which you be, answer for your deed; confess you are a traitor paid and approved.' he shook his head. 'why else have you now half murdered your fellow? verily are you an alien through and through, for no man born on these shores would so basely betray a trust.' 'nor i,' he got out, and rather wished they would strike with their hands. 'you lie!' said his accuser; 'or robbery, or murder, or treachery you intend--or all. own your worst; try it; this time openly, fairly: your brute strength upon two who are not your match: on your mate damaged from your foul handling: on an old man, whose gold you have taken, the trust of whose life you have accepted.' he could not attempt a protest, though his heart was like to break enforced to silence. the other advanced in temerity with an order. 'you have a knife. give it up.' he obeyed without a word. then the two made no reserve, but with a show of bare steel proved his temper. he did not lift a hand. lois might come to hear of his transgression: she would never know how hard it was to atone, because they dawdled so cruelly, because he knew they would bungle so cruelly: he did not think either had force to drive a blade home at a stroke. the adventurer paused. here without madness was a guilty wretch cowed at detection, abject as a wolf in a pit! 'we would not your blood on our hands, yet to no oath of yours may our lives trust.' 'i would not offer it.' 'only as the wild beast you showed yourself, look to be kept bound.' such putting to shame was simply just, but oh! hard. 'i may not withstand you,' he said, hardly, steadily, 'but ah, sir! ah, philip, suffer me! if this night i am to go to my account, i do greatly require that, through my default, the lives of two men may not drop in the loaded scale.' to them the plea rang strained and false. 'we choose our risk; against treachery of the skies will we rather provide.' he surrendered his hands to the adventurer. philip took the helm, but the miserable culprit winced to hear how the strain brought from him a sob of distress. the old man did his best under direction for shortening sail; but while yet this was doing, again the ominous roar sounded and grew, and a squall caught them unready. the light boat quivered in every plank as she reared against the heavy charge; sheets of water flew over, blinding. christian heard from the helm a shriek of pain and despair, and at that, frantic, such an access of strength swelled in him, that suddenly his bonds parted like thread, and he caught the restive tiller out of philip's incompetent hold. there could be no further question of him whom by a miracle heaven had thus graced in strength for their service. and for their lives they needed to bale. christian blessed the cruel, fierce elements. far ahead heaved lights, revealed on the blown seas: far, so far. right in their teeth drove the promised gale, with intermittent bursts of sleet and hail. upon bodies brine-wet the icy wind cut like a knife. twin lights sprang, low down, giving the wanted signal; bore down, then stood away: the appointed ship followed after her consorts, not daring, with a gale behind, to near the cruelest coast known. struggling on under a mere stitch of canvas, the wind resenting even that, clutching it, threatening to tear out the mast, they went reeling and shuddering on to their desperate fortune. for hours the long endeavour lasted, with gain on the double lights by such slow degrees as mocked at final achievement. except that his hands were like to freeze out of use christian cared marvellously little for outer miseries. to him all too short was the span of life left for retrieving one guilty minute; no future could he look for to live it down, so certain had he become that this night death was hard after him. two stars reeling, kind, bright stars, shone life for others though not for him. perhaps for him, he wanted to believe; some coward drop in his blood tried to cheat reason and conscience. why not for him? could his doom be so heavy as to sink that great bulk with its scores of souls? and though now he should freely release others of his peril, who would ever count it to him for righteousness, to soften the reproach that would lie against his name so long as ever it were remembered? the cold touched his brain. surely he had died before, long ago, out of all this pain and distress. waves heaved gigantically; spray dashed hard in his face; he shrank humanly, knowing he was not fit to die; she was coming through the sea bringing life. no, ah! not now. she was lurking in the sea holding death. 'madness and treason are not in him.' 'he is a devil,' said philip, 'a very devil. see! go you now, and feign to persuade for abandoning the boat, and shipping together.' 'that will i in all good faith,' and he went and came again. 'first he refused outright; then he said, when the moment came we should know as well as he.' 'i knew it, i knew it,' chattered philip, 'oh, a devil he is! sir, you will see me out of his hands. i know what he intends: on the instant you quit the boat he casts off and has me at his mercy, he and that thing below. i am no coward, and it ill becomes you to hint it; and i fear death no more than any sinner must, no clean, straight death. 'sir, his putting out of life was long and bloody: i saw it; death by inches. and he looked at me with infernal hatred then; the very same i saw in his eyes but now. why should he check at sudden murder, but for a fouler revenge. you cannot judge as i. you have not seen him day after day. treacherously he accepts friendship; he feigns to be witless; and all the while this hell-fire is hidden out of sight. you do not know how he has been denied opportunity, till rashly i offered it. 'o sir, quit of him this once, i am quit of him for ever! no, i mean no villainy against him, but--but--it happens--there is every inducement for him to choose that he and his boat never be seen of us again. drown? no, he never was born to drown. the devil sees to his own. 'it is true--true. you saw the thing yourself. also, did he not refuse an oath? so has he all his life. now know i: there are certain words he for his contract may not utter.' when tall masts rocked above, and voices hailed, and a rope shot across, again the adventurer pressed christian hard with precious human kindness. men big and fair-haired were shouting, knocking at his heart strangely. most foolish and absurd came a longing just once before he died to be warm and dry again, just once. he shook his head. philip kept off, nor by word or sign offered the forgiveness he ached after, but hasted to pass first. then the other followed; he loosed the rope; it leapt away. the last face he saw gleaming above him was philip's, with its enmity and a ghastly drawn smile of relief: never to be seen of him again. how long would her vengeance delay? the vast anger of the sea leaped and roared round him, snatching, striking. an hour passed, and he was still afloat, though the mast was gone; and near another, and he was still afloat, but by clinging to an upward keel. in cruel extremity, then, he cried the name of diadyomene, with a prayer for merciful despatch, and again her name, and again. diadyomene heard. the waves ran ridged with light that flickered and leaped like dim white flame. phosphor fires edged the keel; a trailing rope was revealed as a luminous streak. he got it round his body, and his hands were eased. up from below surged a dark, snaky coil, streaming with pale flakes of fire; it looped him horribly; a second length and a third flung over him; a fourth overhung, feeling in air. a loathsome knot worked upon the planks, spread, and rooted there. he plucked an arm free, and his neck was circled instead. his knife he had not: barehanded he fought, frenzied by loathing of the foul monster, the foulest the sea breeds. before his eyes rose the sea's fairest, towered above him on the rush of a wave, sank to his level. terrible was her face of anger, and cruel, for she smiled. she flung out a gesture of condemnation and scorn, that flashed flakes of light off shoulder and hair. she called him 'traitor,' and bade him die; and he, frantic, tore away the throttled coil at his throat, and got out, 'forgive.' like challenge and defiance she hurled then her offer of mercy: 'stretch, then, your hand to me--on my lips and my breast swear, give up your soul: then i forgive.' she heard the death agony of a man cried then. ceasing to struggle, his throat was enwound again; both arms were fast: he cried to his god to resume his soul, and to take it straight out of his body and out of hell. away she turned with teeth clenched and furious eyes; then, writhing, she returned, reached out, with one finger touched, and the foul creature shrank, relaxed, drew coil by coil away, dropped, and was gone. diadyomene flashed away. when the night and the trouble of the storm were past, not a ship afloat was scatheless. from one that crawled disabled, a boat was spied, drifting keel upward, with the body of a man hanging across it, whose bright hair shone in the early sun, making a swarter race wonder. against all conjecture life proved to be in him yet. and what unimaginable death had been at him? what garland was this on his throat: blossoms of blood under the skin? when he was recovered to speech he would not say. good christian men, what could they think? his boat was righted, and with scant charity he was hustled back into it; none of these, suddenly eager to be quit of him, wishing him god-speed. under cover of night he crawled up to his home, dreading in his guilt to face the dear, stern eyes of his mother. ah! no, he entered to no questioning and little heed: the two women sat stricken with sorrow; not for him: in the room beyond giles lay dead. so christian's three gold pieces buried giles with such decent honour as lois could desire. chapter xiv christian's misdoing was not to pass unregarded. a woman turned upon rhoda passing with a mutter so like a curse that the girl's surprise struck her to a pause. it was philip's mother who faced her, glowering hate. 'what have you done with my boy?' 'i?' said rhoda, with widening eyes, though she blushed. 'you--smooth-faced chit--yes, you! oh, keep those fine eyes and that colour to take in men, for me they will not! i can see through you! i know you, and the games you are playing!' 'what then?' flashed rhoda. 'you accuse me? of what? and by what right?' 'right! the right of a mother whose son you have driven away.' 'he is nothing to me--never will be--never--nothing!' 'i know it. i know it well, and i told him so: nothing! 'tis only your vanity to have at your heels the properest lad and the bravest of the place.' 'he!' cried rhoda, in disdain. 'ay, i know how your fancy has run, against natural liking for the dark-haired and dark-eyed of your own race; your vagary goes after fair hair and grey eyes. well, see for all your sly offers that great blond dolt gapes and gapes over your bait, never closing to it. that northern blood is half brine.' rhoda stood speechless; her anger, shame, and pain transcended blushes, and she changed to dead white. 'and you pick out one who can love like a man, who fires at a word or a look, and him you delight to stab and torment with your cruel tongue, while you use him for your ends. shameless! you have dropped yourself into his arms even, so to heat the alien from his fishes' blood. may i live to see you put to shame of some man!' 'he said--oh, vile--of me! cur, cur!' ''tis i that can read between the lines, not he, poor blind fool! miscall him! ay, you have got the trick. you may bring up faults against him--some do; but i tell you no man will do greatly amiss who still goes to his old mother and opens his heart to her.' rhoda's breath caught like a sob at that, for there unknowingly went a stroke at christian. she gathered herself together for bitter onslaught, for outraged pride and indignation drove out compunction, drove out any mercy. out it all shrivelled at a blasting thought that stopped her very heart. mute she stood, white, shuddering, staring. then she got out a whisper. 'when did he go--tell me? since--my uncle died--or--before?' 'well enough you know 'twas before----' rhoda turned and fled homeward, fleet as terror, though her knees went slack and her brain reeled. she drew bolts before her dreadful incoherent whispers welled out to lois. 'where he went she did not know, did not guess, never thought it was on a planned venture. none would think of that, or think that two alone would suffice, or dream of christian--i had thought that strange--you too. and we know christian went on a venture, by the three gold pieces we know: and that could not have been alone, and he is not of the league. and i thought it had been with philip; and i thought philip meant kindness--perhaps for my sake, which vexed me. oh, perhaps it was for my sake, and i was vexed! yet see, none others guess it nor do conceive that any, in any cause, would go hand in hand with our christian. and none would greatly mark his goings and comings--christian's--for unreason has so chartered his ways. then, though both were away that same day, not even his mother had noted it. and oh! think of christian in these days! has sorrow only been heavy at his heart? and a hurt on his throat he would not show. and oh!' she said, 'and oh!' she said, and failed and tried again, 'oh! his knife--_he has not his knife_.' the love and faith of lois sprang up against belief. 'child, child! what do you dare to say--to think? would you hint that christian--my boy christian--has done murder? 'no, no, never! no, never, never! i would stake my life--my soul--that it was fair fight!' lois looked at her and said a cruel thing: 'you are no helpmeet for him. thank god! you are not his wife!' rhoda quivered at that, and found it a saying hard to forgive. her heart swelled to refute it, and might not for maidenhood. long ago she would have had christian rise up to avenge himself terribly; her pride had suffered from the poor temper she saw in his. now, though he had exceeded the measure of her vague desire, he stood fair and high in her estimation, illuminated, not blackened by the crime she imputed. against all the world, against his mother, she was at one with him. was there any other who desired and deserved the nearest and dearest claim, that she had renounced. a wedge of silence drove between them. the character of the mother's stern virtue dawned upon rhoda, appalling her: for the salvation of her son's soul she might bid him accept the full penalty of his crime--even that. a horror of such monstrous righteousness took the girl. she stole to unbolt the door and away to warn christian, when a whisper stayed her. 'i failed him. i thought then only of my man, and i had no prayers for my boy. ah, christian, christian!' doubt had entered. lois knelt and prayed. rhoda wavered. her estimate or the world's, the partial or the vindictive, shrank to their due proportions, as lois thus set christian's crime before the eye of heaven. she wavered, turned, and fell kneeling, clinging and weeping, convicted of the vain presumption that would keep christian from the hands of his god. she was bidden away when lois caught a sound of christian. his mother held him by the window for the first word. 'christian, where is philip?' his startled eyes were a stab to her soul; the tide that crimsoned his very brow checked hers at her heart. he failed of answering, and guilt weighed down his head. she rallied on an inspiration that greatest crimes blanch, never redden, and 'you have not killed him?' was a question of little doubt. 'no, thank god! no!' he said, and she saw that he shook. then he tried to out with the whole worst truth, but he needed to labour for breath before he could say with a catch: 'i meant to--for one moment.' to see a dear face stricken so! do the damned fare worse? more dreadful than any reproach was her turning away with wrung hands. she returned to question. 'then where is he?' 'i cannot tell. he left me. he would not--he was afraid.' 'what had you done? you had harmed him?' 'yes,' he said, and told how. 'what had he done to anger you? had he struck first?' 'no.' 'you had quarrelled?' 'no.' 'had you no excuse?' she said. he hesitated. could she know and understand all, there might be some pity with her condemnation, there would be some tempering of her distress. 'i can make none,' he had to answer. when next she spoke: 'then it was old hate,' she said, and after a minute he answered 'yes' to that. so she had to realise that for months, according to her gospel, he had been a murderer at heart; and her assurance of a merciful blank of mind and memory tottered, threatening a downfall that would prove the dear son of her hope of a rotten build. she tested his memory. 'i asked a promise of you once, and you gave it.' 'yes,' he said, and, do what he would, 'i have broken it' got mangled wretchedly in his throat. 'your promise! is it believable? you could--you!' 'o mother! if god forgot me!' her heart smote her because her prayers had deserted him then. 'oh, peace!' she said, 'and do not add blasphemy, nor seek to juggle with god.' she did not spare him, and deeply she searched his conscience. self-convicted already he was, yet his guilt looked freshly hideous worded by her, as look wounds, known to the senses of night, discovered by the eye of day. for a whole dreadful hour rhoda listened to the murmur of voices. then they ceased, and lois came. 'thank god, child!' was all she needed to say. 'heaven forgive me! can you? can he? let me go to him--i must. ah me!--can he forgive me?' lois held the door and turned her. 'he has nothing to forgive,' she said, and her face frightened questions. from among some poor hoards lois drew out a tiny cross of gold. it was christian's, sole relic left of his young unknown life. as a little lad he had played with it and lost it, and lois finding it had taken it into keeping. now she took it to him. 'i will ask no renewal of a broken promise--no. i want no hard thing of you, only this: when temptation to deadly sin is overbearing, before you yield, unfasten this and fling it from you into the sea. you will? christian, answer--say, "i will."' 'what worth has any word of mine?' he said in his despair; but her arms were round his neck fixing the knot, and stayed to clasp, but her rare terrible sobs rose as she cried, 'oh, god help you, my son!' and 'i will, i will!' flew strong to assure her that that word would never have to be fulfilled. near was the time that would put him to the test, and he knew it. a day passed and a day passed, out of eternity into eternity, and the moon filled up to diadyomene's account. 'rhoda,' he said, 'do you know what day this is?' 'christmas eve.' 'yes--but to my mother--her child was born----' 'yes,' said rhoda hurriedly, and bent her head: she for the first time knew her own birthday. 'listen, rhoda! she has aged and weakened so; the day and night of prayer and fasting she has now begun i fear may outdo her strength. will you keep ever at hand to listen and be careful of her?' 'and you?' asked rhoda. 'i may not stay. i cannot.' she flashed a look of amazed indignation, for instinctively she knew that he would be leaving his mother to seek the strange-named woman, and such filial misconduct in him was hardly credible. no kind word or look would rhoda grant him. he never felt the lack: his mother's blessing he did greatly desire, but he dared not intrude on the day of her mourning to ask it. short was the day and long the way, but over soon by some hours was he footing it. the singular incidence of the day encouraged belief that a special mercy of heaven was ordering his goings for the comforting of a long sorrow. ah! god grant her a soul from the sea, and ah! god grant it by me for a token. all his steps were taken to prayer, and the least thing he asked of his god was that, though his sins were so heavy, he might not die till he had seen that salvation. his head and his heart told him that if he failed in his high endeavour he must surely perish. over the wold came a harsh call, and again till he answered and stayed. he was making for waste stretches, gashed athwart by long gullies preventing any fair paths. already, though but half a league forward, tracks had grown rough and uncertain. the voice came from a mudded hollow, where a loaded cart stuck fast, an old horse and an old man striving with it in vain. though loath to be hindered, christian turned aside to give help. he was not graciously welcomed. the old man scowled, and swore under his breath. 'the alien, deuce take it, he will not serve!' but he stared, and words failed when christian promptly laid hand on the load, saying, 'here's bad balancing, gaffer; we had best uncord first and set it right.' 'ay, it shifted. have it that way, if so you can and will. my two boys did the cording, and two fools they be.' he sidled away, muttering wonderful oaths as curiously he watched the alien's tackling. the load was a tree brought down by the recent gale; protruding roots clawed the mud behind; piled branches nodded to the fore, orange-red berries bright as coral dangling there. christian's great strength made light of the work, and soon the cart went crawling out of the mire. he snapped off a twig to scrape the mud from his shins, and the gaffer's mutter then caught his ear. 'he's done it--sure! be danged if i reckoned he could. well, well, some be liars!' 'in your best days, gaffer, you might have done as much.' the old face wrinkled with a sour grin. ''twas said you couldn't abide the rowan.' 'why?' 'well, i never asked. may be they lie who swear that never a twig of the rowan goes in your boat. some have taken to say so.' 'none, true enough. what then?' said christian, and he noticed that the man had thrust a bunch of berries into his belt. 'well, there, 'tis not i that can give the reason.' 'can you think mine the only boat that goes without that garnish?' 'i swear the only one.' christian did not know how on his very account a prevalent custom had gained ground. he brought out a string of names. 'why, most of those from this very tree have had takings. 'tis an ill wind that blows nowhere; for i reckon now to get a good price off this timber--ay, to the last scrap, and 'tis you i owe some thanks for that. so, look you, i have a mind, after i have made my profit, to open out of your doing here with me and take the laugh. hey? ah! it seems to me that some of your wits are left, so may be all i heard tell of was lies, when 'twas said you had had games with the evil one, and had lost to him both wits and soul.' christian said slowly, 'you thought i had no soul?' 'never thought at all; why should i? let fools think; i see. you, i see, but now handle the rowan freely, and pass it to and fro, as never could you have done had your soul known unholy tampering.' christian stood stock-still, with an unseeing stare, till the old man called back to him, 'come on, just to lend a hand up this pitch.' then he ran after, and so eagerly bore, that one spoke he broke. on the level he said, strangely breathless, 'now i want payment.' 'what! a great hulking fellow can't go two steps out of his way and lift a hand for one with old age in his bones but he asks payment!' 'yes,' said christian, 'and for the love of god, give me the payment i shall ask.' 'no promise, but what's your asking?' 'give me berries of the rowan.' with his sour grin the old fellow muttered, 'well, well, no wits after all!' as he plucked some bunches and chucked them across. 'more! more! and oh! quick; i lose time. see, fill up my cap.' 'all you can't have. my brats have been promised their handfuls, and want you may.' when all that entreaty could get he had, christian parted at a run, and the way he took was home. rhoda wondered, seeing him pass the window. presently, laying aside resentment, she went out to seek him in the linhay. the door resisted her hand. 'christian,' she called, and after his answer, 'come in. what are you about? bring in your work; there is fire still.' he said 'no' so forcibly, that she went away aggrieved, and a little curious. all was very quiet; of lois she heard and saw nothing, and christian made no noise at all. she wondered if he too were engaged in prayer; she wondered if she ought also to be so devoted. from the window she saw two figures on the road, and watched them idly. they neared, and from the opposite approach came two others. all four were known to her by sight, though hailing from some distance; they were kin to philip; two were father and son, two were brothers. at the gate they stood, and turned in. rhoda's heart dropped as she guessed their errand. to her a word from christian were enough; but what solemnest oath, what evidence short of philip's self, would convince these? they were knocking, while still her countenance was out of command; and when they asked for christian, her wits were so troubled, that she said lamely, 'it is christmas eve; can you want him now? 'wait then--i will go--wait here, and he will come.' when she passed out and turned the wall, she knew by the sound of feet that two had started to go about the contrary way to make against any escape. at the linhay door she knocked, again getting an impatient answer. 'christian, come out, or let me in. you must.' he came out and closed the door, keeping his hand upon it while she told. 'i cannot come. go, say i cannot come; i will not!' and desperately impatient his hand beat upon the door. 'you must,' she said, and her white face and shaking voice went far to convince him. 'i think you must. o christian, don't you know why they come?' he looked at her blankly. 'to ask after philip.' his face burned red, and he stood dumfoundered. 'you know? from my mother?' 'yes,' she said. 'no,' she said. 'i thought that first, and told her. oh! why did she not tell you all when she would not let me confess? yes, i thought that, and o wretch that i was! i thought no blame either. now hate me, and never forgive me.' he also said, 'i have nothing to forgive'; and half audibly he groaned, 'ah, christ! is there no forgiveness of sins?' footsteps made them turn to see two rounding the linhay; and again, footsteps behind brought two after rhoda, impatient of delay. none of the four from that moment judged christian to be innocent, nor rhoda wholly ignorant: their looks so bespoke guilt and apprehension. some touch of resentment at the intolerant intrusion set christian's head high, and his eyes were not to be daunted as he measured each for strength of will and strength of body. he knew them for the pick of philip's kin; all were of the league. 'say why you come,' said christian. 'bid me stay,' whispered rhoda, though she saw that her presence hindered a ready answer; but christian bade her go, and reluctantly she withdrew. out of earshot she went, but no further than to the gate. there she leaned, and tried to keep her face averted, but against resolution now and then her head would turn to better her heart. uncloaked, in the cold she shivered, and from apprehension. 'concerning our kinsman philip,' began the eldest. his colour went and came for witness against him. 'speak low,' he said, glancing at a near window, 'lest my mother hear,' and at that a second score went down against his innocence. 'you put to sea with him; you came back alone. where is he?' in his haste christian answered to more than was asked. 'alive he was when i saw him last. where he now is i know little as you.' the youngest put in a word. 'alive! but was any plank under him? will you take your oath that he was alive and safe, and unhurt by you?' at that red guilt flew over his face, for he could not. another turn of words might give him a chance, but he had no skill to play for it. the imposition of an oath he might not resent with his old high claim: a promise had been broken, though they knew not, and his head sank for shame. that, with his brief pause, sealed conviction. one muttered, 'now i would not believe him though he swore'; but the other three frowned silence upon him, the spokesman saying, 'we do require an oath before we ask further.' no protest did he offer to hinder a quick despatch. he uttered the form prescribed, though conscience and pride alike took deep wounds of it. afterwards it was told against him how his countenance worked, as for the first time an oath had been forced upon him. 'now be speedy,' said christian, 'for i have little leisure or list to bide.' at that crass speech something of grim smiling hardly kept to concealment. 'is philip alive?' 'yes,' he said, 'if he be not dead,' an answer that angered them. 'god knows'; then he said, 'i have no cause to think him dead.' 'you saw him last alive and like to live?' 'more like to live than i.' 'where, then, did you leave him?' 'i may not say. i am pledged to silence.' 'how pledged? to whom?' 'to philip.' 'ay, we know; but we all are of the league.' 'none were excepted; "not to a soul," he said.' 'he, speaking for the league, meant to not a soul beside.' 'i mean to the league no less. so i think did he.' a poor satisfaction was in standing to his word against those who compelled him to an oath. 'crack-brained devil----' 'lower!' christian said, glancing anxiously up at the window. 'this is no case for foolery or brag. out of you we must have the whole truth, lief or loath.' his stubborn face said no. to no man on earth could he tell the whole truth, nor, were that possible, would it be believed; less than the whole doomsday truth could scarce make his own outrageous act comprehensible. 'philip may tell you, but not i,' he said witlessly. and as he spoke and looked at these four, it came upon him that he might not long outlive philip's telling of the tale, if only by reason of that lurking thing uncertainly seen. he clapped his hand upon the hidden cross, as a perilous flash told how less cause had set down a record that might not bear the light. so close was he ever to the mouth of hell. live temper faded from his face, and it settled to the old blank mildness that had been lifting somewhat of late days. 'is he so mad?' 'no, he shams.' 'leave fooling, and speak straight in a matter of life and death.' 'oh! more--more than life and death. for the love of god, make an end, and take a final answer. i will tell no more; nor would the most i know further you to philip.' the comment of a vigorous curse checked him there. 'hear me out. if you need but to know how a venture went, i can tell you: well. if you have other need of him that does not brook delay, i can but offer to serve you to my best, for following and bringing him again; whatever be the risk, i owe that to him and you. only this day i must have to myself. i must, though i pay for it with the rest of my life.' that preposterous offer took away breath. then an oath yelping high with derision above anger brought christian to entreat for his mother's quiet. 'let us in here, then,' said one, and reached to the latch behind him. christian struck up his arm. 'no!' he said, and barred the way. instantly, moved by a prompt suspicion, the four sprang out ready steel and swung one way, ringing him in. at that, christian realised his desperate case. he blanched, and sweat started. 'for life and death!' he said hoarsely. 'o my god, my god!' rhoda shot in between, and, voiceless from fear and speed, clung to christian, presuming her weakness to turn offence. 'cowards!' she panted, 'four against one, and he empty-handed. what--why? christian?' 'you would do well to counsel your madman to give way and let us pass, if he care greatly for the quiet of any there within.' christian yielded. he lifted the latch and thrust the door open, standing aside that they might pass him by; but two linked arm with him, walked him in, and held him a prisoner. he did not offer to resist. rhoda pressed after him close; the last to enter closed and bolted the door. puzzled silence fell. not a corner of the bare place could harbour suspicion. some tools were ranged against the walls; twine and canvas and common oddments lay there, a small enough show of garden store, and of fuel a pile pitifully low. a stool overthrown told of christian's last hasty rising; on a bench lay his cap, half filled with scarlet berries, and strung berries were spread beside. four blank countenances were turned upon him, whose looks were sullen and guilty like a criminal's taken in the act. rhoda, bewildered, owned to her sinking heart that here showed such vagary of his wits as passed her reckoning. 'you were best away, rhoda.' 'i will not go,' she said, 'except i be thrust out.' none urged for that rough kindness now, having gone so far; her presence might even turn to account, for it must lie with the alien to spare her distress. the prisoner took up question. 'the league has charged you to be judges?' 'yes.' 'to give sentence?' 'yes.' 'to execute it?' 'yes.' christian grew as white as a coward; he went on steadily nevertheless. 'you are charged to do murder.' 'to do justice.' 'without any proof that philip is dead.' 'lack of proof that he is alive comes to the same as the case stands.' no lie would now avail of philip lost overboard. in the stress of clear thinking for his life he felt relief that he could not be so tempted to damn his fair cause before heaven. 'he will return,' he muttered, 'but too late, for me too late.' 'christian, they dare not,' gasped rhoda; 'no, you dare not, for philip will return to confound you. should he return--too late--then may god have no mercy on your souls.' christian said 'amen' to that. the spokesman turned to rhoda. 'you speak positively: can you bear witness in his favour?' 'i know nothing--nothing.' 'yet have you shown singular quickness of apprehension.' she looked piteously at christian, galled by remorse. 'oh me! must i say?' 'why not? none here will blame you. i cannot.' so rhoda faltered out how she too had entertained a wicked suspicion. 'what evidence then routed it?' 'his.' 'his evidence?' 'his denial.' her sincerity was beyond question; her simplicity commanded respect; no ingenuity could have spoken better to his credit. yet all was vain. 'bare denial may not suffice for us, when furthermore without valid cause he has refused any clear statement to satisfy a reasonable demand, and quibbled and defied.' 'give me a moment's grace,' pleaded christian, 'to make sure if i can go no further.' he might take his time; but little he needed to gain conviction for despair; for he saw how inevitably answer would beget question point by point, till, again at bay, having traversed ground bristling with hostile indications, he must stand at yet worse disadvantage. before his eyes, one, fingering in mere impatience, took hold of the strung berries; at a rough twitch some scattered. christian, exasperated, plucked for a free hand, and a tightened grip set him struggling for one instant with the natural indignation of young blood at rude constraint. so well dreaded was his strength, that on a misconstruction of his aim, every tool that might serve as a weapon was caught up and thrust hastily from the window, while more of the rowan danced down. balked the alien seemed, resisting no longer, and sweating, shaking, choking, with eyes miserably wet with rage. but rhoda, who had watched his face, turned, and gathering all the berries loose and strung, laid them safe from handling. 'god bless you, dear!' he said; and so she knew that she had guessed right, and so she could not doubt but his wits had fallen again to their old infirmity. he had ended patience and grace when a gleam of hope came. 'it must be within your knowledge,' he said, 'who last saw him with me.' 'yes.' 'then this i may say--he and philip went together when we parted company.' 'that too we had thought to be possible.' christian recognised an ominous note, and the hostile faces he saw more dark and grim. 'speak out!' he cried; 'what is it you think?' yet half he knew; yet quite he knew. 'speak out! do you dare think i have betrayed them?' 'we have little doubt. traitor, thrice over traitor, the league's account with you is overdue.' he laughed out savagely. 'now, devils that you are you show, that bring a false accusation, since well you know that once only have i been on a venture.' 'well we know how two ventures before failed--well-planned ventures. now we know how you have played the fool and the spy together. two times have you been gone, no man knew where; over a day gone, and not at sea. will you say now where you went?' he despaired, and did not answer, while rhoda's glance wavered consciously. at last he said: 'though i myself can make no defence, in due time i cannot fail to be cleared--of murder and treason. i cannot wait. this day i want; i must be free on any terms. no terms? but hear! i claim judgment instantly, this hour. men, you dare not give it. then i claim the judgment of god. i will fight it out. choose your place and pick your man,--nay, any two. what? cowards! three, all four together, but forgo your knives or lend me one.' 'fight you may, but the place shall be here, and the odds against you, as you see.' the door was fast, and the six within stood close in the limited space; he was held at disadvantage, and weaponless, against choice men prepared. also he cared for two women. 'oh!' he cried, shaken and white with fury, 'i must, i must have one day. with what but my life may i purchase? is it cheap, think you? as you hope for heaven by mercy, deal with me. only one day! by this hour to-morrow, if i breathe, i surrender. i will swear to it by any form you will. make harder conditions, and i take them. all my life-days after would i engage to set this day free. what more can a man offer than his life for lending or ending?' his face and voice were so dreadful to rhoda's heart, that she could not brook the limits of reason. 'mine! christian, you have mine. you will not refuse; you will let him go, for i will be his surety.' 'this is folly.' 'it is not. is it not enough? i--life--honour, in pledge for him. o christian, you cannot gainsay, else you dishonour your own purpose.' 'we are plain men who are dealing for justice. an innocent girl cannot be substitute for a traitor all but proved, whom, moreover, the league needs for a better information.' still rhoda tried protests. 'girl, are you out of your senses too? dishonest too? can you state any circumstance to justify this urgency for a day's grace? failing that, well we can guess what he would do with it. it is somewhat barefaced.' christian checked her answering, and owned defeat. 'give over now,' he said. 'an hour have i wasted fighting over losing ground. you have gained all along, and i know it. in every way you have the advantage. say now, what will you do with it?' 'you surrender?' 'no. by your force, not by my will, shall liberty go. quit words and be doing. no: what then?' 'consider that the odds are against your taking boat alive were a hint out of your foul dealing with the league. yet if you promise resistance we have no choice but to hale you an open prisoner. have you a mind to face stones?' rhoda's scared looks drew one to assure her, that were christian free from guilt, his cause could not miscarry at their hands, unless by his own intemperance; therefore should she persuade him to voluntary submission. he groaned in miserable despair. 'i yield, but only till these stringent conditions be passed. dispose with me as you will, and i submit--yes, absolutely--yes; but for a time only. a limited term; for one half-hour? more i will not, and look you after. i cannot surrender my will to be free this day.' likely enough it was out of pity for the girl that his offer was taken. against suspicion of some reservation he was constrained to swear faith under dictation; also the order of his going was ruled minutely, with warning that the lifting of a hand unallowed would be instantly fatal. 'be doing--be doing quickly,' he said, and the bolt was drawn. christian turned to stay rhoda, who came following, and the four men, with fine consideration, passed out first, letting the door swing to on the unhappy pair. their eyes met, poor souls, with miserable consciousness that a barrier of reserve thwarted solace. 'keep heart, dear,' he said; and bravely tearless she echoed him. 'but, oh!' she said, 'be patient, and not rash, for the sake of those who love you.' 'o rhoda, rhoda! you do not know. i have a work this night. i think--i know it was meant for me. by heaven, i think. my own sins have risen up against me now. they thwart. hell itself striving against me has advantage by them. there must be some way. but i cannot see it. there must be! oh! i cannot be condemned through turning back on an amended hope. so heaven-sent i blessed it. no way--no way!' muttering, he reached over to the rowan and absently fingered it, while rhoda urged on him what she knew of reason. he turned on her a musing look. 'rhoda, will you help me?' 'oh, tell me to: never ask.' 'take the rowan, and finish what i was about.' she broke down at last, and turned away in such a passion of sobbing as owned desertion of hope. 'rhoda! you desert me, rhoda!' in so broken a voice he said, that against all sense she cried: 'but i will! yes, yes; trust me, i will!' and could not after retract when she saw his face. 'i am not mad,' he said; 'look at me: i am not.' and with that she knew not how to reconcile evidence. 'be speedy against my return.' 'is it possible? how?' she whispered. 'as god wills, i cannot know; but some way will show, must show.' again she entreated against temerity, and for answer he taught her of a lonely spot, asking her to carry the threaded rowan there, and to wait his coming. 'if i do not come,' he said, 'i shall be----' 'not dead!' she breathed. 'oh, damned and dead,' he said. 'it cannot be. no. yet, o christian, should any harm befall you, avenged you shall be. yes. no law can serve us here efficient against the tyranny of the league; but if in all the land high places of justice be, there will i go, and there denounce the practice of such outrage and wrong. those four, they shall not escape from account. for that i will live--ay, even hazard living--i know.' 'you will not,' ordered christian; 'for i myself freely have served the league, and have taken payment. and these four mean to deal justly; and i have no right to complain.' a hint of impatience sounded against the door, and christian, with a last word enjoining secrecy, turned and lifted the latch. a forlorn sob complained. he caught both her hands in his. 'dear heart, dear hands, a farewell were misdoubt,' he said, and on brow and hands he crossed her. 'a human soul shall bless your faithful doing.' he loosed and left her. she saw the door's blank exchange for him; she heard the brisk departure of feet; away fled the spurious confidence she had caught in his presence, and desolate and despairing, blind and choked with grief, she cursed her own folly and bewailed his. when she took up her lunatic task the red berries like told beads registered one by one prayer too like imprecation, for sure she was that the strange-named woman stirred at the heart of this coil. in heats of exasperation she longed to scatter and crush the rowan; yet the thread crept on steadily through her hands, inch by inch, till that misery was over. then it pleased her grief to bring out her own best scarf for enfolding. 'so i further him to her,' she said; 'so i fashion some love-token between them.' as soft-foot she went for it, outside a fastened door she stood to listen. she heard the low mutter of petition, and jealous resentment sprang up against a monopoly by the dead of the benefit of prayer, so wanted by the living. as she stood, a patch of calm sea shone into her eyes through a narrow light; and from the frame, small as a beetle, moved a boat rowing across. five men she counted, and she made out that the second rower was the biggest. so had he entirely surrendered. all hopeless she turned away to fulfil her promise. at that moment christian was speaking. 'i take it, the time is now up.' by a mile of engirding sea the prospect of escape looked so vain that one joined assent with a fleer. placid as the sea's calm was the alien's countenance, and he pulled on steadily. the leader from the helm leaned forward to regard him fixedly, finding his tranquillity consonant only with imperfect wits. 'you think better of resistance, nevertheless?' 'truly i do,' he answered. 'i think better of resistance now,' and in his eyes was no reading of resentment or anxiety. his glance turned with his thoughts to distinguish the roof that covered his mother and rhoda. dear heart, cried his, do your part and i will mine. rhoda by then was doing after her own thought and liking. though fasting herself, poor child, that on the morrow the board might be the better spread, for christian she was lavish. wine she took that giles had not lived to drink; of griddle cakes the best she chose, and also of figs from those she summer-time ago had gathered and dried. then she wound the silly rowan in brown moss, knotted it up in her scarf, and cloaked herself, and went out on her fool's errand. some miles to the west, on the edge of waste, stood a landmark of three trees, and near by, off the path, a furze-stack. thither by devious ways of caution came rhoda on the first wane of daylight, and having done all, faced the drear without heart, crouching into shelter of the furze. poorly clad for such a vigil, thin from days of want, fasting, exhausted by excitement and grief, she had no strength left to bear bravely any further trial. though christian's desperate emphasis stood out to bar despair, she told herself his coming was impossible, and her spirit quailed in utter cowardice as she realised her own outlook. she was afraid of the night, and her engagement had taken no limit of time. should the dreaded ice-wind of the season rise, there were peril to life; but her heart died under a worse terror, that increased as waste and tree bulked large and shapeless under drawing dark. for was it not the eve of christmas, when the strict limitations of nature were so relaxed that things inanimate could quit station, and very beasts speak like men, and naked spirits be clothed with form. her mortal senses were averse. with desperate desire for relief she scanned the large through the longest hour of her life. night was in the valleys, but on the uplands twilight still, when against the sky a runner came. he, dear saviour. but his footsteps made no sound; but he showed too white. doubt of agony that this was not he in human flesh froze her, till he came and stood, and not seeing her close crouched, uttered his heart in a sound dreadful to hear. 'here, here!' cried rhoda, and had her hands on him before her eyes had fairly realised him. he was mostly naked. coatless, shirtless, unshod, his breeks and his hair clung damp, showing by what way he had come free. she held him, and laughed and sobbed. 'you have it?' he said. 'give it here--give it.' 'this also--this first. drink--eat.' 'no; i cannot stay.' 'you shall--you must,' she urged. 'do you owe me nothing? what, never a word?' he declined impatience to her better counsel; and when he had got the rowan and belted it safe, to the praise of her providence he drank eagerly and ate. rhoda spied a dark streak on his shoulder. 'you are hurt--oh!' 'only skin-deep. salt water stanched it.' 'and what of them? christian, what have you done?' she asked with apprehension. 'yes; i have a charge for you. oh, their skins are whole all. can you step on with me a pace? you will not be afraid?' she looked at the wan south-west, and the sable heath, and the stark trees; but she could answer now: 'no,' stoutly and truly, and shiver for fear only. he withheld his pace for her, she stretched to a stride for him. 'well done, i know,' she said, 'but tell me how.' he gave a meagre tale, but many a detail she heard later to fill it out. it was easy doing according to christian, when time and place suited, to beat out a rib of the boat, to stand his ground for a moment while the sea accomplished for him, then to drop overboard when blades struck too quick and close. the boat went down, he said, near three miles from shore. 'o christian! are any drowned?' 'no, no. i had done my best by them. you know how the tortoises lie. we were well within a furlong of them. i got there first, and was doffed and ready when they came, waiting to offer them fair. rhoda, you will carry word of this that some fellows may go to take them off.' 'not i,' she said vindictively; 'let them wear the night there for due quittance.' 'no. they might be perished. and 'twas i counselled them not to attempt the shore, and said i could send word of their plight; and i meant it honestly, though the fools grew so mad at that, that they took to stoning.' when, later, rhoda heard the tale more fully, it showed elements of incongruous comedy; later still, she heard it grown into monstrous proportions, when the name of the tortoises was put aside, and the place was known as the devil's rocks thenceforward. the alien's feats that day, his mighty stroke staving the boat, his swimming of marvellous speed, his confidence and temerity, were not passed on to his credit: adverse was the interpretation, and he never lived it down. 'tell me, christian, where you will be, and how we are to get news of you till you dare return.' 'dare return! if i be not dead, that will i to-morrow.' she cried out against such insanity. 'you must not. it is wicked with a foolhardy parade to torment us--your mother.' 'have no fear, dear. if i come again, it will be with joy, bearing my sheaves.' she could put an interpretation on his words that loaded her heart. 'rhoda, dear sister, i owe you much this day, and now i will ask for one thing more.' she said 'yes,' though foreboding ordeal. it was a minute before he spoke. 'will you pray for us?' poor heart, how could she? anything but that. 'what worth are the prayers of such an one as i? desire rather your mother's prayers.' 'she for another cause will be praying the night through. will you do as much for us?' he stopped her, for she did not speak, and held her by the shoulders, trying to see her face to get answered. 'o rhoda, will you not pray for us?' she made her answer singular. 'i will pray for thee'; but his greater want overcame her into ending: 'and--for diadyomene.' he stood stock-still and gripped her hard when that name came, but he asked nothing. 'i will, i will,' she whispered; and then he kissed her brow and said: 'god bless you.' she flung her arms round his neck without reserve; her cheek lay against his bare breast, and because she felt a cross there she dared to turn her lips and kiss. he gathered her to close embrace, so that swept from her feet she lay in his arms rapt for one precious instant from all the world. when he had set her on her feet, when he had blessed her many times, she clung to him still, heaving great sobs, till he had to pluck away her hands. 'yes, go,' she said. 'i will pray for you both,' and down she knelt straightway. 'god be with you.' 'god be with you.' he passed from her into the darkness, away from sorrows she knew to some unknown. rhoda, flung prostrate, wept bitterly, rending her heart for the getting of very prayer for that unknown woman, her bane. too little thought christian, though he loved her well, of her who so faithfully went on his bidding, trudging wearily on to make good his word, kneeling afterwards through the long hours in prayer that was martyrdom. if the value of prayer lie in the cost, hers that night greatly should avail. chapter xv late knocking came importunate to the house monitory. one went to the wicket and looked out. her light, convulsed, for an instant abetted a delusion that he who stood knocking outside was christ himself with the signs of his passion: unclothed was the man she saw, bloodstained, both head and hands. then she noted fair hair, and had to believe that this haggard man was one with the brave-faced boy of earliest summer. he clung to the ledge for support; so spent was he that a word was hard to compass. 'for the love of god,' he said, 'you who are watchers to-night pray for a human soul in sore need.' she would vouch for that; she would summon one with authority to vouch for more. when she carried word within: ''tis the same,' said one, 'who twice has left fish at the gate, who slept once at the feet of st. margaret.' to the wicket went the head monitress, and, moved to compassion by the sight of his great distress, she gave him good assurance that not the five watchers only, but one and all, should watch and pray for him that night, and she asked his name for the ordering of prayer. 'not mine!' he said. 'i ask your prayers for another whose need is mine. pray for her by the name diadyomene.' he unfastened the cross from his neck and gave it. 'this is a pledge,' he said, 'i would lay out of my weak keeping for st. mary, st. margaret, and st. faith to hold for me, lest to-night i should desire i had it, to be rid of it finally according to promise.' he had not made himself intelligible; clearer utterance was beyond him. 'no matter!' he said. 'take it--keep it--till i come again.' he knotted the empty string again to his neck, and, commended to god, went his way. now when these two, little later, asked of each other, 'what was the strange name he gave?' neither could remember it. but they said 'god knows,' and prayed for that nameless soul. somehow christian got down the cliffs to the shore, as somehow he had come all the way. little wonder head and hands showed bloody: every member was bruised and torn, for he had stumbled and gone headlong a score of times in his desperate speed over craggy tracks, where daylight goings needed to be wary. scarcely could hoofed creatures have come whole-foot, and he, though of hardy unshod practice, brought from that way not an inch sound under tread. an uncertain moon had favoured him at worst passes, else had he fallen to certain destruction. he stood at the sea's edge and paused to get breath and courage. to his shame, he was deficient in fortitude: the salt of the wet shingle bit his feet so cruelly, that he shrank at the prospect of intensified pain through all the innumerable wounds he bore. he saw exposed a pitiful, unstable wretch, with a body drained of strength and nerve, and a spirit servile to base instances. in desperate spite he plunged and swam. he had ever waited for an outgoing tide; he had ever taken a daylight tide; now for his sins he had night and the flood against him. but still the moon blessed him. delusions beset him that pains of his body came from the very teeth of sea-creatures, too fierce and many for him to cope with, crowding, dragging, gnawing hard at his life. for ease a passive moment and a little painful, airless sobbing would suffice: soonest, best. and had the pale moon darkened, he had gone under as at a supreme command, to such depravity and destitution were come his vital instincts. but, her light holding him alive, by hard degrees he won his way, till, for the last time, he stood upon the isle sinister. but when he had made his way through the narrow gorge, and trod sand, the moon was dark, and night fell upon his heart. he dared not call, and neither sight nor sound granted him assurance of diadyomene's presence. wanting her footprints to tell she had passed in, he feared lest he should be barring her very entrance. he fell down and prayed, being without resource. and lois was praying, and rhoda with bitter tears, and the house monitory with the ring of its bells. very faint was the moan of the sea in their ears. slowly, slowly, the blessed moon stepped out, and lifted him up and delivered to his sight the track of light feet set from seaward--one track only. in haste, by the wavering light of the moon, he laid out the threaded rowan and weighted one end against the rock. the whole length extended came short of the further wall by about two feet. he rallied from the momentary shock, resolving that he himself could stand in the gap to bar passage. no form nor motion could he discern within his range as in slow scrutiny his eyes sought her from side to side. he lighted on despair; the entrance to the cavern had escaped his providence. in the dark he went to the low arch, and felt about the sand inch by inch for the dint of her feet. naught could he find. yet what did it profit him that she had not yet passed? to drop prone on the sand was his poor conclusion, abandoned to despair. he was but cast back on the morning's portion, then of fair sufficiency, but now oh! meagre, meagre, compared to the ripe hope that had come of nourishment strange and opportune as manna from heaven. then had he incurred to no purpose expense of blood and sweat and anguish of body and mind, nay, brought to the crucial hour such an appalling deficiency. to contest a human soul with powers of darkness required perfect steadfastness of will and faith; lost, lost, with mere self-control lost in a useless barter that left him now a clod of effete manhood, with just life enough for groaning pain. before conflict was he vanquished. diadyomene need but come with a word of anger or derision to break him into childish sobbings. yet driven to last extremity, such man's strength as remained to him might prevail in sanctified violence for the winning of a soul. he would hold her by the feet; his hands were bloody, but he would hold her by the feet; should he have to cling round her, he would not hurt; meek and gentle could he be, though fury should set her to such savage handling as a woman's strength may compass. to win a human soul? o wretched piece of clay, not that! the mere thought of contact with diadyomene, close contact with her, cool, soft, naked there in the cold dark, swept the bright delirium of sea-magic over him again, stung his blood to a burning fever, set him writhing as pain had never. at the fiery blast, in this nadir hour the place of pure love was assaulted and taken by base lust; his desire was most strong, not for the winning of a human soul, but for the wicked winning of a human body, ay, maugre her will--any way. yet, oh for the fair way of her favour! had she not allowed him very gracious hints?--'lay your hand upon my breast, set your lips to mine.' thrice she had said it--once when a touch on her hand had brought magical vision, once at her kindest, once at her cruelest. though her command was against him, though her anger might not be overpast, a hope kindled that dread of the dark hour of her fate might urge her to his arms, there to find such gladness and consolation as might leave no place for horror to come into possession. 'and give up your soul.' thrice too had that been said. he was loath to give it remembrance, but it entered, whenever faint bells tolled on his ear it entered. very strangely, while good and evil fought equal-handed for his will, he perceived that his body had risen to hands and knees, and was going forward very fitly like a beast. all round the cold dark began to burn. a boulder lay athwart his course, and then very strangely he was aware that his arms had fastened round it with convulsive strength, and brow and breast were wounded against it. he could not take possession to end this disgraceful treason; all that was left to him was to rescue integrity at least by undoing the knot at his neck. then prevailed the blessed guile of lois. the trivial exaction brought her son face to face with her, with her sorrows, with her prayers, and the mere communion of love set him praying frantically, and so brought him to himself again. we beseech, we beseech, we beseech: lord god for my unbaptized! dear christ for christian's diadyomene! blessed trinity and all saints for a nameless soul in sore need! vile, vile indeed, were he to desert a holy alliance. there where the token had lain on his breast cross-edges of the boulder were wounding, and strange human nature turning ravenous to any gross substitution of fires, seized with wild energy on the ecstasy of pain, till the rock cut to the bone, while the whole boulder seemed to stir. in nowise might the cross be cast aside: it was kept against his will in holy ward; it was printed indelibly in his flesh. the very boulder had stirred. then hope rose up as a tyrant, for he had fallen spent again. spirit was weak and flesh was weak, and it were task hard out of measure to heave that boulder from its bed and set it up to block the low entrance; and useless, when at a sight or a sound diadyomene were away fleet foot to the sea. and yet he felt about, set feet and shoulder for an arch of strength, and strained with great hefts; and again the mass seemed to stir. he dropped down, trenched painfully round, and tried again till his sinews cracked. nor in vain: with a reluctant sob its bed of sand gave up the stubborn rock, and as it rolled endlong a devil that had urged excuse went from christian. foot after foot he fought that dreadful weight along the sand, right up to the cleft, right across the cleft he forced it. not yet had he done enough; for he could feel that as the boulder lay, there was space for a slim body to press across and win the cavern. to better the barrier by a few poor inches, this way and that he wrung his wearied body and broke flesh; and to no purpose. 'except my bones break, i will.' he grappled strenuously; a little give responded. he set his feet closer in, and lifted again mightily, and the boulder shifted, poised onward to settle. who struck? death. nerveless, he swayed with the rock, on a motion its own weight consummated, agape, transfixed by the wonder of living still. fresh, horrible pain seized him by foot and ankle, casting him down to tear up the sand, to bite the sand, lest in agony he should go shrieking like a woman. he writhed round to strike in the dark at the senseless mass, in the madness of terror and pain deeming the boulder itself had moved with malignant intelligence, not merely according to the preponderate laws that lift the world. to him the presence of infernal powers was manifest in this agent. in foul warfare they held him fast by the heel, and mocked the impotent spirit within the bonds of flesh. the dark grew pregnant with evil beings as he struggled to swooning. pray for us, faithful hearts, pray! in the name of the father, the son, and the holy ghost, for her service! then he prevailed, and out of the teeth of hell he wrenched his heel. broken, crippled, strengthless, christian crawled over the sand to the spot where he would die. indistinguishable in the dark was the furrow he left stained till the tide should come: long before daylight broke the tide would come up to smooth and whiten it. he knew he was dying, and, touching the ended rowan, rendered thanks that it was to be there. all was nearly over, pain and a foolish, arrogant hope on which he had staked his life: presently, when he was dead, diadyomene would come, to overstep his body, eluding there the toils. he misliked the thought that her feet might go red from treading him, and he stretched about weakly for briny hollows along the rock to cleanse the hot, slow oozing that chilled and stiffened into long stripes. why should he be gasping still, as breathless as after his hardest race, as after his mightiest heft? he required breath to help endurance of thirst and exorbitant pain; air could he gasp in, deep and free, and yet he wanted for more. why he should be dying, and how, christian did not know. life's centre had been stricken mortally quicker than a lightning-flash, too subtly for the brain to register any pain, so unmistakably he wondered only he was yet alive. from breath to breath he awaited another touch and a final, yet nothing lacked for vital order save air, air, more air. at short, merciful intervals he drifted out of the range of any pain. on this his third death he did not so very greatly shrink from passing out of the body to stand before the face of his maker. he could not take up any meaning for prayer. he was discarded from service; perfect justice had tried him, judged him, and condemned him as unfit. it was bitter for him; but review of his finishing span of life, its sin, failure, impotence, brought him to acquiescence. 'thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory' was all he had of prayer. the apprehension of each human principle was straitened, by darkness about him, by pain in strong possession, by recognition of death closing in. as visitants to his heart from some far-distant sphere came rhoda, lois, diadyomene; they vanished away; he could not keep them close--not even diadyomene. 'dear love, my love!' through the dark she came. he rose to his knees, aware of a moving glimmer of grey, nearing, near. at her swift, beautiful pace she made for the sea. suddenly she stood. he heard the catch of her breath; swiftly the dim oval of her face was turned to him; then away. she swayed back a step; she swayed forward; hung a moment at poise upright; reeled aside, and fled back into the dark. then christian found he had yet strong faculty for life. he had retained small certainty that she had not long passed him by; speculation had fallen faint. lo! she was here, controlled, and he not dead. he could pray, for her and for a little life, passionately. a low, bitter cry quivered through the dark to his heart. diadyomene had fled for a way of escape, and found it barred. soft rapids were her feet; she came speeding full to leap past. in vain; with a cry she flung up her arms, revulsed irresistibly, swerved, and stood stone-still. she moaned out long, agonised sighs; she seemed to turn away in pride, ignoring him; she seemed to face him again, not defiant. he saw her hands outstretched in appeal. 'what have you done?' she said; 'what have you done?' and then the woful complaint was changed to wilder: 'what have i done? what have i done?' he did not dare to speak, nor had he the breath. he was weeping for her. but she, not seeing, was stirred to wrath and fear by a silence so cruel. to her height she rose above the gasping, crouched shape, and her voice rang hard and clear. 'stand away. once you trespassed, and i forgave you fully; twice, and i spared you; this third time--get you gone quickly, and find yourself some easy death before it be out of reach.' still he did not answer. her fear outdid her anger, and she stooped her pride. 'only be kind and true, and let me go,' she implored, and knelt low as he. 'i let you take my secret, and you turn it against me treacherously. you plan a shameful snare, you, you, whom i counted true as the sun. to you, a bold, graceless stranger, i granted life at the first; to you i gave the liberty of my dearest haunt. be just, and leave me free in my own. have pity, and let me go. woe and horror are coming upon me to take me, awake and astray from the comfort of the sea.' she moaned and sighed piteously. his tears fell like rain for grief of his doings, for bitter grief that he might not comfort her. because of a base alloy that had altered sacred love he had to fear. he turned away his head, panting and shaking, for pain and thirst made almost unendurable a temptation to stretch out his hand to hers, by the magic of her touch to lose himself till death in a blissful swoon. her wail had in it the note of a deserted child and of a desolate woman. 'i am crying to you for pity and help, and you turn away; i, who in the sea am regnant. but late you cried to me when no mercy and pardon were due, and i let you live. and if then i judged you unheard and wrongly, and if i condemned a breach of faith over harshly, here kneeling i pray you to forgive--i, who never bid vainly, never ask vainly, of any living creature but of you.' christian only was weeping; diadyomene shed no tear, though her voice quivered piteously. 'ah, my sea, my sea! hark how it moans to me, and cannot reach me! my birds fail me, nestling afar--that you considered when you came by night. undo, undo your cruel work, and i will reproach you never.' his silence appalled her. 'why should you do this?' she cried. 'what would you have of me? a ransom? name it. the wealth of the sea is mine to give; the magic of the sea is mine. to all seas, to all sea-creatures, you shall bear a charmed life henceforward, only let me go.' he sobbed, 'but i die, i die!' but so brokenly that the words failed at her ears. 'hear me,' she said; 'i make no reservation. ask what you will, and nothing, nothing i can grant will i refuse--only quickly let me go.' she was crouched before him, with her face downward and hidden, as she moaned, and moaned surrender. presently she half lifted, and her voice was at a lovely break between grief and gladness. 'fool, dear ignorant fool, diadyomenos, are you blind? you have come to me often; have i ever looked unglad? have i wearied of you soon? have i failed you? could you read into that no favour from me, diadyomene, who have the sea to range? can you wrong so my grace to you in the past as to plan an extortion? ah, foolish, needless, empty wrong! your eyes have been fair to me when they said what your tongue would not. speak now fair words, since i cannot read your eyes. dear hands, reach out for mine, take them and draw me out of the snare, and with gladness and shame own it needless, as with gladness and pride will i.' so vile a wretch she took him to be! and the bitterness was that he might not disclaim. for a moment he had fallen to that baseness; it might be that only because life was going out of him so fast was he past such purpose now. a stupid 'no, no,' was all he could bring out. she sprang up at a bound, driven to fury. she longed to strike with mere woman strength, yet she dared not a contact, lest hers be the disadvantage. with a shriek she fled back into the dark, and he heard the dreadful wailing cries wheeling away. desperately he prayed for himself and for her; for his pain and an agony of pity were almost more than he could bear. suddenly she came upon him and stood close. her tone was changed. 'at last,' she said, 'miserable creature, you shall know the truth. you love me. i know it well; i have known it long. and with all my strength--i--hate you. not for this night's treachery and insolence only; from the first i hated you; and hatred has grown since more bitter-strong, till your one life and body seemed all too little to stay it. ah! the love i read in your eyes has been sweet sustenance. so i waited and waited only for this: for love of me to take deep hold of your heart, to be dearer than life, before i plucked it up by the roots; and to laugh in your face as i did it, knowing it worse than any death. oh! it should have been by daylight. i would like to see your face and your eyes now, and watch your great body writhe--i think it does! why, laugh i must. 'can you fathom my hate by its doings? you stood here first, glad, proud, strong in your youth; but a few short weeks, and i had turned all to ruin. yes, i--i--only was your bane, though i but watched, and laughed, and whispered beneath my waters, and let you be for the handling of your fellows. truly my hate has worked subtly and well, and even beyond device; it has reached beyond you: an old man treads the quay no more, and a girl comes down to it grown pale and heavy-eyed, and a woman ageing and greyer every time. think and know! you never shall see them again; for a brief moment you check and defy me, but the entrance of the tide shall bring you your death. 'now, i the while will plan the worst death i may. you think you have faced that once already? fool! from to-morrow's dawn till sunset i will teach you better. the foulest creature of the deep shall take you again and hold you helpless--but that is nothing: for swarms shall come up from the sea, and from twilight to twilight they shall eat you alive. they shall gnaw the flesh from your limbs; they shall pierce to the bone; they shall drill you through and rummage your entrails. and with them shall enter the brine to drench you with anguish. and i, beside you, with my fingers in your hair, will watch all day, and have a care to lift your head above the tide; and i will flick off the sea-lice and the crays from your face and your eyes, to leave them whole and clear and legible to my hate at the last. and at the very last i will lay my face down against yours, and out of very pure hate will kiss you once--will kiss you more than once, and will not tire because you will so quicken with loathing. even in the death agony i mean you to know my fingers in your hair. ha! agonistes. 'and now you wish you had died on that moonlit, warm night long ago: and me it gladdens to think i did not then cut you off from the life to follow after, more bitter than many quick deaths. and you wish i had finished you outright in the late storm, that so you might have died blissfully ignorant of the whole truth: and i spared you only that you should not escape a better torture that i had contrived. 'ah! it has been a long delight to fool you, to play my game with flawless skill. as i choose a wear of pearls, so chose i graces of love for adornment. am i not perfect now? what have i said of hatred and love? no, no, all that is false. because you scorn the sea-life so dear to me, i try to keep hatred; but it may not abide when you stand before me and i look in your eyes--oh! slay it, slay it quite with the touch of your lips. my love!' her voice fell softly: 'my love, my love, my love, my love!' she was chasing the word along all the ranges of derision. she stood no more than a pace from him, a flexile figure that poised and swung, to provoke the wild beast in him to spring. christian never stirred nor spoke. 'would the moon but shine! i mean to watch you when you die, but i think a better sight your face would be now than then. how well it pleases me your eyes are grey! can grey eyes serve as well to show hate as love? ay, i shall laugh at that: to see in them hate, hate like my own; but impotent hate, not like mine. it hardly has dawned yet, i guess, but it will; and presently be so strong that the dearest joy left would be to have your hand on my throat to finish my life. do you think i fear? i dare you, defy you! ha! agonistes.' he did not come hurling upon her; he did not by word or sign acknowledge her taunts. 'why, the night of my dread goes blithely as never before. there is no bane left in it. i have found an antidote.' she forced a laugh, but it went wild, strangled, and fell broken. again she fled back into the dark, and, like a prisoned bird, circled frantic for the sea that she could not reach. far from christian, she halted and panted low: 'not yet have i failed, dear sea. though love may not prevail, nor hate, yet shall my song.' though the incoming tide sounded near, echo still carried the tolling of the bells. for the knell of that passing soul fittest names they bore out of all the communion of saints. st. mary! bitter dregs had his life to drain; st. margaret! his pearl of the sea was lost in deep waters; st. faith! utter darkness was about, and desperate striving could find no light of heaven; his life, his love, his god forsook, rejected, disowned him. loss or fear could not touch him any more, for not one hope, one joy remained. from the cruel havoc, calm, passionless wonder distilled, and new proportions rose as his past came before him to be measured anew: so tolerable looked the worst of inflictions, a passing wrong, forgivable, forgettable; so sorry looked the best endurance, a wretched contortion, defacing, deforming. against diadyomene not one throb of passion stirred: she had broken his heart outright, so that it had not true faculty of life for any new growth. strangely, to his wonder, under this her doing, the old derangement passed away, and the way of loving-kindness to all men showed clear. too late! never in this life could he meet his fellows with good, quiet blood, and frank eyes, and wholesome laughter, unafraid, simply acknowledging all records, free, candid, scrutable. he began even before death to resolve to impersonality; he surveyed the perverse obstinacy of vitality that would not quit its old habitation, though fierce pain was in possession; and he could wonder at the wretched body heaving, tortured by a double thirst for air, for water, when so short a time would render it mere quiet earth, soon to unshape. out of the darkness rang her voice, noting beauty wordless, and sunlit seas glanced through the nights: the magic of the sea was upon him. brief sweetness! the bright sound faltered, broke. o blackness and pain! the far, slow knell struck in. again, up welled the buoyant voice, poised and floated exquisitely, mounted and shrilled frantically sweet, caught up the failing senses from the death sweats, and launched them on a magic flood of emotion, through racing sprays, and winds vivid and strong of the brine. gone, ah! gone; for a wailing cry came, and then thwart silence suddenly, and flung him back to the dominion of black anguish. and again and again, high-noted, above the tramp of the nearing tide, that perfect voice flew to delicious melody; and promise of words strengthened the enchantment; and yet, and yet, a cry and a silence stabbed and bled the spell she would fashion. perfect achievement came. up rose a measure transcending in rapture all forgone, and flawless, unfaltering, consummate, leaped on and on, rhythm by rhythm, clear-syllabled for conquest. 'where silver shallows hold back the sea, under the bend of the great land's knee, and the gleaming gulls go nestled and free. where the tide runs down in the round of the bay, there in the rings where the mermen play, on ribs and shallows their footprints lay. in liquid speech they laughed and sung, under the rocks, till the rout outswung, called from the echoing cave its tongue. they were away with the glimmering seas: off with the twilight, off with the breeze, wave-weeds fell from their glancing knees; robes laid by, which the hollowed spars held and hid, while the wet sand-bars failed of the sunlight and filled with stars. sea-mists rose for a dream, but when mists wore faint in the sunlight, then lo, the sea with its dancing men. spume and swirl spun under their feet; sparkle and flash, for the runners were fleet; over them climbed the day to its heat. and the day drew a draught of the tide-winds strong, as a singer the breath to be rendered song, as a child the life that will last so long.' christian had fallen prone. while she sang, so potent was the magic, he lusted to live. sentient only to the desires she kindled, out of account lay the dead heart, and the broken strength, and the body so shattered within and without, that wonder was it yet could hold a man's life. pain was excluded by a great sensual joy of living. her song manned the mirage of her delight, and straightway he was passionate for life. never before had she acknowledged the sea-fellowship to occasion the ravenous ache of jealousy. she sang of the mermen, and they rose before him visionary at the spell, with vigorous hair and frolic eyes, very men, lithe and sinewy for the chase and capture of their feminine fairest in amorous play. life was one fire burning for the hot war of nature's males, as through the riot, whirling with the song, he eyed challenge and promise of a splendid wrestle with strong, hard limbs; and the liquid, exquisite voice was a call to him to speed in and win, nor suffer the wanton sea-brood to prevail. it was then that his body fell, face forward, never to rise again. on sang diadyomene, not knowing that a power stronger than her magic, stronger than his will, kept him from her feet. on she sang, herself possessed, uttering not with her own will more than magic. what alien element underlay the spell she would deliver? what lurking revelation to be dreaded, to be desired, hid beneath? her voice was caught back again, and yet again, to repeat the finish: 'as a singer the breath to be rendered song, as a child the life that will last so long-as a child----' then bell notes fell in a chime. she lifted her head; they rang, she hearkened, motionless, wordless. it was midnight, and joy for the birth of christ thrilled the world. no spell could hold. christian must resume the throes of death. the cold and the tide were merciful to shorten. his limbs were stone-cold and dead already, past motion, past pain. against his side the foremost lap of the tide told. it licked and bit along his body, flanks, breast, throat, touched his cheek. astray against his face he felt the thread of rowan. it kissed along cheek, along brow, and swung wide and away. 'christ, christ, ah! christ.' he turned his head and drank of the brine, and drank and drank to slake the rage of thirst. the drawing of breath made hindrance: not for long. the last draughts he took were somewhat sharp and painful, but they quenched his thirst. he was entirely satisfied. 'we beseech, we beseech, we beseech: lord god for my unbaptized! dear christ for christian's diadyomene! blessed trinity and all saints for a nameless soul in sore need!' chapter xvi through all creation went the divine breath of renunciation. joy for the birth of christ rang on; and motionless, wordless, diadyomene hearkened, released from the magic of the sea. dawned a vision remote, but strangely distinct, of a small life comprehending two dear figures--one most dear; and thereto a small, beautiful pain responded. a tale flashed across and across, gaining coherence, giving it: the tale of a loved and lost child, long years ago lost to the sea; loved still. perfect grew the interweaving; the substance of the two became one. joy for the birth of christ was abroad, thrilling all planes of existence with the divine breath of renunciation. in the soul of diadyomene, waked from its long trance, love was alive; a finite, individual love, chief centred on one dearest to remembrance. the beautiful pain grew large, and the cold heart that the sea-life had filled and satisfied was yearning for share in another life long forgone. a small divine instinct, following ignorantly in the wake of that great celestial love that hundreds of years ago stooped to the sorrow of life, urged her to renounce the ample strengths and joys of the sea, and to satisfy a piteous want, were it by repression of energies, by eschewing full flavours of sense, by the draining of her young life. the soul of true womanhood in this child for the cherishing of her mother's waxed mature. motionless, wordless, she hearkened while separate bells cadenced; when again they fell to their wonted unison, the sea-bred woman knew that a soul was hers, and that it claimed dominion. 'we beseech, we beseech, we beseech: lord god for my unbaptized! dear christ for christian's diadyomene! blessed trinity and all saints for a nameless soul in sore need!' diadyomene flung out vacant arms, and moaned a dear name, for years unuttered. across the long interval of sea-life her spirit leaned to own the filial heart of childhood. clear to her as yesterday came back that broken fragment of earlier life,--bright, partial, inadequate, quaintly minute, as impression had gone into a happy, foolish infant. not a memory had traversed the ground since to blur a detail, though now the adult faculties could apprehend distortion, the beautiful vagarious distortion that can live in a brain over toddling feet. recent song caught colour; reflected it. 'as a woman the breath to be rendered song, as a child the life that will last so long.' from deep roots under dense forgetfulness, the song had drawn up truth to blossom in perfect form. before the eager wonder of the child, the sea had revealed its secret of men shapes, who had beckoned, and laughed, and tempted her with promise and play, till she stretched out her arms to their glee, till she ran in their circles, till, breathless, she thirsted and drank of their offering, and so passed. so tempered was her cold sea body that no ice-wind ever started a shiver. now one came, for the mother might not recognise her child, for the child might be grown unworthy of her mother's love. there was one to succour: christian. what had she done? there was one to blast her, too foul for any love: christian. her hideous doings rushed back upon her with conviction of guilt; an old sense revived; she shrank and cowered, bowed to the ground by an agony of shame. lo! the moon bared her face and looked. diadyomene rose to her knees; with a steady will she rose to her feet and went to suffer her full penalties. her portion of shame was dreadful to bear; her bold avowal of love for christian, her atrocious wording of hate intervolved to double disgrace. then neither passion had been entirely feigned; now she knew that love swayed her alone, turning her to a worship of the man. no bitterer penance could she conceive than with confession to him to strip heart and soul naked as her body; this only could extend it: should his large generosity keep under his loathing and contempt, and order him to deal gently for her help according to pity. no way could he remit her dues. as she went to meet his face, she lifted her gaze up the slant moonbeams, looking piteous, despairing appeal for darkness to come back and cover her. wisps of cloud made only a poor pretence. she met the tide unhindered, and stood; she looked, no man was there; she wailed 'christian, christian,' and no voice answered. with relief for the lengthened shadows below the rocks, she made for the very spot where he had knelt; it was far overpassed by the tide. ankle deep she trod: knee deep. she sets her foot upon a man's hand, leaps, stumbles on his body to a fall: christian dead lies under her embrace. supreme justice had measured her due. the placid clay had returned to an old allegiance, and weltered with the tide according to the joint ordering of earth and moon. the living creature would not acknowledge that right dominion, most desperately would withstand it. she stooped her shoulder beneath the low head, and heaved it up above the tide: the air did but insist that it lay dead-still. with all her slender feminine strength put out for speed, she girthed, she held, she upbore the inert weight afloat for moonlighted shallows. there her knee up-staying, her frantic hands prevailing over the prone figure, the dead face fell revealed. no hope could appeal against that witness. a strange grey had replaced the ruddy tan of life, darker than the usual pallor of the dead. that, and the slack jaw, and the fixed, half-shut eyes, a new and terrible aspect gave to the head, dear and sacred above all on earth to the stricken creature beholding. for a long moment appalled she gazed, knowing yet but one fathom of her misery: just her loss, her mere great loss past repair. then moaning feebly, her arms went round again to draw it close. her smooth palms gliding over the body told of flawed surfaces, bidding her eyes leave the face to read new scores: on the breast a deep rent, on the shoulder another, and further more and more wherever a hand went. along one arm she stretched hers, and lifted it up to the light of the moon. beside the tense, slender limb, gleaming white, that other showed massive, inert, grey-hued, with darker breaks. the hand hanging heavy was a dark horror to see. shadows invaded, for the moon was foundering on the rocks. across her shoulders she drew the heavy burden, strove to rise upright to bear it, tottered, fell, and then dragged on with elbows and knees as the waves resigned to her the full load. heavy knees furrowed the sand beside hers, heavy arms trailed; the awful, cold face drooped and swayed from her shoulder as she moved; now and again it touched her cheek. withdrawn from the fatal sea, what gain had she? the last spark of life was long extinct, and she knew it; yet a folly very human set her seeking christian's self in the shell that was left, scanning it, handling it, calling upon deaf ears, drawing the wet head against her breast. cold, cold was her breast; the sea-magic had bred out all heat from her heart. she pressed the dripping hair; she stooped and kissed her dead lover on the lips. it was then her iniquity struck home with merciless rigour complete. 'i will lay my face down against yours, and out of very pure hate will kiss you once. even in the death-agony i mean you to know my fingers in your hair.' the wretched soul writhed as the hideous words rose up against her to damn. they were alive with every tone and laugh; they would live stinging and eating out her heart until she died. and after death? 'christian! christian!' the agonised cry now was no effort to waken deaf ears; it called after christian himself, gone past reach of her remorse into unknown night. gone deliberately, to be finally quit of so abhorred a creature? in mute witness the quiet body lay to vindicate christian: too broken it was, too darkly grey for any death self-willed. then she could look upon the blank face no more, for the moon passed quite away. then the stretching tide came lapping and fawning, soon to sway the dead weight she held. she was not worthy to look upon clay so sacred, she was not worthy to touch it, she who in wanton moods had inclined to a splendid male, nor recognised in him a nobler version of love. no spark of profane passion could remain after she had kissed the cold, dead face. the dreadful cry of a soul's despair broke the vacant air with the name of christian. many times his name, and no other word. the desolation of great agony was hers: no creature of the sea could bring her any comfort now; no creature under heaven; for the one on earth to whom her child's heart yearned was the one on earth she least dared face with her awful load of guilt. nothing could atone for what she had done: life could never give scope, nor death. were this that she held christian himself, able to see and hear, her passionate remorse could conceive no dearer impossibility than at his feet to fall, with supplication, with absolute confession delivering the love and worship of her heart before him: to be spurned by his inevitable hate. the inexorable indifference of the dead was a juster, a more terrible, recompense. yet a more terrible conception woke from a growing discernment of christian's utter abstraction from the mortal shape, that so long had represented him to her, and so well. this his body had ceased from suffering and endurance, yet the very self of christian might bear with him unassuaged the wounds and aches her malice had compassed. hate would heal, would sear, at least; but oh! if he had not quit him of a tyrannous love, then bruised and bleeding he carried with him still a living pain of her infliction. she dared not confidently reckon her vileness against the capacity of his extravagant love. she dared not. her full punishment reached home to her at last. her ignorant mortal senses strained to pierce the impenetrable mystery that had wrapt christian to an infinite remoteness. for his relief, not for her own, would she present to him her agonies of love and remorse: him stanched, averse: him bleeding, tender; to gratify, to satisfy, to plenish any want. tempests of despair raged through that undisciplined soul. every hope was cut off, every joy was extinct. the sweet attraction of loving service, the pride and glory of despotic rule, were not for her, an exile from the one, and from the other abdicating. in all the world there was no place for her but this, between sea and land, with a hold on a dead illusion of christian, with vain, frantic crying after his reality. she did not know, whelmed in gulfs of sin and grief and despair, she did not know how divine a dawn brooded over the waste. from the long-lost past clear echoes swept of childish prayers, to blend as an undercurrent with that message her lover had so tried to deliver, that she had repelled as hideous and grotesque. she used no conscious memory, nor followed any coherent thought, but, consonant with the first instinct of her fresh awakened soul, that longing for her mother's sake to make renunciation, consonant with christian's finished achievement--his striving, suffering, enduring even death for her unworthy sake--was this incoherent impression of a divinity vastly, vaguely suffering in exemplary extreme out of great compassion and love to mankind, thence accrediting suffering as the divinest force that can move the world. her also it had vanquished. the tide had turned; it pressed her gently to resume her old way to the deeps. the drift of another tide took her. out of her futile striving for direct communion with christian grew a sense that the sole possibility left to her was to yield body and soul to his will in strict possession, and to follow that guidance. in her great misery and helpless desolation a how and a whither with quailing beset her going. lo! the first step was sure, because it entailed a heartrending renunciation. ah! desperately dear was this, christian's body, to her mortal apprehension of him. she held it very closely with an access of love and worship such as appertains to vacant shrines. o woe to part from it, to lay it aside and leave it to final obliteration! suddenly she wept. this near, definite distress, so humanly common, broke up the fountain of her tears so many a year sealed. to a creature long of the cold sea breeding tears were scalding to the heart. moaning, weeping, yet a little while she failed to forgo that embrace of pure worship and untainted love. worthy of reverence that piece of clay was, for its loyal alliance with a high soul; wonderful as a noble and true representative; very sacred from the record of devotion scored deep, so fatally deep. she wept, she wept as though weeping could cease from her never. could the deep draught of sea-magic in tears be distilled, void of it should she be long before daybreak come. the shallowing run of the tide drove her to resign the dead weight that exceeded her strength to uphold. weeping, heartwrung, she bent her to replace her own will by christian's! so first she gave away the dead body to final peace, and laid it down for ever in its destined sepulchre, and thereafter went alone into unfamiliar darkness to grope blind among strange worlds for the ways of christian's countenance. we beseech, we beseech, we beseech: lord god for my unbaptized! dear christ for christian's diadyomene! blessed trinity and all saints for a nameless soul in sore need! chapter xvii some four days after rhoda heard what more befell before that night was out. the chief monitress told her. 'we were watching all,' she said, 'and praying according to that promise i had made for a nameless soul in sore need, whose name, diadyomene, you have restored to us. the dull roar of the sea came in swells of sound, filled as often with an illusion of voices; angry voices they sounded then. this i say that you may understand how a cry like a human creature in distress could pass unregarded at first. again and again it came more distinctly, till we were startled into suspicion that a feeble knocking was close by at the lych door of our chapel. one went at my bidding to look out. back she fled, with terror white as death: "god and his saints guard," she said, "that without is not of flesh and blood!" 'i and another took her light and went to the door, and before unclosing i asked in the name of god who was there. no answer came but a sound of bitter sobbing. then i looked out, and verily doubted also if what i looked on were indeed flesh and blood. upon the threshold crouched a slender woman-shape, naked. i flung wide the door and touched her: she was cold as marble, colder, i dreaded, than any creature of life could be. then did she raise her head to show the fairest and saddest face i have ever beheld. her eyes were full of tears fast falling, and oh! the wild, hunted, despairing look they had. "christian, christian!" she wailed. none knew of any such name. 'we lifted her up and led her in and covered her hastily. her dark hair was all drenched; recent wet had not dried from her skin. a few flakes of snow had been drifting down; i noticed some that lay on her shoulders: they did not melt there. cold as a marble statue she was, and as white, and of as beautiful a form as any that man has fashioned, and but for her sobbing and that one cry of "christian," one could think as dumb. 'i would have led her to comfort and warmth and food, but she would not: from touch and question she shrank bewildered and scared; as though the cloak we had wrapped about her were irksome, she slipped it off once and again, unashamed of nakedness. still her tears fell like rain, and heavy sobs shook her. but as the great bells struck overhead, she caught in sudden breath and held it while the air throbbed, and thereafter broke out with her cry: "christian, christian!" 'i bade all kneel and pray, that if this were indeed one of god's creatures, wisdom might be given us to deal with her for her welfare. in great perplexity i prayed, and some fear. i think it was that utter coldness of a living body that appalled me most. 'one spoke from her knees. "the name of christ is in her utterance; no creature outcast from salvation could frame any such word." then i said: "i will take upon me to offer her instant baptism. that may be her need that she cannot perfectly utter." she did not seem to hear one word when i spoke to her; i could see her mind was all too unknit for comprehension; she only cried out as before. but when i turned towards the altar and took her by the hand, she followed me unresisting. 'so, right before the altar we brought her, and made her kneel among us all. all our font was a stoup of holy water held at hand. then i prayed aloud as god gave me the grace. she ceased to weep; she caught my hand in hers; i know she heard. in the name of the blessed trinity i baptized her, but signed no cross; too suddenly she rose upright; she flung up her arms with one deep sigh. i caught a dead body from falling. 'god knows what she was.' the speaker fell to prayer. presently rhoda said: 'how did you name her?' 'i named her margaret.' rhoda whispered: 'she was diadyomene.' then she covered her face with her hands, lest the grave eyes should read over deep. 'what else?' she said, 'tell all.' 'when the grace of god had prevailed over our doubt and dismay, we did not dread to consider the dead countenance. it was fairer even than in life; serene as any sleeping child; death looked then like a singular favour. 'we closed her eyes and folded her hands, and laid her out before the altar, and resumed prayer for the one nameless and another margaret. 'and no more we knew of whence she came than this: that by daybreak a powder of drying brine frosted her dark hair, and the hollows of her ears were white with salt.' 'so,' said rhoda, 'might come one cast ashore from a wreck.' 'we took measures, indeed, to know if that could be; but out of all the search we sent about not a sign nor a clue came. if she were indeed that one diadyomene, we may only look to know more when the young man christian shall come again.' rhoda turned her face to the wall when she answered very low: 'he will not come again. well i know he will never come again.' then her breathing shortened convulsively, and past restraint her grief broke out into terrible weeping. the dark-robed monitress knelt in prayer beside her. that pious heart was wise and loving, and saw that no human aid could comfort this lorn girl fallen upon her care. when rhoda was spent and still, she spoke: 'my child, if, indeed, we can no more pray god to keep that brave young life from sin and death, yet may we pray that his soul may win to peace and rest under the mercy of heaven. nay, there is no need that you too should rise for kneeling. lie down, lie down, for your body is over spent. kneel before god in spirit.' there was long silence, and both prayed, till rhoda faltered to the betrayal of her unregenerate heart: 'was she so very fair indeed? where is she laid? take me--oh, let me once look upon her face.' 'it may not be. she lies a day buried, there without among our own dead--although--god only knows what she was.' rhoda again would rise. 'yet take me there. night-time? ah yes, night, night that will never pass.' at daybreak she stood, alone at her desire, beside a new-made grave, and knew that the body of diadyomene lay beneath, and knew hardly less surely, that somewhere beneath the sea she overlooked the body of christian lay. nearest the sea was the grave on the windblown, barren cliff. no flower could bloom there ever, only close dun turf grew. below stretched the broken, unquiet sea, fretted with rock and surf, deep chanting of the wind and moon. one white sea-bird was wheeling and pitching restlessly to and fro. she turned her eyes to the land far east for the thought of lois. over there a winter dawn flushes into rose, kindles bright and brighter, and a ruddy burnish takes the edges of flat cloud. lo! the sun, and the grey sea has flecks of red gold and the sea-bird gleams. she cannot face it. rhoda knelt down by the grave to pray. presently she was lying face downward along the turf, and she whispered to the one lying face upward below. 'ah! diadyomene, ah! margaret. god help me truly to forgive you for what you have done. 'i have tried. because he asked it, i have torn out my heart praying for you. 'you fair thing! you were fairer than i, but you did not love him so well as i. 'ah! ah! would it were i who lay down there under the quiet shelter of the turf; would it were you who lived, able to set up his honour and make his name fair before all men! 'ah! ah! a dark rebuke the mystery of your life has brought; and the mystery of your death eats it in. 'can you bear to be so silent, so silent, nor deliver a little word? 'when you rise, diadyomene, when the dead from the sea rise, speak loud, speak very loud, for all to hear. 'he loved you! he loved you!' the sod above the face of diadyomene was steeped with the piercing tears of rhoda. 'he loved you!' came many times as she sobbed. blind with tears, she rose, she turned from the grave; blind with tears, she stood overlooking the sea; sun and shine made all a glimmering haze to her. she turned from those desirable spaces for burial to stumble her blind way back to the needs of the living. it was late, after sunset, that rhoda, faint and weary, dragged into sight of the light of home. in the darkness a voice named her, struck her still. 'philip's voice!' groping for her in the dark, he touched her arm. energy she had to strike off his hand and start away, but it failed when she stumbled and fell heavily; for then philip without repulse helped her to her feet, and as she staggered a little, stunned, would have her rest a moment, and found the bank, and stripped off his coat for her seating. she said, 'no, no,' but she yielded. 'you thought me dead?' he asked. she sat dumb and stupid, worn out in body and mind. 'do you hold _me_ to blame?' still she did not speak. 'rhoda, o rhoda, i cannot bear this! has that devil christian taught you?' rhoda rose up with an indignant cry. then she steadied her voice and spoke. 'the name of christian i love, honour, reverence, above all names on earth. you are not worthy even to utter it. betake you, with your lies, your slanders, your suspicions, to others ready to suspect and slander and lie--not to me, who till i die can trust him utterly.' she turned and went. philip stood. 'is he dead?' he said to himself. 'he is dead. he must be dead.' awe and compassion alone possessed him. to his credit be it said, not one selfish consideration had a place then. quick wits told him that rhoda had inadvertently implied more than she would. he overtook her hastily. 'hear me! i will not offend. i will not utter a word against him.' he spoke very gently, very humbly, because of his great compassion; and truly, christian dead, it were not so hard to forgo rancour. but rhoda went on. 'you must hear what i come to tell you before you reach home. do you think i have been watching and praying for your return these hours, only to gird at christian? for his mother's sake i came, and to warn you----' she stopped. 'what is it? what is it? say quick.' 'nothing that you fear--nothing i can name. hear me out! 'last night i came back, and told, in part, what had befallen me; and heard, in part, what had befallen christian. to-day, one thrust in upon his mother, open-mouthed, with ugly hints. she came to me straight and asked for the whole truth. rhoda, i swear i said nothing but bare truth, mere plain, unvarnished fact, without one extravagant word; but her face went grey and stony as she heard--oh! grey and stony it went; and when i asked her to forgive me--i did, rhoda, though what wrong had i done?--she answered with her speech gone suddenly imperfect.' rhoda pressed forward, then stopped again-'what did you tell her? i must know that.' philip hesitated: 'then against christian i must speak in substance, however i choose my words.' 'go on--go on!' so philip told, as justly and truly as he could, all he might. 'was this,' put in rhoda, 'off the isle sinister?' 'yes.' she heard all the tale: of christian's sullen mood; of the dark something attending below, that he knew, that he watched; of his unfinished attempt at murder. 'that we knew,' she said. told in the dark by one who had lived through them, nearly died through them, whose voice yet acknowledged the terror of them,--circumstances were these of no vague indication to rhoda. the reality of that dark implication stirred her hair, chilled her blood, loosened her joints; yet her faith in christian did not fall. but no word had she to say to refute the dreadful accusation; no word for philip; no word for an adverse world. and what word for his mother? her heart died within her. the most signal evidence sufficient for her own white trust was a kiss, a close embrace, hard upon the naming of diadyomene. she had no shame to withhold it; but too likely, under his mother's eye, discount would offer were maiden blood quick to her face when she urged her tale. she knew that an ominous hum was against christian, because he had struck, and swum, and escaped as no other man could; she guessed how the roar went now because of philip's evidence. how inconsiderable the wrong of it all was, outdone if one injurious doubt his mother's heart entertain. to hatred and to love an equal disregard death opposed. no menace could disturb, no need could disturb the absolute repose christian had entered. she envied his heart its quiet in an unknown grave. 'be a little kind, rhoda; be only just; say i was not to blame.' she could not heed. 'why do you hate me so? for your sake i freely forgive christian all he has done; for your sake i would have been his friend, his brother, in spite of all. o rhoda, what can i do?' 'let be,' she said, 'for you can undo nothing now. if i saw you kneeling--no, not before me--but contrite, praying: "god be merciful to me, for by thought and word and deed i have sinned against the noblest, the worthiest," then, then only, far from hate, i think i could almost love.' no indignation was aflame with the words; the weary voice was so sad and so hopeless as to assure philip she spoke of one dead. 'all i can do now is to pray god to keep me from cursing you and the world for your working of a cruel wrong that can never be ended.' her voice pitched up on a strain. 'oh, leave me, leave me, lest i have not grace enough to bear with you!' philip, daring no more, stood and heard the hasty, uneven steps further and die. his eyes were full of tears; his heart ached with love and pity for rhoda in her sorrow and desolation, that he could do nothing to relieve--nothing, because her infatuation so extravagantly required. rhoda braced her heart for its work, reached to the latch, and stood face to face with lois. the trial began with the meeting of their eyes; rhoda stood it bravely, yielding no ground. 'is he dead?' muttered lois. 'none can tell us.' she faltered, and began to tremble, for the eyes of lois were dreadful to bear; dreadful too was her voice, hoarse and imperfect. 'is he worse than dead?' 'no! never--never think it.' lois forbore awhile with wonderful stoicism. she set rhoda in her own chair; the turf-covered embers she broke into a blaze to be prodigal of warmth; there was skilly waiting hot; there was water. she drew off rhoda's shoes, and bathed her feet, swollen and sore; she enforced food. though she would not yet ask further, the sight of her face, grey and stony indeed, the touch of her hands, trembling over much, were imperative to rhoda's heart, demanding what final truth she could give. 'child, if you need sleep, i can bear to wait.' 'i could not,' said rhoda. 'no.' she looked up into the tearless, sleepless eyes; she clasped the poor shaking hands; and her heart rose in worship of the virtues of that stern, patient soul. as the tale began they were face to face; but before long rhoda had slipped from her seat, to speak with her head against his mother's knees. 'i will tell you all now. i must, for i think i am no longer bound to silence, and, indeed, i could not bear it longer--i alone.' 'and you promised, if i would let you go unquestioned away.' 'i did, thinking i went to fathom a mystery. ah, no! so deep and dark i find it to be, the wit of man, i think, will never sound it. but your faith and love can wing above it. mine have--and yours, oh!--can, will, must.' 'ah, christian! child, where is my christian? his face would tell me briefly all i most would know.' 'you have listened to an ugly tale. i know--i know--i have seen philip. you must not consider it yet, till you have heard all. i own it not out of accord with the rest, that reason just shudders and fails at; but through all the dark of this unfathomable mystery my eyes can discern the passing of our christian white and blameless.' 'your eyes!' moaned lois. rhoda understood. she hid her face and could not speak. in her heart she cried out against this punishment as more than she deserved, and more than she could bear. no word that she could utter, no protest, no remorse, could cover a wrongful thing she had said for lois to recall. so small the sin had looked then; so great now. she had spoken fairly of deadly sin just once, and now lois could not rely on her for any right estimate, nor abide by her ways of regard. 'ah, christ!' she whispered in christian's words, 'is there no forgiveness of sins?' lois heard that, and it struck her to the heart. rhoda took up her burden again. 'christian loved one diadyomene. what she was i dare not think: she was shaped like a woman, very beautiful. dead she is now; i have seen her new grave. god have mercy on her soul, if any soul she have. 'i have known this for long, for some months.' 'he told--you!' 'no--yes. i heard her name from him only in the ravings of fever. he never thought i knew, till the very last: then i named her once; then he kissed me; then he went.' she turned back to the earliest evidence, telling in detail of christian's mad course with her; then of his ravings that remained in her memory painfully distinct; she kept back nothing. later she came to faltering for a moment till lois urged: 'and he asked you to be his wife?' 'yes.' 'and because of this knowledge you refused him?' 'yes. and he kissed me for joy of that nay-saying. on the very morrow he went--do you remember? it was to her, i knew it.' 'o rhoda, you might have saved him, and you did not!' rhoda raised her head and looked her wonder, for christian's sake, with resentment. 'god smote one,' she said, 'whose hand presumed to steady his ark.' 'o child, have you nothing to show to clear him?' 'wait, wait! there is much yet to tell.' then she sped on the last day with its load for record, and, scrupulously exact, gave words, tones, looks: his first going and return; the coming of philip's kinsmen; that strange vagary of the rowan berries that he had won her to a bet. lois had come upon a garbled version of christian's escape; rhoda gave her his own, brief and direct. 'was it christian--man alive!--that came to you?' 'it was. it was. he ate and drank.' of their last meeting and parting she told, without reserve, unashamed, even to her kissing the cross on his breast. was ever maiden heart so candid of its passion for a man, and he alive? too single-hearted was rhoda to know how much of the truth exhaled from her words. without real perception lois drew it in; she grew very still; even her hands were still. verily it had got to this: that to hear her dearest were dead, merely dead, could be the only better tale to come. 'then,' said rhoda, 'the morrow came and closed, and i would not believe he could have kept his promise to be dead; and a day and a day followed; and i dared tell you nothing, seeing i might not tell you all. then i thought that in such extremity for your sake i did right to discover all i could of his secret; at least i would know if she, diadyomene, were one vowed as i guessed in the house monitory. 'now i know, though i would not own it then, that deep in my heart was a terrible dread that if my guess were good, no death, but a guilty transaction had taken our christian from us. ah! how could i? after, for his asking, i had prayed for her. 'now, though the truth lies still remote, beyond any guess of mine; though i heard of a thing--god only knows how she came by her life or her death--lacking evidence, ay, or against evidence, we yet owe him trust in the dark, never to doubt of his living worthily--if--he be not--dead worthily. ah, ah! which i cannot tell you. 'i went to the house monitory and knocked. so stupid and weak i was, for longer and harder than i looked for had the way been, and my dread had grown so very great, that when the wicket opened i had no word to say, and just stared at the face that showed, looking to read an answer there without ever a question. i got no more sense than to say: "of your charity pray for one diadyomene." 'i saw startled recognition of the name. like a coward, a fool, in sudden terror of further knowledge, i loosed the sill and turned to run in escape from it. i fell into blackness. afterwards i was told i had fainted. 'they had me in before i came to myself. ah! kind souls they were. a monitress knelt at either side, and one held my head. when memory came back, i looked from one to the other, and dared not ask for what must come. there was whispering apart that scared me. then one came to me. "my child," she said, "we will pray without question if you will; yet if you may, tell us who is this diadyomene?" i thought my senses had not come back to me. they would have let me be, but i would not have it then. "who is she?" i said; "i do not know, i came to you to ask." "we do not know." bewildered, i turned to the one who had opened to me. "but you know; i saw it in your face when i named her." "the name i knew, nothing more; and that i had heard but once, and my memory had let it escape." "where had you heard it? who knows?" i said. "on christmas eve a man came, a young man, fair-haired." "christian," i said, "that was christian." at that three faces started into an eager cluster. "christian!" they said, "was his name christian?" then they told me that after night-fall he had come and named diadyomene, and that before daybreak a woman, naked and very beautiful, had come wailing an only word, "christian." but because of the hour of his coming i said no, it could not be he, for i had seen him too shortly before. and indeed it seemed to me past belief that any man could have come that way by night so speedily. so they gave detail: his hair was fair; his eyes grey; he was of great stature; he was unclothed, bleeding freshly, and, yes, they thought, gashed along the shoulder. "but here is a sure token," and with that they showed me that cross he had worn. "this," they said, "he unloosed from his neck."' never a word more lois heard of that tale, though for near a minute rhoda carried it forward. then looking up, she saw a face like a mask, with features strained and eyes fixed, and sprang up in terror, vainly to strive at winning from the stricken senses token of the life they locked. was she guilty of this? never did she know. for the few days that sad life held on till it reached its term never a word came: not one fiducial word through the naming of christian to exonerate rhoda. so lois, too, had the comfort of death, and rhoda only was left, through long life to go unenlightened, and still to go dauntless of the dark. epilogue tell us how an altered estimate grew after the passing of christian, to end his reproach. but his name came to be a byword of disgrace, his story a dark, grotesque legend among records of infamy. tell us how rhoda lived to be happy. but the pain and shame of his stigma her heart could never lay aside, though long years gave to patience and fortitude a likeness to serenity and strength. where christian had lived would she still abide all her days; and the poor reward of her constancy was in a tribute of silence concerning him that came to respect her presence. tell us how philip ripened to iniquity and was cut off. but a tiny germ of compunction, lurking somewhere in that barren conscience, quickened and grew under rhoda's shadow, till, spite of the evidence of his own senses, spite of reason, spite of public judgment, he entertained a strange doubt, and to his world and its ridicule acknowledged it. long years wore out rhoda's suspicion of his sincerity; long years raised him in her esteem in exact proportion as he sank in his own. tell us how rhoda never stooped to mate with one less worthy than her first love. but a day came when the house monitory gave her way to a grave with a little son against her breast; and she stood there to look out over the sea that hid the bones of christian, and thanked her god for appointing her in his world a place as helpmeet for a weak soul, who by paths of humility sought after right worship. then she wept. tell us in some figure of words how the soul of christian entered for reward into the light of god's countenance. at rest his body lay, and over it flowed the tides. tell us in some figure of words how the soul of diadyomene, wan and shivering, found an unaltered love, with full comprehension and great compassion, her shelter in the light of god's countenance. at rest her body lay, and over it sang the winds. tell us in some figure of words how lois beheld these two hand in hand, and recognised the wonderful ways of god and his mercy in the light of his countenance. at rest her body lay, and over it grasses grew. we need no words to tell us that god did wipe away all tears from their eyes. surely, surely; for quietly in the grave the elements resumed their atoms. printed by t. and a. constable, printers to her majesty at the edinburgh university press * * * * * transcriber's notes: on equal number occurrences of same word with and without hyphens (seagull:sea-gull; piecemeal:piece-meal; wellnigh:well-nigh) opted to leave both as printed. the shepherd of the hills by harold bell wright to frances, my wife in memory of that beautiful summer in the ozark hills, when, so often, we followed the old trail around the rise of mutton hollow--the trail that is nobody knows how old--and from sammy's lookout watched the day go over the western ridges. "that all with one consent praise new-born gawds, tho they are made and moulded of things past, and give to dust that is a little gilt more laud than gilt o'er-dusted." troilus and cressida. act 3; sc. 3. chapter i. the stranger. it was corn-planting time, when the stranger followed the old trail into the mutton hollow neighborhood. all day a fine rain had fallen steadily, and the mists hung heavy over the valley. the lower hills were wrapped as in a winding sheet; dank and cold. the trees were dripping with moisture. the stranger looked tired and wet. by his dress, the man was from the world beyond the ridges, and his carefully tailored clothing looked strangely out of place in the mountain wilderness. his form stooped a little in the shoulders, perhaps with weariness, but he carried himself with the unconscious air of one long used to a position of conspicuous power and influence; and, while his well-kept hair and beard were strongly touched with white, the brown, clear lighted eyes, that looked from under their shaggy brows, told of an intellect unclouded by the shadows of many years. it was a face marked deeply by pride; pride of birth, of intellect, of culture; the face of a scholar and poet; but it was more--it was the countenance of one fairly staggering under a burden of disappointment and grief. as the stranger walked, he looked searchingly into the mists on every hand, and paused frequently as if questioning the proper course. suddenly he stepped quickly forward. his ear had caught the sharp ring of a horse's shoe on a flint rock somewhere in the mists on the mountain side above. it was jed holland coming down the trail with a week's supply of corn meal in a sack across his horse's back. as the figure of the traveler emerged from the mists, the native checked his horse to greet the newcomer with the customary salutation of the backwoods, "howdy." the man returned jed's greeting cordially, and, resting his satchel on a rock beside the narrow path, added, "i am very glad to meet you. i fear that i am lost." the voice was marvelously pure, deep, and musical, and, like the brown eyes, betrayed the real strength of the man, denied by his gray hair and bent form. the tones were as different from the high keyed, slurring speech of the backwoods, as the gentleman himself was unlike any man jed had ever met. the boy looked at the speaker in wide-eyed wonder; he had a queer feeling that he was in the presence of a superior being. throwing one thin leg over the old mare's neck, and waving a long arm up the hill and to the left, jed drawled, "that thar's dewey bal'; down yonder's mutton holler." then turning a little to the right and pointing into the mist with the other hand, he continued, "compton ridge is over thar. whar was you tryin' to git to, mister?" "where am i trying to get to?" as the man repeated jed's question, he drew his hand wearily across his brow; "i--i--it doesn't much matter, boy. i suppose i must find some place where i can stay tonight. do you live near here?" "nope," jed answered, "hit's a right smart piece to whar i live. this here's grindin' day, an' i've been t' mill over on fall creek; the matthews mill hit is. hit'll be plumb dark 'gin i git home. i 'lowed you was a stranger in these parts soon 's i ketched sight of you. what might yer name be, mister?" the other, looking back over the way he had come, seemed not to hear jed's question, and the native continued, "mine's holland. pap an' mam they come from tennessee. pap he's down in th' back now, an' ain't right peart, but he'll be 'round in a little, i reckon. preachin' bill he 'lows hit's good fer a feller t' be down in th' back onct in a while; says if hit warn't fer that we'd git to standin' so durned proud an' straight we'd go plumb over backwards." a bitter smile crossed the face of the older man. he evidently applied the native's philosophy in a way unguessed by jed. "very true, very true, indeed," he mused. then he turned to jed, and asked, "is there a house near here?" "jim lane lives up the trail 'bout half a quarter. ever hear tell o' jim?" "no, i have never been in these mountains before." "i 'lowed maybe you'd heard tell o' jim or sammy. there's them that 'lows jim knows a heap more 'bout old man dewey's cave than he lets on; his place bein' so nigh. reckon you know 'bout colonel dewey, him th' bal' up thar's named fer? maybe you come t' look fer the big mine they say's in th' cave? i'll hep you hunt hit, if you want me to, mister." "no," said the other, "i am not looking for mines of lead or zinc; there is greater wealth in these hills and forests, young man." "law, you don't say! jim wilson allus 'lowed thar must be gold in these here mountains, 'cause they're so dad burned rough. lemme hep you, mister. i'd like mighty well t' git some clothes like them." "i do not speak of gold, my boy," the stranger answered kindly. "but i must not keep you longer, or darkness will overtake us. do you think this mr. lane would entertain me?" jed pushed a hand up under his tattered old hat, and scratched awhile before he answered, "don't know 'bout th' entertainin', mister, but 'most anybody would take you in." he turned and looked thoughtfully up the trail. "i don't guess jim's to home though; 'cause i see'd sammy a fixin' t' go over t' th' matthews's when i come past. you know the matthews's, i reckon?" there was a hint of impatience now in the deep voice. "no, i told you that i had never been in these mountains before. will mr. matthews keep me, do you think?" jed, who was still looking up the trail, suddenly leaned forward, and, pointing into the timber to the left of the path, said in an exciting whisper, "look at that, mister; yonder thar by that big rock." the stranger, looking, thought he saw a form, weird and ghost-like in the mist, flitting from tree to tree, but, even as he looked, it vanished among the hundreds of fantastic shapes in the gray forest. "what is it?" he asked. the native shook his head. "durned if i know, mister. you can't tell. there's mighty strange things stirrin' on this here mountain, an' in the holler down yonder. say, mister, did you ever see a hant?" the gentleman did not understand. "a hant, a ghost, some calls 'em," explained jed. "bud wilson he sure seed old matt's--" the other interrupted. "really, young man, i must go. it is already late, and you know i have yet to find a place to stay for the night." "law, that's alright, mister!" replied jed. "ain't no call t' worry. stay anywhere. whar do you live when you're to home?" again jed's question was ignored. "you think then that mr. matthews will keep me?" "law, yes! they'll take anybody in. i know they're to home 'cause they was a fixin' t' leave the mill when i left 'bout an hour ago. was the river up much when you come acrost?" as the native spoke he was still peering uneasily into the woods. "i did not cross the river. how far is it to this matthews place, and how do i go?" "jest foller this old trail. hit'll take you right thar. good road all th' way. 'bout three mile, i'd say. did you come from springfield or st. louis, maybe?" the man lifted his satchel from the rock as he answered: "no, i do not live in either springfield or st. louis. thank you, very much, for your assistance. i will go on, now, for i must hurry, or night will overtake me, and i shall not be able to find the path." "oh, hit's a heap lighter when you git up on th' hill 'bove th' fog," said jed, lowering his leg from the horse's neck, and settling the meal sack, preparatory to moving. "but i'd a heap rather hit was you than me a goin' up on dewey t'night." he was still looking up the trail. "reckon you must be from kansas city or chicago? i heard tell they're mighty big towns." the stranger's only answer was a curt "good-by," as his form vanished in the mist. jed turned and dug his heels vigorously in the old mare's flanks, as he ejaculated softly, "well, i'll be dod durned! must be from new york, sure!" slowly the old man toiled up the mountain; up from the mists of the lower ground to the ridge above; and, as he climbed, unseen by him, a shadowy form flitted from tree to tree in the dim, dripping forest. as the stranger came in sight of the lane cabin, a young woman on a brown pony rode out of the gate and up the trail before him; and when the man reached the open ground on the mountain above, and rounded the shoulder of the hill, he saw the pony, far ahead, loping easily along the little path. a moment he watched, and horse and rider passed from sight. the clouds were drifting far away. the western sky was clear with the sun still above the hills. in an old tree that leaned far out over the valley, a crow shook the wet from his plumage and dried himself in the warm light; while far below the mists rolled, and on the surface of that gray sea, the traveler saw a company of buzzards, wheeling and circling above some dead thing hidden in its depth. wearily the man followed the old trail toward the matthews place, and always, as he went, in the edge of the gloomy forest, flitted that shadowy form. chapter ii. sammy lane. preachin' bill, says, "hit's a plumb shame there ain't more men in th' world built like old man matthews and that thar boy o' his'n. men like them ought t' be as common as th' other kind, an' would be too if folks cared half as much 'bout breeding folks as they do 'bout raising hogs an' horses." mr. matthews was a giant. fully six feet four inches in height, with big bones, broad shoulders, and mighty muscles. at log rollings and chopping bees, in the field or at the mill, or in any of the games in which the backwoodsman tries his strength, no one had ever successfully contested his place as the strongest man in the hills. and still, throughout the country side, the old folks tell with pride tales of the marvelous feats of strength performed in the days when "old matt" was young. of the son, "young matt," the people called him, it is enough to say that he seemed made of the same metal and cast in the same mold as the father; a mighty frame, softened yet by young manhood's grace; a powerful neck and well poised head with wavy red-brown hair; and blue eyes that had in them the calm of summer skies or the glint of battle steel. it was a countenance fearless and frank, but gentle and kind, and the eyes were honest eyes. anyone meeting the pair, as they walked with the long swinging stride of the mountaineer up the steep mill road that gray afternoon, would have turned for a second look; such men are seldom seen. when they reached the big log house that looks down upon the hollow, the boy went at once with his axe to the woodpile, while the older man busied himself with the milking and other chores about the barn. young matt had not been chopping long when he heard, coming up the hill, the sound of a horse's feet on the old trail. the horse stopped at the house and a voice, that stirred the blood in the young man's veins, called, "howdy, aunt mollie." mrs. matthews appeared in the doorway; by her frank countenance and kindly look anyone would have known her at a glance as the boy's mother. "land sakes, if it ain't sammy lane! how are you, honey?" "i am alright," answered the voice; "i've come over t' stop with you to-night; dad's away again; mandy ford staid with me last night, but she had to go home this evenin'." the big fellow at the woodpile drove his axe deeper into the log. "it's about time you was a comin' over," replied the woman in the doorway; "i was a tellin' the menfolks this mornin' that you hadn't been nigh the whole blessed week. mr. matthews 'lowed maybe you was sick." the other returned with a gay laugh, "i was never sick a minute in my life that anybody ever heard tell. i'm powerful hungry, though. you'd better put in another pan of corn bread." she turned her pony's head toward the barn. "seems like you are always hungry," laughed the older woman, in return. "well just go on out to the barn, and the men will take your horse; then come right in and i'll mighty soon have something to fill you up." operations at the woodpile suddenly ceased and young matt was first at the barn-yard gate. miss sammy lane was one of those rare young women whose appearance is not to be described. one can, of course, put it down that she was tall; beautifully tall, with the trimness of a young pine, deep bosomed, with limbs full-rounded, fairly tingling with the life and strength of perfect womanhood; and it may be said that her face was a face to go with one through the years, and to live still in one's dreams when the sap of life is gone, and, withered and old, one sits shaking before the fire; a generous, loving mouth, red lipped, full arched, with the corners tucked in and perfect teeth between; a womanly chin and nose, with character enough to save them from being pretty; hair dark, showing a touch of gold with umber in the shadows; a brow, full broad, set over brown eyes that had never been taught to hide behind their fringed veils, but looked always square out at you with a healthy look of good comradeship, a gleam of mirth, or a sudden, wide, questioning gaze that revealed depth of soul within. but what is the use? when all this is written, those who knew sammy will say, "'tis but a poor picture, for she is something more than all this." uncle ike, the postmaster at the forks, did it much better when he said to "preachin' bill," the night of the "doin's" at the cove school, "ba thundas! that gal o' jim lane's jest plumb fills th' whole house. what! an' when she comes a ridin' up t' th' office on that brown pony o' hern, i'll be dad burned if she don't pretty nigh fill th' whole out doors, ba thundas! what!" and the little shrivelled up old hillsman, who keeps the ferry, removed his cob pipe long enough to reply, with all the emphasis possible to his squeaky voice, "she sure do, ike. she sure do. i've often thought hit didn't look jest fair fer god 'lmighty t' make sech a woman 'thout ary man t' match her. makes me feel plumb 'shamed o' myself t' stand 'round in th' same county with her. hit sure do, ike." greeting the girl the young man opened the gate for her to pass. "i've been a lookin' for you over," said sammy, a teasing light in her eyes. "didn't you know that mandy was stoppin' with me? she's been a dyin' to see you." "i'm mighty sorry," he replied, fastening the gate and coming to the pony's side. "why didn't you tell me before? i reckon she'll get over it alright, though," he added with a smile, as he raised his arms to assist the girl to dismount. the teasing light vanished as the young woman placed her hands on the powerful shoulders of the giant, and as she felt the play of the swelling muscles that swung her to the ground so easily, her face flushed with admiration. for the fraction of a minute she stood facing him, her hands still on his arms, her lips parted as if to speak; then she turned quickly away, and without a word walked toward the house, while the boy, pretending to busy himself with the pony's bridle, watched her as she went. when the girl was gone, the big fellow led the horse away to the stable, where he crossed his arms upon the saddle and hid his face from the light. mr. matthews coming quietly to the door a few minutes later saw the boy standing there, and the rugged face of the big mountaineer softened at the sight. quietly he withdrew to the other side of the barn, to return later when the saddle and bridle had been removed, and the young man stood stroking the pony, as the little horse munched his generous feed of corn. the elder man laid his hand on the broad shoulder of the lad so like him, and looked full into the clear eyes. "is it alright, son?" he asked gruffly; and the boy answered, as he returned his father's look, "it's alright, dad." "then let's go to the house; mother called supper some time ago." just as the little company were seating themselves at the table, the dog in the yard barked loudly. young matt went to the door. the stranger, whom jed had met on the old trail, stood at the gate. chapter iii. the voice from out the mists. while young matt was gone to the corral in the valley to see that the sheep were safely folded for the night, and the two women were busy in the house with their after-supper work, mr. matthews and his guest sat on the front porch. "my name is howitt, daniel howitt," the man said in answer to the host's question. but, as he spoke, there was in his manner a touch of embarrassment, and he continued quickly as if to prevent further question, "you have two remarkable children, sir; that boy is the finest specimen of manhood i have ever seen, and the girl is remarkable--remarkable, sir. you will pardon me, i am sure, but i am an enthusiastic lover of my kind, and i certainly have never seen such a pair." the grim face of the elder matthews showed both pleasure and amusement. "you're mistaken, mister; the boy's mine alright, an' he's all that you say, an' more, i reckon. i doubt if there's a man in the hills can match him to-day; not excepting wash gibbs; an' he's a mighty good boy, too. but the girl is a daughter of a neighbor, and no kin at all." "indeed!" exclaimed the other, "you have only one child then?" the amused smile left the face of the old mountaineer, as he answered slowly, "there was six boys, sir; this one, grant, is the youngest. the others lie over there." he pointed with his pipe to where a clump of pines, not far from the house, showed dark and tall, against the last red glow in the sky. the stranger glanced at the big man's face in quick sympathy. "i had only two; a boy and a girl," he said softly. "the girl and her mother have been gone these twenty years. the boy grew to be a man, and now he has left me." the deep voice faltered. "pardon me, sir, for speaking of this, but my lad was so like your boy there. he was all i had, and now--now--i am very lonely, sir." there is a bond of fellowship in sorrow that knows no conventionalities. as the two men sat in the hush of the coming night, their faces turned toward the somber group of trees, they felt strongly drawn to one another. the mountaineer's companion spoke again half to himself; "i wish that my dear ones had a resting place like that. in the crowded city cemetery the ground is always shaken by the tramping of funeral professions." he buried his face in his hands. for some time the stranger sat thus, while his host spoke no word. then lifting his head, the man looked away over the ridges just touched with the lingering light, and the valley below wrapped in the shadowy mists. "i came away from it all because they said i must, and because i was hungry for this." he waved his hand toward the glowing sky and the forest clad hills. "this is good for me; it somehow seems to help me know how big god is. one could find peace here--surely, sir, one could find it here--peace and strength." the mountaineer puffed hard at his pipe for a while, then said gruffly, "seems that way, mister, to them that don't know. but many's the time i've wished to god i'd never seen these here ozarks. i used to feel like you do, but i can't no more. they 'mind me now of him that blackened my life; he used to take on powerful about the beauty of the country and all the time he was a turnin' it into a hell for them that had to stay here after he was gone." as he spoke, anger and hatred grew dark in the giant's face, and the stranger saw the big hands clench and the huge frame grow tense with passion. then, as if striving to be not ungracious, the woodsman said in a somewhat softer tone, "you can't see much of it, this evening, though, 'count of the mists. it'll fair up by morning, i reckon. you can see a long way from here, of a clear day, mister." "yes, indeed," replied mr. howitt, in an odd tone. "one could see far from here, i am sure. we, who live in the cities, see but a little farther than across the street. we spend our days looking at the work of our own and our neighbors' hands. small wonder our lives have so little of god in them, when we come in touch with so little that god has made." "you live in the city, then, when you are at home?" asked mr. matthews, looking curiously at his guest. "i did, when i had a home; i cannot say that i live anywhere now." old matt leaned forward in his chair as if to speak again; then paused; someone was coming up the hill; and soon they distinguished the stalwart form of the son. sammy coming from the house with an empty bucket met the young man at the gate, and the two went toward the spring together. in silence the men on the porch watched the moon as she slowly pushed her way up through the leafy screen on the mountain wall. higher and higher she climbed until her rays fell into the valley below, and the drifting mists from ridge to ridge became a sea of ghostly light. it was a weird scene, almost supernatural in its beauty. then from down at the spring a young girl's laugh rose clearly, and the big mountaineer said in a low tone, "mr. howitt, you've got education; it's easy to see that; i've always wanted to ask somebody like you, do you believe in hants? do you reckon folks ever come back once they're dead and gone?" the man from the city saw that his big host was terribly in earnest, and answered quietly, "no, i do not believe in such things, mr. matthews; but if it should be true, i do not see why we should fear the dead." the other shook his head; "i don't know--i don't know, sir; i always said i didn't believe, but some things is mighty queer." he seemed to be shaping his thought for further speech, when again the girl's laugh rang clear along the mountain side. the young people were returning from the spring. the mountaineer relighted his pipe, while young matt and sammy seated themselves on the step, and mrs. matthews coming from the house joined the group. "we've just naturally got to find somebody to stay with them sheep, dad," said the son; "there ain't nobody there to-night, and as near as i can make out there's three ewes and their lambs missing. there ain't a bit of use in us trying to depend on pete." "i'll ride over on bear creek to-morrow, and see if i can get that fellow buck told us about," returned the father. "you find it hard to get help on the ranch?" inquired the stranger. "yes, sir, we do," answered old matt. "we had a good 'nough man 'till about a month ago; since then we've been gettin' along the best we could. but with some a stayin' out on the range, an' not comin' in, an' the wolves a gettin' into the corral at night, we'll lose mighty nigh all the profits this year. the worst of it is, there ain't much show to get a man; unless that one over on bear creek will come. i reckon, though, he'll be like the rest." he sat staring gloomily into the night. "is the work so difficult?" mr. howitt asked. "difficult, no; there ain't nothing to do but tendin' to the sheep. the man has to stay at the ranch of nights, though." mr. howitt was wondering what staying at the ranch nights could have to do with the difficulty, when, up from the valley below, from out the darkness and the mists, came a strange sound; a sound as if someone were singing a song without words. so wild and weird was the melody; so passionately sweet the voice, it seemed impossible that the music should come from human lips. it was more as though some genie of the forest-clad hills wandered through the mists, singing as he went with the joy of his possessions. mrs. matthews came close to her husband's side, and placed her hand upon his shoulder as he half rose from his chair, his pipe fallen to the floor. young matt rose to his feet and moved closer to the girl, who was also standing. the stranger alone kept his seat and he noted the agitation of the others in wonder. for some moments the sound continued, now soft and low, with the sweet sadness of the wind in the pines; then clear and ringing, it echoed and reechoed along the mountain; now pleadings, as though a soul in darkness prayed a gleam of light; again rising, swelling exultingly, as in glad triumph, only to die away once more to that moaning wail, seeming at last to lose itself in the mists. slowly old matt sank back into his seat and the stranger heard him mutter, "poor boy, poor boy." aunt mollie was weeping. suddenly sammy sprang from the steps and running down the walk to the gate sent a clear, piercing call over the valley: "o--h--h, pete." the group on the porch listened intently. again the girl called, and yet again: "o--h--h, pete." but there was no answer. "it's no use, honey," said mrs. matthews, breaking the silence; "it just ain't no use;" and the young girl came slowly back to the porch. chapter iv. a chat with aunt mollie. when the stranger looked from his window the next morning, the valley was still wrapped in its gray blanket. but when he and his host came from the house after breakfast, the sun had climbed well above the ridge, and, save a long, loosely twisted rope of fog that hung above the distant river, the mists were gone. the city man exclaimed with delight at the beauty of the scene. as they stood watching the sheep--white specks in the distance-climbing out of the valley where the long shadows still lay, to the higher, sunlit pastures, mr. matthews said, "we've all been a talkin' about you this mornin', mr. howitt, and we'd like mighty well to have you stop with us for a spell. if i understood right, you're just out for your health anyway, and you'll go a long ways, sir, before you find a healthier place than this right here. we ain't got much such as you're used to, i know, but what we have is yourn, and we'd be proud to have you make yourself to home for as long as you'd like to stay. you see it's been a good while since we met up with anybody like you, and we count it a real favor to have you." mr. howitt accepted the invitation with evident pleasure, and, soon after, the mountaineer rode away to bear creek, on his quest for a man to herd sheep. young matt had already gone with his team to the field on the hillside west of the house, and the brown pony stood at the gate ready for sammy lane to return to her home on dewey bald. "i'd like the best in the world to stay, aunt mollie," she said, in answer to mrs. matthews' protest; "but you know there is no one to feed the stock, and besides mandy ford will be back sometime to-day." the older woman's arm was around the girl as they went down the walk. "you must come over real often, now, honey; you know it won't be long 'til you'll be a leavin' us for good. how do you reckon you'll like bein' a fine lady, and livin' in the city with them big folks?" the girl's face flushed, and her eyes had that wide questioning look, as she answered slowly, "i don't know, aunt mollie; i ain't never seen a sure 'nough fine lady; i reckon them city folks are a heap different from us, but i reckon they're just as human. it would be nice to have lots of money and pretties, but somehow i feel like there's a heap more than that to think about. any how," she added brightly, "i ain't goin' for quite a spell yet, and you know 'preachin' bill' says, 'there ain't no use to worry 'bout the choppin' 'til the dogs has treed the coon.' i'll sure come over every day." mrs. matthews kissed the girl, and then, standing at the gate, watched until pony and rider had disappeared in the forest. later aunt mollie, with a woman's fondness for a quiet chat, brought the potatoes she was preparing for dinner, to sit with mr. howitt on the porch. "i declare i don't know what we'll do without sammy," she said; "i just can't bear to think of her goin' away." the guest, feeling that some sort of a reply was expected, asked, "is the family moving from the neighborhood?" "no, sir, there ain't no family to move. just sammy and her pa, and jim lane won't never leave this country again. you see ollie stewart's uncle, his father's brother it is, ain't got no children of his own, and he wrote for ollie to come and live with him in the city. he's to go to school and learn the business, foundry and machine shops, or something like that it is; and if the boy does what's right, he's to get it all some day; ollie and sammy has been promised ever since the talk first began about his goin'; but they'll wait now until he gets through his schoolin'. it'll be mighty nice for sammy, marryin' ollie, but we'll miss her awful; the whole country will miss her, too. she's just the life of the neighborhood, and everybody 'lows there never was another girl like her. poor child, she ain't had no mother since she was a little trick, and she has always come to me for everything like, us bein' such close neighbors, and all. but law! sir, i ain't a blamin' her a mite for goin', with her daddy a runnin' with that ornery wash gibbs the way he does." again the man felt called upon to express his interest; "is mr. lane in business with this man gibbs?" "law, no! that is, don't nobody know about any business; i reckon it's all on account of those old bald knobbers; they used to hold their meetin's on top of dewey yonder, and folks do say a man was burned there once, because he told some of their secrets. well, jim and wash's daddy, and wash, all belonged, 'though wash himself wasn't much more than a boy then; and when the government broke up the gang, old man gibbs was killed, and jim went to texas. it was there that sammy's ma died. when jim come back it wasn't long before he was mighty thick again with wash and his crowd down on the river, and he's been that way ever since. there's them that says it's the same old gang, what's left of them, and some thinks too that jim and wash knows about the old dewey mine." mr. howitt, remembering his conversation with jed holland, asked encouragingly, "is this mine a very rich one?" "don't nobody rightly know about that, sir," answered aunt mollie. "this is how it was: away back when the injuns was makin' trouble 'cause the government was movin' them west to the territory, this old man dewey lived up there somewhere on that mountain. he was a mighty queer old fellow; didn't mix up with the settlers at all, except uncle josh hensley's boy who wasn't right smart, and didn't nobody know where he come from nor nothing; but all the same, 'twas him that warned the settlers of the trouble, and helped them all through it, scoutin' and such. and one time when they was about out of bullets and didn't have nothin' to make more out of, colonel dewey took a couple of men and some mules up on that mountain yonder in the night, and when they got back they was just loaded down with lead, but he wouldn't tell nobody where he got it, and as long as he was with them, the men didn't dare tell. well, sir, them two men was killed soon after by the injuns, and when the trouble was finally over, old dewey disappeared, and ain't never been heard tell of since. they say the mine is somewhere's in a big cave, but nobody ain't never found it, 'though there's them that says the bald knobbers used the cave to hide their stuff in, and that's how jim lane and wash gibbs knows where it is; it's all mighty queer. you can see for yourself that lost creek down yonder just sinks clean out of sight all at once; there must be a big hole in there somewhere." aunt mollie pointed with her knife to the little stream that winds like a thread of light down into the hollow. "i tell you, sir, these hills is pretty to look at, but there ain't much here for a girl like sammy, and i don't blame her a mite for wantin' to leave. it's a mighty hard place to live, mr. howitt, and dangerous, too, sometimes." "the city has its hardships and its dangers too, mrs. matthews; life there demands almost too much at times; i often wonder if it is worth the struggle." "i guess that's so," replied aunt mollie, "but it don't seem like it could be so hard as it is here. i tell mr. matthews we've clean forgot the ways of civilized folks; altogether, though, i suppose we've done as well as most, and we hadn't ought to complain." the old scholar looked at the sturdy figure in its plain calico dress; at the worn hands, busy with their homely task; and the patient, kindly face, across which time had ploughed many a furrow, in which to plant the seeds of character and worth. he thought of other women who had sat with him on hotel verandas, at fashionable watering places; women gowned in silks and laces; women whose soft hands knew no heavier task than the filmy fancy work they toyed with, and whose greatest care, seemingly, was that time should leave upon their faces no record of the passing years. "and this is the stuff," said he to himself, "that makes possible the civilization that produces them." aloud, he said, "do you ever talk of going back to your old home?" "no, sir, not now;" she rested her wet hands idly on the edge of the pan of potatoes, and turned her face toward the clump of pines. "we used to think we'd go back sometime; seemed like at first i couldn't stand it; then the children come, and every time we laid one of them over there i thought less about leavin', until now we never talk about it no more. then there was our girl, too, mr. howitt. no, sir, we won't never leave these hills now." "oh, you had a daughter, too? i understood from mr. matthews that your children were all boys." aunt mollie worked a few moments longer in silence, then arose and turned toward the house. "yes, sir, there was a girl; she's buried under that biggest pine you see off there a little to one side. we--we--don't never talk about her. mr. matthews can't stand it. seems like he ain't never been the same since--since--it happened. 'tain't natural for him to be so rough and short; he's just as good and kind inside as any man ever was or could be. he's real taken with you, mr. howitt, and i'm mighty glad you're goin' to stop a spell, for it will do him good. if it hadn't been for sammy lane runnin' in every day or two, i don't guess he could have stood it at all. i sure don't know what we'll do now that she's goin' away. then there's--there's--that at the ranch in mutton hollow; but i guess i'd better not try to tell you about that. i wish mr. matthews would, though; maybe he will. you know so much more than us; i know most you could help us or tell us about things." chapter v. "jest nobody." after the midday meal, while walking about the place, mr. howitt found a well worn path; it led him to the group of pines not far from the house, where five rough head stones marked the five mounds placed side by side. a little apart from these was another mound, alone. beneath the pines the needles made a carpet, firm and smooth, figured by the wild woodbine that clambered over the graves; moss had gathered on the head stones, and the wind, in the dark branches above, moaned ceaselessly. about the little plot of ground a rustic fence of poles was built, and the path led to a stile by which one might enter the enclosure. the stranger seated himself upon the rude steps. below and far away he saw the low hills, rolling ridge on ridge like the waves of a great sea, until in the blue distance they were so lost in the sky that he could not say which was mountain and which was cloud. his poet heart was stirred at sight of the vast reaches of the forest all shifting light and shadows; the cool depths of the near-by woods with the sunlight filtering through the leafy arches in streaks and patches of gold on green; and the wide, wide sky with fleets of cloud ships sailing to unseen ports below the hills. the man sat very still, and as he looked the worn face changed; once, as if at some pleasing memory, he smiled. a gray squirrel with bright eyes full of curious regard peeped over the limb of an oak; a red bird hopping from bush to bush whistled to his mate; and a bob-white's quick call came from a nearby thicket. the dreamer was aroused at last by the musical tinkle of a bell. he turned his face toward the sound, but could see nothing. the bell was coming nearer; it came nearer still. then he saw here and there through the trees small, moving patches of white; an old ewe followed by two lambs came from behind a clump of bushes, and the moving patches of white shaped themselves into other sheep feeding in the timber. mr. howitt sat quite still, and, while the old ewe paused to look at him, the lambs took advantage of the opportunity, until their mother was satisfied with her inspection, and by moving on, upset them. soon the whole flock surrounded him, and, after the first lingering look of inquiry, paid no heed to his presence. then from somewhere among the trees came the quick, low bark of a dog. the man looked carefully in every direction; he could see nothing but the sheep, yet he felt himself observed. again came the short bark; and this time a voice--a girl's voice, mr. howitt thought--said, "it's alright, brave; go on, brother." and from behind a big rock not far away a shepherd dog appeared, followed by a youth of some fifteen years. he was a lightly built boy; a bit tall for his age, perhaps, but perfectly erect; and his every movement was one of indescribable grace, while he managed, somehow, to wear his rough backwoods garments with an air of distinction as remarkable as it was charming. the face was finely molded, almost girlish, with the large gray eyes, and its frame of yellow, golden hair. it was a sad face when in repose, yet wonderfully responsive to every passing thought and mood. but the eyes, with their strange expression, and shifting light, proclaimed the lad's mental condition. as the boy came forward in a shy, hesitating way, an expression of amazement and wonder crept into the stranger's face; he left his seat and started forward. "howard," he said; "howard." "that ain't his name, mister; his name's pete," returned the youth, in low, soft tones. in the voice and manner of the lad, no less than in his face and eyes, mr. howitt read his story. unconsciously he echoed the words of mr. matthews, "poor pete." the dog lifted his head and looked into the man's face, while his tail wagged a joyful greeting, and, as the man stooped to pat the animal and speak a few kind words, a beautiful smile broke over the delicate features of the youth. throwing himself upon the ground, he cried, "come here, brave"; and taking the dog's face between his hands, said in confidential tones, ignoring mr. howitt's presence, "he's a good man, ain't he, brother?" the dog answered with wagging tail. "we sure like him, don't we?" the dog gave a low bark. "listen, brave, listen." he lifted his face to the tree tops, then turned his ear to the ground, while the dog, too, seemed to hearken. again that strange smile illuminated his face; "yes, yes, brave, we sure like him. and the tree things like him, too, brother; and the flowers, the little flower things that know everything; they're all a singin' to pete 'cause he's come. did you see the flower things in his eyes, and hear the tree things a talkin' in his voice, brave? and see, brother, the sheep like him too!" pointing toward the stranger, he laughed aloud. the old ewe had come quite close to the man, and one of the lambs was nibbling at his trousers' leg. mr. howitt seated himself on the stile again, and the dog, released by the youth, came to lie down at his feet; while the boy seemed to forget his companions, and appeared to be listening to voices unheard by them, now and then nodding his head and moving his lips in answer. the old man looked long and thoughtfully at the youth, his own face revealing a troubled mind. this then was pete, poor pete. "howard," whispered the man; "the perfect image;" then again he said, half aloud, "howard." the boy turned his face and smiled; "that ain't his name, mister; his name's pete. pete seen you yesterday over on dewey, and pete he heard the big hills and the woods a singin' when you talked. but jed he didn't hear. jed he don't hear nothin' but himself; he can't. but pete he heard and all pete's people, too. and the gray mist things come out and danced along the mountain, 'cause they was so glad you come. and pete went with you along the old trail. course, though, you didn't know. do you like pete's people, mister?" he waved his hands to include the forest, the mountains and the sky; and there was a note of anxiety in the sweet voice as he asked again: "do you like pete's friends?" "yes, indeed, i like your friends," replied mr. howitt, heartily; "and i would like to be your friend too, if you will let me. what is your other name?" the boy shook his head; "not me; not me;" he said; "do you like pete?" the man was puzzled. "are you not pete?" he asked. the delicate face grew sad: "no, no, no," he said in a low moaning tone; "i'm not pete; pete, he lives in here;" he touched himself on the breast. "i am--i am--" a look of hopeless bewilderment crept into his eyes; "i don't know who i am; i'm jest nobody. nobody can't have no name, can he?" he stood with downcast head; then suddenly he raised his face and the shadows lifted, as he said, "but pete he knows, mister, ask pete." a sudden thought came to mr. howitt. "who is your father, my boy?" instantly the brightness vanished; again the words were a puzzled moan; "i ain't got no father, mister; i ain't me; nobody can't have no father, can he?" the other spoke quickly; "but pete had a father; who was pete's father?" instantly the gloom was gone and the face was bright again. "sure, mister, pete's got a father; don't you know? everybody knows that. look!" he pointed upward to a break in the trees, to a large cumulus cloud that had assumed a fantastic shape. "he lives in them white hills, up there. see him, mister? sometimes he takes pete with him up through the sky, and course i go along. we sail, and sail, and sail, with the big bird things up there, while the sky things sing; and sometimes we play with the cloud things, all day in them white hills. pete says he'll take me away up there where the star things live, some day, and we won't never come back again; and i won't be nobody no more; and aunt mollie says she reckons pete knows. 'course, i'd hate mighty much to go away from uncle matt and aunt mollie and matt and sammy, 'cause they're mighty good to me; but i jest got to go where pete goes, you see, 'cause i ain't nobody, and nobody can't be nothin', can he?" the stranger was fascinated by the wonderful charm of the boy's manner and words. as the lad's sensitive face glowed or was clouded by each wayward thought, and the music of his sweet voice rose and fell, mr. howitt told himself that one might easily fancy the child some wandering spirit of the woods and hills. aloud, he asked, "has pete a mother, too?" the youth nodded toward the big pine that grew to one side of the group, and, lowering his voice, replied, "that's pete's mother." mr. howitt pointed to the grave; "you mean she sleeps there?" "no, no, not there; there!" he pointed up to the big tree, itself. "she never sleeps; don't you hear her?" he paused. the wind moaned through the branches of the pine. drawing closer to the stranger's side, the boy whispered, "she always talks that a way; always, and it makes pete feel bad. she wants somebody. hear her callin', callin', callin'? he'll sure come some day, mister; he sure will. say, do you know where he is?" the stranger, startled, drew back; "no, no, my boy, certainly not; what do you mean; who are you?" like the moaning of the pines came the reply, "nothin', mister, nobody can't mean nothin', can they? i'm jest nobody. but pete lives in here; ask pete." "is pete watching the sheep?" asked mr. howitt, anxious to divert the boy's mind to other channels. "yes, we're a tendin' 'em now; but they can't trust us, you know; when they call pete, he just goes, and course i've got to go 'long." "who is it calls pete?" "why, they, don't you know? i 'lowed you knowed about things. they called pete last night. the moonlight things was out, and all the shadow things; didn't you see them, mister? the moonlight things, the wind, the stars, the shadow things, and all the rest played with pete in the shiny mists, and, course, i was along. didn't you hear singin'? pete he always sings that a way, when the moonlight things is out. seems like he just can't help it." "but what becomes of the sheep when pete goes away?" the boy shook his head sadly; "sometimes they get so lost that young matt can't never find 'em; sometimes wolves get 'em; it's too bad, mister, it sure is." then laughing aloud, he clapped his hands; "there was a feller at the ranch to keep 'em, but he didn't stay; ho! ho! he didn't stay, you bet he didn't. pete didn't like him, brave didn't like him, nothing didn't like him, the trees wouldn't talk when he was around, the flowers died when he looked at 'em, and the birds all stopped singin' and went away over the mountains. he didn't stay, though." again he laughed. "you bet he didn't stay! pete knows." "why did the man go?" asked mr. howitt, thinking to solve a part of the mystery, at least. but the only answer he could draw from the boy was, "pete knows; pete knows." later when the stranger returned to the house, pete went with him; at the big gate they met mr. matthews, returning unsuccessful from his trip. "hello, boy!" said the big man; "how's pete to-day?" the lad went with glad face to the giant mountaineer. it was clear that the two were the warmest friends. "pete's mighty glad to-day, 'cause he's come." he pointed to mr. howitt. "does pete like him?" the boy nodded. "all pete's people like him. ask him to keep the sheep, uncle matt. he won't be scared at the shadow things in the night." mr. matthews smiled, as he turned to his guest. "pete never makes a mistake in his judgment of men, mr. howitt. he's different from us ordinary folks, as you can see; but in some things he knows a heap more. i'm mighty glad he's took up with you, sir. all day i've been thinking i'd tell you about some things i don't like to talk about; i feel after last night like you'd understand, maybe, and might help me, you having education. but still i've been a little afraid, us being such strangers. i know i'm right now, 'cause pete says so. if you weren't the kind of a man i think you are, he'd never took to you like he has." that night the mountaineer told the stranger from the city the story that i have put down in the next chapter. chapter vi. the story. slowly the big mountaineer filled his cob pipe with strong, home grown tobacco, watching his guest keenly the while, from under heavy brows. behind the dark pines the sky was blood red, and below, mutton hollow was fast being lost in the gathering gloom. when his pipe was lighted, old matt said, "well, sir, i reckon you think some things you seen and heard since you come last night are mighty queer. i ain't sayin', neither, but what you got reasons for thinkin' so." mr. howitt made no reply. and, after puffing a few moments in silence, the other continued, "if it weren't for what you said last night makin' me feel like i wanted to talk to you, and pete a takin' up with you the way he has, i wouldn't be a tellin' you what i am goin' to now. there's some trails, mr. howitt, that ain't pleasant to go back over. i didn't 'low to ever go over this one again. did you and pete talk much this afternoon?" in a few words mr. howitt told of his meeting with the strange boy, and their conversation. when he had finished, the big man smoked in silence. it was as if he found it hard to begin. from a tree on the mountain side below, a screech owl sent up his long, quavering call; a bat darted past in the dusk; and away over on compton ridge a hound bayed. the mountaineer spoke; "that's sam wilson's dog, ranger; must a' started a fox." the sound died away in the distance. old matt began his story. "our folks all live back in illinois. and if i do say so, they are as good stock as you'll find anywhere. but there was a lot of us, and i always had a notion to settle in a new country where there was more room like and land wasn't so dear; so when wife and i was married we come out here. i recollect we camped at the spring below jim lane's cabin on yon side of old dewey, there. that was before jim was married, and a wild young buck he was too, as ever you see. the next day wife and i rode along the old trail 'til we struck this gap, and here we've been ever since. "we've had our ups and downs like most folks, sir, and sometimes it looked like they was mostly downs; but we got along, and last fall i bought in the ranch down there in the hollow. the boy was just eighteen and we thought then that he'd be makin' his home there some day. i don't know how that'll be now, but there was another reason too why we wanted the place, as you'll see when i get to it. "there was five other boys, as i told you last night. the oldest two would have been men now. the girl"--his voice broke--"the girl she come third; she was twenty when we buried her over there. that was fifteen year ago come the middle of next month. "everybody 'lowed she was a mighty pretty baby, and, bein' the only girl, i reckon we made more of her than we did of the boys. she growed up into a mighty fine young woman too; strong, and full of fire and go, like sammy lane. seems to wife and me when sammy's 'round that it's our own girl come back and we've always hoped that she and grant would take the ranch down yonder; but i reckon that's all over, now that ollie stewart has come into such a fine thing in the city. anyway, it ain't got nothing to do with this that i'm a tellin' you. "she didn't seem to care nothin' at all for none of the neighbor boys like most girls do; she'd go with them and have a good time alright, but that was all. 'peared like she'd rather be with her brothers or her mother or me. "well, one day, when we was out on the range a ridin' for stock-she'd often go with me that way--we met a stranger over there at the deer lick in the big low gap, coming along the old trail. he was as fine a lookin' man as you ever see, sir; big and grand like, with lightish hair, kind, of wavy, and a big mustache like his hair, and fine white teeth showing when he smiled. he was sure good lookin', damn him! and with his fine store clothes and a smooth easy way of talkin' and actin' he had, 'tain't no wonder she took up with him. we all did. i used to think god never made a finer body for a man. i know now that hell don't hold a meaner heart than the one in that same fine body. and that's somethin' that bothers me a heap, mr. howitt. "as i say, our girl was built like sammy lane, and so far as looks go she was his dead match. i used to wonder when i'd look at them together if there ever was such another fine lookin' pair. i ain't a goin' to tell you his name; there ain't no call to, as i can see. there might be some decent man named the same. but he was one of these here artist fellows and had come into the hills to paint, he said." a smothered exclamation burst from the listener. mr. matthews, not noticing, continued: "he sure did make a lot of pictures and they seemed mighty nice to us, 'though of course we didn't know nothin' about such things. there was one big one he made of maggie that was as natural as life. he was always drawin' of her in one way or another, and had a lot of little pictures that didn't amount to much, and that he didn't never finish. but this big one he worked at off and on all summer. it was sure fine, with her a standin' by the ranch spring, holdin' out a cup of water, and smilin' like she was offerin' you a drink." it was well that the night had fallen. at old matt's words the stranger shrank back in his chair, his hand raised as if to ward off a deadly blow. he made a sound in his throat as if he would cry out, but could not from horror or fear. but the darkness hid his face, and the mountaineer, with mind intent upon his story, did not heed. "he took an old cabin at the foot of the hill near where the sheep corral is now, and fixed it up to work in. the shack had been built first by old man dewey, him that the mountain's named after. it was down there he painted the big picture of her a standin' by the big spring. we never thought nothin' about her bein' with him so much. country folks is that way, mr. howitt, 'though we ought to knowed better; we sure ought to knowed better." the old giant paused and for some time sat with his head bowed, his forgotten pipe on the floor. "well," he began again; "he stopped with us all that summer, and then one day he went out as usual and didn't come back. we hunted the hills out for signs, thinkin' maybe he met up with some trouble. he'd sent all his pictures away the week before, jim lane haulin' them to the settlement for him. "the girl was nigh about wild and rode with me all durin' the hunt, and once when we saw some buzzards circlin', she gave a little cry and turned so white that i suspicioned maybe she got to thinkin' more of him than we knew. then one afternoon when we were down yonder in the hollow, she says, all of a sudden like, 'daddy, it ain't no use a ridin' no more. he ain't met up with no trouble. he's left all the trouble with us.' she looked so piqued and her eyes were so big and starin' that it come over me in a flash what she meant. she saw in a minute that i sensed it, and just hung her head, and we come home. "she just kept a gettin' worse and worse, mr. howitt; 'peared to fade away like, like i watched them big glade lilies do when the hot weather comes. about the only time she would show any life at all was when someone would go for the mail, when she'd always be at the gate a waitin' for us. "then one day, a letter come. i brung it myself. she give a little cry when i handed it to her, and run into the house, most like her old self. i went on out to the barn to put up my horse, thinkin' maybe it was goin' to be alright after all; but pretty soon, i heard a scream and then a laugh. 'fore god, sir, that laugh's a ringin' in my ears yet. she was ravin' mad when i got to her, a laughin', and a screechin', and tryin' to hurt herself, all the while callin' for him to come. "i read the letter afterwards. it told over and over how he loved her and how no woman could ever be to him what she was; said they was made for each other, and all that; and then it went on to say how he couldn't never see her again; and told about what a grand old family his was, and how his father was so proud and expected such great things from him, that he didn't dare tell, them bein' the last of this here old family, and her bein' a backwoods girl, without any schoolin' or nothin'." "my god! o, my god!" faltered the stranger's voice in the darkness. old matt talked on in a hard easy tone. "course it was all wrote out nice and smooth like he talked, but that's the sense of it. he finished it by sayin' that he would be on his way to the old country when the letter reached her, and that it wouldn't be no use to try to find him. "the girl quieted down after a spell, but her mind never come back. she wasn't just to say plumb crazy, but she seemed kind o' dazed and lost like, and wouldn't take no notice of nobody. acted all the time like she was expectin' him to come. and she'd stand out there by the gate for hours at a time, watchin' the old trail and talkin' low to herself. "pete is her boy, mr. howitt, and as you've seen he ain't just right. seems like he was marked some way in his mind like you've seen other folks marked in their bodies. we've done our best by the boy, sir, but i don't guess he'll ever be any better. once for a spell we tried keepin' him to home, but he got right sick and would o' died sure, if we hadn't let him go; it was pitiful to see him. everybody 'lows there won't nothin' in the woods hurt him nohow; so we let him come and go, as he likes; and he just stops with the neighbors wherever he happens in. folks are all as good to him as they can be, 'cause everybody knows how it is. you see, sir, people here don't think nothin' of a wood's colt, nohow, but we was raised different. as wife says, we've most forgot civilized ways, but i guess there's some things a man that's been raised right can't never forget. "she died when pete was born, and the last thing she said was, 'he'll come, daddy, he'll sure come.' pete says the wind singin' in that big pine over her grave is her a callin' for him yet. it's mighty queer how the boy got that notion, but you see that's the way it is with him. "and that ain't all, sir." the big man moved his chair nearer the other, and lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper; "folks say she's come back. there's them that swears they've seen her 'round the old cabin where they used to meet when he painted her picture, the big one, you know. just before i bought the ranch, it was first; and that's why we can't get no one to stay with the sheep. "i don't know, mr. howitt; i don't know. i've thought a heap about it, i ain't never seen it myself, and it 'pears to me that if she could come back at all, she'd sure come to her old daddy. then again i figure it that bein' took the way she was, part of her dead, so to speak, from the time she got that letter, and her mind so set on his comin' back, that maybe somehow--you see--that maybe she is sort a waitin' for him there. many's the time i have prayed all night that god would let me meet him again just once, or that proud father of his'n, just once, sir; i'd glad go to hell if i could only meet them first. if she is waitin' for him down there, he'll come; he'll sure come. hell couldn't hold him against such as that, and when he comes--" unconsciously, as he spoke the last sentences, the giant's voice took a tone of terrible meaning, and he slowly rose from his seat. when he uttered the last word he was standing erect, his muscles tense, his powerful frame shaken with passion. there was an inarticulate cry of horror, as the mountaineer's guest started to his feet. a moment he stood, then sank back into his chair, a cowering, shivering heap. long into the night, the stranger walked the floor of his little room under the roof, his face drawn and white, whispering half aloud things that would have startled his unsuspecting host. "my boy--my boy--mine! to do such a thing as that! howard--howard. o christ! that i should live to be glad that you are dead! and that picture! his masterpiece, the picture that made his fame, the picture he would never part with, and that we could never find! i see it all now! just god, what a thing to carry on one's soul!" once he paused to stand at the window, looking down upon the valley. the moon had climbed high above the mountain, but beneath the flood of silver light the shadows lay dark and deep in mutton hollow. then as he stood there, from out the shadowy gloom, came the wild, weird song they had heard the evening before. the man at the window groaned. the song sank to a low, moaning wail, and he seemed to hear again the wind in the pine above the grave of the murdered girl. she was calling, calling--would he come back? back from the grave, could he come? the words of the giant mountaineer seemed burned into the father's brain; hell couldn't hold him against such as that. then the man with the proud face, the face of a scholar and poet, drew back from the window, shaking with a fear he could not control. he crept into a corner and crouched upon the floor. with wide eyes, he stared into the dark. he prayed. and this is how it came about that the stranger, who followed the old trail along the higher sunlit ground, followed, also, the other trail down into the valley where the gloomy shadows are; there to live at the ranch near the haunted cabin--the shepherd of mutton hollow. chapter vii. what is love? sammy lane rode very slowly on her way home from the matthews place that morning after the stranger had arrived. she started out at her usual reckless gait, but that was because she knew that young matt was watching her. once in the timber, the brown pony was pulled to a walk, and by the time they came out into the open again, the little horse, unrebuked by his mistress, was snatching mouthfuls of grass as he strolled along the trail. sammy was thinking; thinking very seriously. aunt mollie's parting question had stirred the girl deeply. sammy had seen few people who did not belong to the backwoods. the strangers she had met were hunters or cattlemen, and these had all been, in dress and manner, not unlike the natives themselves. this man, who had come so unexpectedly out of the mists the night before, was unlike anyone the young woman had ever known. like jed holland, she felt somehow as if he were a superior being. the matthews family were different in many ways from those born and raised in the hills. and sammy's father, too, was different. but this stranger--it was quite as though he belonged to another world. coming to the big, low gap, the girl looked far away to the blue line of hills, miles, and miles away. the stranger had come from over these, she thought; and then she fell to wondering what that world beyond the farthest cloud-like ridge was like. of all the people sammy had ever known, young stewart was the only one who had seen even the edge of that world to tell her about it. her father and her friends, the matthews's, never talked of the old days. she had known ollie from a child. with young matt they had gone to and from the log school house along the same road. once, before mr. stewart's death, the boy had gone with his father for a day's visit to the city, and ever after had been a hero to his backwoods schoolmates. it was this distinction, really, that first won sammy's admiration, and made them sweethearts before the girl's skirts had touched the tops of her shoes. before the woman in her was fairly awake she had promised to be his wife; and they were going away now to live in that enchanted land. spying an extra choice bunch of grass a few steps to one side of the path, brownie turned suddenly toward the valley; and the girl's eyes left the distant ridge for the little cabin and the sheep corral in mutton hollow. sammy always spoke of that cabin as "young matt's house." and, all unbidden now, the thought came, who would live with the big fellow down there in the valley when she had gone far away to make her home with ollie and his people in the city? an impatient tug at the reins informed brownie that his mistress was aware of his existence, and, for a time, the pony was obliged to pass many a luscious bunch of grass. but soon the reins fell slack again. the little horse moved slowly, and still more slowly, until, by the relaxed figure of his rider, he knew it was safe to again browse on the grass along the path. so, wondering, dreaming, sammy lane rode down the trail that morning--the trail that is nobody knows how old. and on the hill back of the matthews house a team was standing idle in the middle of the field. at the big rock on the mountain side, where the trail seems to pause a moment before starting down to the valley, the girl slipped from her saddle, and, leaving brownie to wander at will, climbed to her favorite seat. half reclining in the warm sunshine, she watched the sheep feeding near, and laughed aloud as she saw the lambs with wagging tails, greedily suckling at their mother's sides; near by in a black-haw bush a mother bird sat on her nest; a gray mare, with a week old colt following on unsteady legs, came over the ridge; and not far away; a mother sow with ten squealing pigs came out of the timber. keeping very still the young woman watched until they disappeared around the mountain. then, lifting her arms above her head, she stretched her lithe form out upon the warm rocky couch with the freedom and grace of a wild thing of the woods. sammy lane knew nothing of the laws and customs of the, so-called, best society. her splendid young womanhood was not the product of those social traditions and rules that kill the instinct of her kind before it is fairly born. she was as free and as physically perfect as any of the free creatures that lived in the hills. and, keenly alive to the life that throbbed and surged about her, her woman's heart and soul responded to the spirit of the season. the droning of the bees in the blossoms that grew in a cranny of the rock; the tinkle, tinkle of the sheep bells, as the flock moved slowly in their feeding; and the soft breathing of mother earth was in her ears; while the gentle breeze that stirred her hair came heavy with the smell of growing things. lying so, she looked far up into the blue sky where a buzzard floated on lazy wings. if she were up there she perhaps could see that world beyond the hills. then suddenly a voice came to her, aunt mollie's voice, "how do you reckon you'll like bein' a fine lady, sammy, and a livin' in the city with the big folks?" the girl turned on her side and rising on one elbow looked again at mutton hollow with its little cabin half hidden in the timber. and, as she looked, slowly her rich red life colored cheek, and neck, and brow. with a gesture of impatience, sammy turned away to her own home on the southern slope of the mountain, just in time to see a young woman ride into the clearing and dismount before the cabin door. it was her friend, mandy ford. the girl on the rock whistled to her pony, and, mounting, made her way down the hill. all that day the strange guest at the matthews place was the one topic of conversation between the two girls. "shucks," said mandy, when sammy had finished a very minute description of mr. howitt; "he's jest some revenue, like's not." sammy tossed her head; "revenue! you ought to see him! revenues don't come in no such clothes as them, and they don't talk like him, neither." "can't tell 'bout revenues," retorted the other. "don't you mind how that'n fooled everybody over on th' bend last year? he was jest as common as common, and folks all 'lowed he was just one of 'em." "but this one ain't like anybody that we ever met up with, and that's jest it," returned sammy. mandy shook her head; "you say he ain't huntin'; he sure ain't buyin' cattle this time o' year; and he ain't a wantin' t' locate a comin' in on foot; what else can he be but a revenue?" to which sammy replied with an unanswerable argument; "look a here, mandy ford; you jest tell me, would a low down revenue ask a blessin' like parson bigelow does?" at this mandy gave up the case, saying in despair, "well, what is he a doin' here then? 'tain't likely he's done come into th' woods fer nothin'." "he told old matt that he was sick and tired of it all," answered the other. "did he look like he was ailin'?" sammy replied slowly, "i don't reckon it's that kind of sickness he meant; and when you look right close into his eyes, he does 'pear kind o' used up like." in connection with this discussion, it was easy to speak of miss lane's fairy prospects, for, was not the stranger from the city? and was not sammy going to live in that land of wonders? the two girls were preparing for the night, when sammy, who was seated on the edge of the bed, paused, with one shoe off, to ask thoughtfully, "mandy, what is love, anyhow?" mandy looked surprised. "i reckon you ought to know," she said with a laugh; "ollie's been a hangin' 'round you ever since i can remember." sammy was struggling with a knot in the other shoe lace; "yes," she admitted slowly; "i reckon i had ought to know; but what do you say it is, mandy?" "why, hit's--hit's--jest a caring fer somebody more'n fer ary one else in th' whole world." "is that all?" the knot was still stubborn. "no, hit ain't all. hit's a goin' t' live with somebody an' a lettin' him take care o' you, 'stead o' your folks." sammy was still struggling with the knot. "an' hit's a cookin' an' a scrubbin' an' a mendin' fer him, an'--an'--sometimes hit's a splittin' wood, an' a doin' chores, too; an' i reckon that's all." just here the knot came undone, and the shoe dropped to the floor with a thud. sammy sat upright. "no, it ain't, mandy; it's a heap more'n that; it's a nursin' babies, and a takin' care of 'em 'till they're growed up, and then when they're big enough to take care o' themselves, and you're old and in the way, like grandma bowles, it's a lookin' back over it all, and bein' glad you done married the man you did. it's a heap more'n livin' with a man, mandy; it's a doin' all that, without ever once wishin' he was somebody else." this was too much for mandy; she blushed and giggled, then remarked, as she gazed admiringly at her friend, "you'll look mighty fine, sammy, when you get fixed up with all them pretties you'll have when you an' ollie git married. i wish my hair was bright an' shiny like yourn. how do you reckon you'll like bein' a fine lady anyhow?" here it was again. sammy turned upon her helpless friend, with, "how do i know if i would like it or not? what is bein' a fine lady, anyhow?" "why, bein' a fine lady is--is livin' in a big house with carpets on th' floor, an' lookin' glasses, an' not havin' no work t' do, an' wearin' pretty clothes, with lots of rings an' things, an'-an'," she paused; then finished in triumph, "an' a ridin' in a carriage." that wide questioning look was in sammy's eyes as she returned, "it's a heap more'n that, mandy. i don't jest sense what it is, but i know 'tain't all them things that makes a sure 'nough lady. 'tain't the clothes he wears that makes mr. howitt different from the folks we know. he don't wear no rings, and he walks. he's jest different 'cause he's different; and would be, no matter what he had on or where he was." this, too, was beyond mandy. sammy continued, as she finished her preparations for retiring; "this here house is plenty big enough for me, least wise it would be if it had one more room like the cabin in mutton hollow; carpets would be mighty dirty and unhandy to clean when the men folks come trampin' in with their muddy boots; i wouldn't want to wear no dresses so fine i couldn't knock 'round in the brush with them; and it would be awful to have nothin' to do; as for a carriage, i wouldn't swap brownie for a whole city full of carriages." she slipped into bed and stretched out luxuriously. "do you reckon i could be a fine lady, and be as i am now, a livin' here in the hills?" the next day mandy went back to her home on jake creek. and in the evening sammy's father, with wash gibbs, returned, both men and horses showing the effects of a long, hard ride. chapter viii. "why ain't we got no folks." preachin' bill says "there's a heap o' difference in most men, but jim lane now he's more different than ary man you ever seed. ain't no better neighbor'n jim anywhere. ride out o' his way any time t' do you a favor. but you bet there ain't ary man lives can ask jim any fool questions while jim's a lookin' at him. tried it onct myself. jim was a waitin' at th' ferry fer wash gibbs, an' we was a talkin' 'long right peart 'bout crops an' th' weather an' such, when i says, says i, like a dumb ol' fool, 'how'd you like it down in texas, jim, when you was there that time?' i gonies! his jaw shet with a click like he'd cocked a pistol, an' that look o' hisn, like he was a seein' plumb through you, come int' his eyes, an' he says, says he, quiet like, 'd' you reckon that rain over on james yesterday raised th' river much?' an' 'fore i knowed it, i was a tellin' him how that ol' red bull o' mine treed th' perkins' boys when they was a possum huntin'." many stories of the bald knobber days, when the law of the land was the law of rifle and rope, were drifting about the country side, and always, when these tales were recited, the name of jim lane was whispered; while the bolder ones wondered beneath their breath where jim went so much with that wash gibbs, whose daddy was killed by the government. mr. lane was a tall man, well set up, with something in his face and bearing that told of good breeding; southern blood, one would say, by the dark skin, and the eyes, hair, and drooping mustache of black. his companion, wash gibbs, was a gigantic man; taller and heavier, even, than the elder matthews, but more loosely put together than old matt; with coarse, heavy features, and, as grandma bowles said, "the look of a sheep killin' dog." grandma, being very near her journey's end, could tell the truth even about wash gibbs, but others spoke of the giant only in whispers, save when they spoke in admiration of his physical powers. as the two men swung stiffly from their saddles, sammy came running to greet her father with a kiss of welcome; this little exhibition of affection between parent and child was one of the many things that marked the lanes as different from the natives of that region. your true backwoodsman carefully hides every sign of his love for either family or friends. wash gibbs stood looking on with an expression upon his brutal face that had very little of the human in it. releasing his daughter, mr. lane said, "got anything to eat, honey? we're powerful hungry. wash 'lowed we'd better tie up at the river, but i knew you'd be watching for me. the horses are plumb beat." and gibbs broke in with a coarse laugh, "i wouldn't mind killin' a hoss neither, if i was t' git what you do at th' end o' th' ride." to this, jim made no reply; but began loosening the saddle girths, while sammy only said, as she turned toward the house, "i'll have supper ready for you directly, daddy." while the host was busy caring for his tired horse, the big man, who did not remove the saddle from his mount, followed the girl into the cabin. "can't you even tell a feller, howdy?" he exclaimed, as he entered the kitchen. "i did tell you, howdy," replied the girl sharply, stirring up the fire. "'pears like you might o' been a grain warmer about hit," growled the other, seating himself where he could watch her. "if i'd been young matt er that skinny ollie stewart, you'd a' been keen enough." sammy turned and faced him with angry eyes; "look a here, wash gibbs, i done tol' you last thursday when you come for daddy that you'd better let me alone. i don't like you, and i don't aim to ever have anything to do with you. you done fixed yourself with me that time at the cove picnic. i'll tell daddy about that if you don't mind. i don't want to make no trouble, but you just got to quit pestering me." the big fellow sneered. "i 'lowed you might change your mind 'bout that some day. jim ain't goin' t' say nothin' t' me, an' if he did, words don't break no bones. i'm a heap th' best man in this neck o' th' woods, an' your paw knows hit. you know it, too." under his look, the blood rushed to the girl's face in a burning blush. in spite of her anger she dropped her eyes, and, without attempting a reply, turned to her work. a moment later, mr. lane entered the room; a single glance at his daughter's face, a quick look at wash gibbs, as the bully sat following with wolfish eyes every movement of the girl, and jim stepped quietly in front of his guest. at the same moment, sammy left the house for a bucket of water, and wash turned toward his host with a start to find the dark faced man gazing at him with a look that few men could face with composure. without a word, jim's right hand crept stealthily inside his hickory shirt, where a button was missing. for a moment gibbs tried to return the look. he failed. something he read in the dark face before him--some meaning light in those black eyes--made him tremble and he felt, rather than saw, jim's hand resting quietly now inside the hickory shirt near his left arm pit. the big man's face went white beneath the tan, his eyes wavered and shifted, he hung his head and shuffled his feet uneasily, like an overgrown school-boy brought sharply to task by the master. then jim, his hand still inside his shirt, drawled, softly, but with a queer metallic ring in his voice, "do you reckon it's a goin' t' storm again?" at the commonplace question, the bully drew a long breath and looked around. "we might have a spell o' weather," he muttered; "but i don't guess it'll be t'night." then sammy returned and they had supper. next to his daughter, jim lane loved his violin, and with good reason, for the instrument had once belonged to his greatgrandfather, who, tradition says, was a musician of no mean ability. preachin' bill "'lowed there was a heap o' difference between a playin' a violin an' jest fiddlin'. you wouldn't know some fellers was a makin' music, if you didn't see 'em a pattin' their foot; but hit ain't that a way with jim lane. he sure do make music, real music." as no one ever questioned bill's judgment, it is safe to conclude that mr. lane inherited something of his greatgrandfather's ability; along with his treasured instrument. when supper was over, and wash gibbs had gone on his way; jim took the violin from its peg above the fireplace, and, tucking it lovingly under his chin, gave himself up to his favorite pastime, while sammy moved busily about the cabin, putting things right for the night. when her evening tasks were finished, the girl came and stood before her father. at once the music ceased and the violin was laid carefully aside. sammy seated herself on her father's knee. "law', child, but you're sure growin' up," said jim, with a mock groan at her weight. "yes, daddy, i reckon i'm about growed; i'll be nineteen come christmas." "o shucks!" ejaculated the man. "it wasn't more'n last week that you was washin' doll clothes, down by the spring." the young woman laughed. "i didn't wash no doll clothes last week," she said. then her voice changed, and that wide, questioning look, the look that made one think so of her father, came into her eyes. "there's something i want to ask you, daddy jim. you--you know--ollie's goin' away, an'--an'--an' i was thinkin' about it all day yesterday, an', daddy, why ain't we got no folks?" mr. lane stirred uneasily. sammy continued, "there's the matthews's, they've got kin back in illinois; mandy ford's got uncles and aunts over on lang creek; jed holland's got a grandad and mam, and even preachin' bill talks about a pack o' kin folks over in arkansaw. why ain't we got no folks, daddy?" the man gazed long and thoughtfully at the fresh young face of his child; and the black eyes looked into the brown eyes keenly, as he answered her question with another question, "do you reckon you love him right smart, honey? are you sure, dead sure you ain't thinkin' of what he's got 'stead of what he is? i know it'll be mighty nice for you to be one of the fine folks and they're big reasons why you ought, but it's goin' to take a mighty good man to match you--a mighty good man. and it's the man you've got to live with, not his money." "ollie's good, daddy," she returned in a low voice, her eyes fixed upon the floor. "i know, i know," replied jim. "he wouldn't do nobody no harm; he's good enough that way, and i ain't a faultin' him. but you ought to have a man, a sure enough good man." "but tell me, daddy, why ain't we got no folks?" the faintest glimmer of a smile came into the dark face; "you're sure growed up, girl; you're sure growed up, girl; you sure are. an' i reckon you might as well know." then he told her. chapter ix. sammy lane's folks. it began on a big southern plantation, where there were several brothers and sisters, with a gentleman father of no little pride, and a lady mother of equal pride and great beauty. with much care for detail, jim drew a picture of the big mansion with its wide lawns, flower gardens and tree bordered walks; with its wealth of culture, its servants, and distinguished guests; for, said he, "when you get to be a fine lady, you ought to know that you got as good blood as the best of the thorough-breds." and sammy, interrupting his speech with a kiss, bade him go on with his story. then he told how the one black sheep of that proud southern flock had been cast forth from the beautiful home while still hardly grown; and how, with his horse, gun and violin, the wanderer had come into the heart of the ozark wilderness, when the print of moccasin feet was still warm on the old trail. jim sketched broadly here, and for some reason did not fully explain the cause of his banishment; neither did he comment in any way upon its justice or injustice. time passed, and a strong, clear-eyed, clean-limbed, deep-bosomed mountain lass, with all the mastering passion of her kind, mated the free, half wild, young hunter; and they settled in the cabin by the spring on the southern slope of dewey. then the little one came, and in her veins there was mingled the blue blood of the proud southerners and the warm red life of her wilderness mother. again jim's story grew rich in detail. holding his daughter at arm's length, and looking at her through half-closed eyes, he said, "you're like her, honey; you're mighty like her; same eyes, same hair, same mouth, same build, same way of movin', strong, but smooth and free like. she could run clean to the top of dewey, or sit a horse all day. do you ever get tired, girl?" sammy laughed, and shook her head; "i've run from here to the signal tree, lots of times, daddy." "you're like the old folks, too," mused jim; "like them in what you think and say." "tell me more," said the girl. "seems like i remember bein' in a big wagon, and there was a woman there too; was she my mother?" jim nodded, and unconsciously lowered his voice, as he said, "it was in the old bald knobber time. things happened in them days, honey. many's the night i've seen the top of old dewey yonder black with men. it was when things was broke up, that--that your mother and me thought we could do better in texas; so we went," jim was again sketching broadly. "your mother left us there, girl. seemed like she couldn't stand it, bein' away from the hills or somethin', and she just give up. i never did rightly know how it was. we buried her out there, way out on the big plains." "i remember her a little," whispered sammy. jim continued; "then after a time you and me come back to the old place. your mother named you samantha, girl, but bein' as there wasn't no boy, i always called you sammy. it seems right enough that way now, for you've sure been more'n a son to me since we've been alone; and that's one reason why i learned you to ride and shoot with the best of them. "there's them that says i ain't done right by you, bringing you up without ary woman about the place; and i don't know as i have, but somehow i couldn't never think of no woman as i ought, after living with your mother. and then there was aunt mollie to learn you how to cook and do things about the house. i counted a good bit, too, on the old stock, and it sure showed up right. you're like the old folks, girl, in the way you think, but you're like your mother in the way you look." sammy's arms went around her father's neck, "you're a good man, daddy jim; the best daddy a girl ever had; and if i ain't all bad, it's on account of you." there was a queer look on the man's dark face. he had sketched some parts of his tale with a broad hand, indeed. the girl raised her head again; "but, daddy, i wish you'd do something for me. i--i don't like wash gibbs to be a comin' here. i wish you'd quit ridin' with him, daddy. i'm--i'm afeared of him; he looks at me so. he's a sure bad one--i know he is, daddy." jim laughed and again there was that odd metallic note in his voice; "i've knowed him a long time, honey. me and his daddy was-was together when he died; and you used to sit on wash's knee when you was a little tad. not that he's so mighty much older than you, but he was a man's size at fifteen. you don't understand, girl, but i've got to go with him sometimes. but don't you fret; wash gibbs ain't goin' to hurt me, and he won't come here more'n i can help, either." then he changed the subject abruptly. "tell me what you've been doin' while i was away." sammy told of' her visit to their friends at the matthews place, and of the stranger who had come into the neighborhood. as the girl talked, her father questioned her carefully, and several times the metallic note crept into his soft, drawling speech, while into his eyes came that peculiar, searching look, as if he would draw from his daughter even more than she knew of the incident. once he rose, and, going to the door, stood looking out into the night. sammy finished with her answer to mandy ford's opinion of the stranger; "you don't reckon a revenue would ask a blessin', do you, daddy? seems like he just naturally wouldn't dast; god would make the victuals stick in his throat and choke him sure." jim laughed, as he replied, "i don't know, girl; i never heard of a revenue's doin' such. but a feller can't tell." when sammy left him to retire for the night, her father picked up the violin again, and placed it beneath his chin as if to play; but he did not touch the strings, and soon hung the instrument in its place above the mantel. then, going to the doorway, he lighted his pipe, and, for a full hour, sat, looking up the old trail toward the matthews place, his right hand thrust into the bosom of his hickory shirt, where the button was missing. chapter x. a feat of strength and a challenge. what the club is to the city man, and the general store or postoffice to the citizens of the country village, the mill is to the native of the backwoods. made to saw the little rough lumber he needs in his primitive building, or to grind his corn into the rough meal, that is his staff of life, the mill does more for the settler than this; it brings together the scattered population, it is the news center, the heart of the social life, and the hub of the industrial wheel. on grinding day, the ozark mountaineer goes to mill on horse-back, his grist in a sack behind the saddle, or, indeed, taking place of the saddle itself. the rule is, first come, first served. so, while waiting his turn, or waiting for a neighbor who will ride in the same direction, the woodsman has time to contribute his share to the gossip of the country side, or to take part in the discussions that are of more or less vital interest. when the talk runs slow, there are games; pitching horse shoes, borrowed from the blacksmith shop--there is always a blacksmith shop near by; running or jumping contests, or wrestling or shooting matches. fall creek mill, owned and operated by mr. matthews and his son, was located on fall creek in a deep, narrow valley, about a mile from their home. a little old threshing engine, one of the very first to take the place of the horse power, and itself in turn already pushed to the wall by improved competitors, rolled the saw or the burr. this engine, which had been rescued by mr. matthews from the scrap-pile of a springfield machine shop, was accepted as evidence beyond question of the superior intelligence and genius of the matthews family. in fact, fall creek mill gave the whole mutton hollow neighborhood such a tone of up-to-date enterprise, that folks from the bend, or the mouth of the james, looked upon the mutton hollow people with no little envy and awe, not to say even jealousy. the settlers came to the matthews mill from far up the creek, crossing and recrossing the little stream; from iron spring and from gardner, beyond sand ridge, following faint, twisting bridle paths through the forest; from the other side of dewey bald, along the old trail; from the cove and from the postoffice at the forks, down the wagon road, through the pinery; and from wolf ridge and the head of indian creek beyond, climbing the rough mountains. even from the river bottoms they came, yellow and shaking with ague, to swap tobacco and yarns, and to watch with never failing interest the crazy old engine, as young matt patted, and coaxed, and flattered her into doing his will. they began coming early that grinding day, two weeks after mr. howitt had been installed at the ranch. but the young engineer was ready, with a good head of steam in the old patched boiler, and the smoke was rising from the rusty stack, in a long, twisting line, above the motionless tree tops. it was a great day for young matt; great because he knew that sammy lane would be coming to mill; he would see her and talk with her; perhaps if he were quick enough, he might even lift her from the brown pony. it was a great day, too, because ollie stewart would be saying good-by, and before to-morrow would be on his way out of the hills. not that it mattered whether ollie went or not. it was settled that sammy was going to marry young stewart; that was what mattered. and young matt had given her up. and, as he had told his father in the barn that day, it was alright. but still--still it was a great day, because ollie would be saying good-by. it was a great day in young matt's life, too, because on that day he would issue his challenge to the acknowledged champion of the country-side, wash gibbs. but young matt did not know this until afterwards, for it all came about in a very unexpected way. the company had been discussing the new arrival in the neighborhood, and speculating as to the probable length of mr. howitt's stay at the ranch, and while young matt was in the burrhouse with his father, they had gone over yet again the familiar incidents of the ghost story; how "budd wilson seen her as close as from here t' th' shop yonder." how "joe gardner's mule had gone plumb hog-wild when he tried to ride past the ol' ruins near th' ranch." and "how lem wheeler, while out hunting that roan steer o' hisn, had heard a moanin' an' a wailin' under the bluff." upon young matthews returning to his engine, the conversation had been skilfully changed, to ollie stewart and his remarkable good fortune. from ollie and his golden prospects, it was an easy way to sammy lane and her coming marriage. buck thompson was just concluding a glowing tribute to the girl's beauty of face and form when young matt reached for an axe lying near the speaker. said buck, "preachin' bill 'lowed t'other day hit didn't make no difference how much money th' ol' man left ollie he'd be a poor sort of a man anyhow; an' that there's a heap better men than him right here in th' hills that sammy could a' had fer th' askin'." "how 'bout that, matt?" called a young fellow from the river. the big man's face flushed at the general laugh which followed, and he answered hotly, as he swung his axe, "you'd better ask wash gibbs; i hear he says he's the best man in these woods." "i reckin as how wash can back his jedgment there," said joe. "wash is a sure good man," remarked buck, "but there's another not so mighty far away that'll pretty nigh hold, him level." he looked significantly to where young matt was making the big chips fly. "huh," grunted joe. "i tell you, gentlemen, that there man, gibbs, is powerful; yes, sir, he sure is. tell you what i seed him do." joe pulled a twist of tobacco from his hip pocket, and settled down upon his heels, his back against a post. "wash an' me was a goin' to th' settlement last fall, an' jest this side th' camp house, on wilderness road, we struck a threshin' crew stuck in th' mud with their engine. had a break down o' some kind. somethin' th' matter with th' hind wheel. and jest as wash an' me drove up, th' boss of th' outfit was a tellin' 'em t' cut a big pole for a pry t' lift th' hind ex, so's they could block it up, an' fix th' wheel. "wash he looked at 'em a minute an' then says, says he, 'hold on, boys; you don't need ary pole.' "'what do you know 'bout an engine, you darned hill billy,' says th' old man, kind o' short. "'don't know nothin' 'bout an engine, you prairie hopper,' says wash, 'but i know you don't need no pole t' lift that thing.' "'how'd you lift it then?' says t'other. "'why i'd jest catch holt an' lift,' says wash. "the gang like t' bust themselves laughin'. 'why you blame fool,' says the boas; 'do you know what that engine'll weigh?" "'don't care a cuss what she'll weigh,' says wash. 'she ain't planted there, is she?' an' with that he climbs down from th' wagon, an' dad burn me if he didn't take holt o' that hind ex an' lift one whole side o' that there engine clean off th' ground. them fellers jest stood 'round an' looked at him t' beat th' stir. 'well,' says wash, still a keepin' his holt; slide a block under her an' i'll mosey along! "that boss didn't say a word 'till he'd got a bottle from a box on th' wagon an' handed, hit t' wash; then he says kind o' scared like, 'where in hell are you from, mister?' "'oh, i'm jest a kid from over on roark,' says wash, handin' th' bottle t' me. 'you ought t' see some o' th' men in my neighborhood!' then we went on." when the speaker had finished, there was quiet for a little; then the young man from the river drawled, "how much did you say that there engine 'd weigh, joe?" there was a general laugh at this, which the admirer of gibbs took good naturedly; "don't know what she'd weigh but she was 'bout the size o' that one there," he answered. with one accord everyone turned to inspect the mill engine. "pretty good lift, joe. let's you an' me take a pull at her, budd," remarked lem wheeler. the two men lifted and strained at the wheel. then another joined them, and, amid the laughter and good natured raillery of the crowd, the three tried in vain to lift one of the wheels; while mr. matthews, seeing some unusual movement, came into the shed and stood with his son, an amused witness of their efforts. "sure this engine ain't bigger'n t'other, joe?" asked one of the group. "don't believe she weighs a pound more," replied the mountaineer with conviction. "i tell you, gentlemen, that man gibbs is a wonder, he sure is." old matt and his son glanced quickly at each other, and the boy shook his head with a smile. this little by-play was lost on the men who were interested in the efforts of different ones, in groups of three, to move the wheel. when they had at last given it up, the young man from the river drawled, "you're right sure hit weren't after th' boas give you that bottle that wash lifted her, are you joe? or wasn't hit on th' way home from th' settlement?" when the laugh at this insinuation had died out, buck said thoughtfully, "tell you what, boys; i'd like t' see young matt try that lift." mr. matthews, who was just starting back to the burr-house, paused in the doorway. all eyes were fixed upon his son. "try her, matt. show us what you can do," called the men in chorus. but the young man shook his head, and found something that needed his immediate attention. all that morning at intervals the mountaineers urged the big fellow to attempt the feat, but he always put them off with some evasive reply, or was too busy to gratify them. but after dinner, while the men were pitching horse shoes in front of the blacksmith shop, buck thompson approached the young engineer alone. "look a here, matt," he said, "why don't you try that lift? durned me if i don't believe you'd fetch her." the young giant looked around; "i know i can, buck; i lifted her yesterday while dad fixed the blockin'; i always do it that way." buck looked at him in amazement. "well, why in thunder don't you show th' boys, then?" he burst forth at last. "'cause if i do wash gibbs'll hear of it sure, and i'll have to fight him to settle which is th' best man." "good lord!" ejaculated buck, with a groan. "if you're afraid o' wash gibbs, it's th' first thing i ever knowed you t' be scared o'." young matt looked his friend steadily in the eyes, as he replied; "i ain't afraid of wash gibbs; i'm afraid of myself. mr. howitt says, 'no man needn't be afraid of nobody but himself.' i've been a thinkin' lately, buck, an' i see some things that i never see before. i figure it that if i fight wash gibbs or anybody else just to see which is th' best man, i ain't no better'n he is. i reckon i'll have to whip him some day, alright, an' i ain't a carin' much how soon it comes; but i ain't a goin' to hurt nobody for nothin' just because i can." buck made no reply to this. such sentiment was a little too much for his primitive notions. he went back to the men by the blacksmith shop. it was not long, however, until the players left their game, to gather once more about the engine. lem wheeler approached young matt with a serious air; "look a here," he said; "we all want t' see you try that lift." "i ain't got no time for foolin'," replied the young man; "dad's just pushin' to get done before dark." "shucks!" retorted the other; "hit won't take a minute t' try. jest catch hold an' show us what you can do." "what are you all so keen about my liftin' for, anyhow?" demanded the big fellow, suspiciously. "i ain't never set up as the strong man of this country." "well, you see it's this way; buck done bet me his mule colt agin mine that you could lift her; an' we want you to settle th' bet!" exclaimed lem. young matthews shot a glance at the mountaineer, who grinned joyously. "yep," said buck, "that's how it is; i'm a backin' you. don't want you t' hurt yourself for me, but i sure do need that colt o' lem's; hit's a dead match for mine." the giant looked at his friend a moment in silence, then burst into a laugh of appreciation at buck's hint. "seein' as how you're backin' me, buck, i'll have t' get you that mule if i can." he shut off steam, and, as the engine came to a stop, stooped, and, with apparent ease, lifted the rear wheel a full four inches from the ground. loud exclamations of admiration came from the little group of men in the shed. lem turned with a long face, "them colts 'll make a fine team, buck;" he said. "you bet; come over an' hep me break 'em," replied buck, with another grin of delight. "wait 'till wash gibbs hears 'bout this, an' he'll sure be for breakin' young matt," put in another. "better get your fightin' clothes on, matt; wash'll never rest easy until you've done showed him." these and similar remarks revealed the general view of the situation. while the men were discussing the matter, a thin, high-pitched voice from the edge of the crowd, broke in, "that there's a good lift alright, but hit ain't nothin' t' what i seed when i was t' th' circus in th' city." young matt, who had started the engine again, turned quickly. ollie stewart was sitting on a horse near by, and at his side, on the brown pony, was miss sammy lane. they had evidently ridden up just in time to witness the exhibition of the giant's strength. chapter xi. ollie stewart's good-by. beside the splendidly developed young woman, ollie stewart appeared but a weakling. his shoulders were too narrow and he stooped; his limbs were thin; his hair black and straight; and his eyes dull. as young matt stepped forward, ollie dismounted quickly, but the big fellow was first at the brown pony's side. sammy's eyes shone with admiration, and, as the strong man felt their light, he was not at all sorry that he had won the mule colt for buck. "no," she said, declining his offered assistance; she did not wish to get down; they were going to the postoffice and would call for the meal on their way home. young matt lifted the sack of corn from brownie's back and carried it into the shed. when he returned to the group, ollie was saying in his thin voice, "in th' circus i seen in the city there was a feller that lifted a man, big as jed here, clean above his head with one hand." buck turned to his big friend. his look was met by a grim smile that just touched the corners of the lad's mouth, and there was a gleam in the blue eyes that betrayed the spirit within. the lean mountaineer again turned to the company, while the boy glanced at sammy. the girl was watching him and had caught the silent exchange between the two friends. "shucks!" said buck; "matt could do that easy." "try it, matt." "try jed here." "try hit once," called the chorus. this time the big fellow needed no urging. with sammy looking on, he could not resist the opportunity which ollie himself had presented. without a word, but with a quick tightening of the lips, he stepped forward and caught jed by the belt with his right hand; and then, before anyone could guess his purpose, he reached out with his other hand, and grasped ollie himself in the same manner. there was a short step forward, a quick upward swing, and the giant held a man in each hand at full arm's length above his head. amid the shouts of the crowd, still holding the men, he walked deliberately to the blacksmith shop and back; then lowering them easily to their feet, turned to his engine. ollie and sammy rode away together, up the green arched road, and the little company in the mill shed stood watching them. as the finely formed young woman and her inferior escort passed from sight, a tall mountaineer, from the other side of compton ridge, remarked, "i done heard preachin' bill say t'other day, that 'mighty nigh all this here gee-hawin', balkin', and kickin' 'mongst th' married folks comes 'cause th' teams ain't matched up right.' bill he 'lowed god 'lmighty 'd fixed hit somehow so th' birds an' varmints don't make no mistake, but left hit plumb easy for men an' women t' make durned fools o' theirselves." everybody grinned in appreciation, and another spoke up; "according t' that, i'll bet four bits if them two yonder ever do get into double harness, there'll be pieces o' th' outfit strung from th' parson's clean t' th' buryin' ground." when the laughter had subsided, buck turned to see young matt standing just outside the shed, ostensibly doing something with the belt that led to the burr, but in reality looking up the creek. "law!" ejaculated buck, under his breath; "what a team they'd make!" "who?" said lem, who was standing near by. "them mule colts," returned buck with a grin. "they sure will, buck. there ain't two better in the country; they're a dead match. i'll come over an' hep you break 'em when they're big 'nough." and then he wondered why buck swore with such evident delight. one by one the natives received their meal, and, singly, or in groups of two or three, were swallowed up by the great forest. already the little valley was in the shadow of the mountain, though the sun still shone brightly on the tree tops higher up, when ollie and sammy returned from the forks. mr. matthews had climbed the hill when the last grist was ground, leaving his son to cool down the engine and put things right about the mill. "come on, matt," said ollie, as the big fellow brought out the meal; "it's time you was a goin' home." the young giant hung back, saying, "you folks better go on ahead. i'll get home alright." "didn't think nothin' would get you," laughed ollie. "come on, you might as well go 'long with us." the other muttered something about being in the way, and started back into the shed. "hurry up," called sammy, "we're waitin'." after this there was nothing else for the young man to do but join them. and the three were soon making their way up the steep mountain road together. for a time they talked of commonplace things, then young matt opened the subject that was on all their hearts. "i reckon, ollie, this is the last time that you'll ever be a climbin' this old road." as he spoke he was really thinking of the time to come when sammy would climb the road for the last time. "yes," returned stewart; "i go to-morrow 'fore sun up." the other continued; "it'll sure be fine for you to live in the city and get your schoolin' and all that. us folks here in the woods don't know nothin'. we ain't got no chance to learn. you'll be forgettin' us all mighty quick, i reckon, once you get to livin' with your rich kin." "'deed, i won't!" returned ollie warmly. "sammy an' me was a talkin' 'bout that this evenin'. we aim t' always come back t' mutton holler onct a year, an' be just like other folks; don't we, sammy?" the brown pony, stepping on a loose stone, stumbled toward the man walking by his side. and the big fellow put out his hand quickly to the little horse's neck. for an instant, the girl's hand rested on the giant's shoulder, and her face was close to his. then brownie recovered his footing, and young matt drew farther away. ollie continued; "we aim t' have you come t' th' city after a while. i'm goin' t' get uncle dan t' give you a job in th' shops, an' you can get out o' these hills an' be somebody like we'uns." the tone was unmistakably patronizing. the big mountaineer lifted his head proudly, and turned toward the speaker; but before he could reply, sammy broke in eagerly, "law! but that would sure be fine, wouldn't it, matt? i'd know you'd do somethin' big if you only had the chance. i just know you would. you're so--so kind o' big every way," she laughed. "it's a plumb shame for you to be buried alive in these hills." there was nothing said after this, until, coming to the top of the ridge, they stopped. from here ollie and sammy would take the old trail to the girl's home. then, with his eyes on the vast sweep of forest-clad hills and valleys, over which the blue haze was fast changing to purple in the level rays of the sun, young matt spoke. "i don't guess you'd better figure on that. some folks are made to live in the city, and some ain't. i reckon i was built to live in these hills. i don't somehow feel like i could get along without them; and besides, i'd always be knockin' against somethin' there." he laughed grimly, and stretched out his huge arms. "i've got to have room. then there's the folks yonder." he turned his face toward the log house, just showing through the trees. "you know how it is, me bein' the only one left, and dad gettin' old. no, i don't guess you need to count on me bein' more than i am." then suddenly he wheeled about and looked from one face to the other; and there was a faint hint of defiance in his voice, as he finished; "i got an idea, too, that the backwoods needs men same as the cities. i don't see how there ever could be a city even, if it wasn't for the men what cleared the brush. somebody's got to lick wash gibbs some day, or there just naturally won't be no decent livin' in the neighborhood ever." he held up his big hand to the man on the horse; "good-by, and good luck to you, ollie." the horses turned down the old trail and with their riders, passed from sight. that night sammy lane said farewell to her lover, and, with many promises for the future, ollie rode away to his cabin home, to leave the next morning for that world that lies so far--so far away from the world of young matt and his friends, the world that is so easy to get into after all, and so impossible to get out of ever. chapter xii. the shepherd and his flock. all that spring and summer things went smoothly in the mutton hollow neighborhood. the corn was ready to gather, and nothing had happened at the ranch since mr. howitt took charge, while the man, who had appeared so strangely in their midst, had made a large place for himself in the hearts of the simple mountaineers. at first they were disposed to regard him with some distrust, as one apart; he was so unlike themselves. but when he had changed his dress for the rough garb of the hillsman, and, meeting them kindly upon their own ground, had entered so readily into their life, the people by common consent dropped the distinguishing title "mister" for the more familiar one of the backwoods, "dad." not that they lacked in respect or courtesy; it was only their way. and the quiet shepherd accepted the title with a pleased smile, seeming to find in the change an honor to be received not lightly. but while showing such interest in all that made up their world, the man never opened the door for anyone to enter his past. they knew no more of his history than the hints he had given mr. matthews the night he came out of the mists. at the occasional religious meetings in the school house at the forks, mr. howitt was always present, an attentive listener to the sermons of the backwoods preacher. and then, seeing his interest, they asked him to talk to them one day when parson bigelow failed to make his appointment. "he don't holler so much as a regular parson," said uncle josh hensley, "but he sure talks so we'uns can understand." from that time they always called upon him at their public gatherings. so the scholar from the world beyond the ridges slipped quietly into the life of the mountain folk, and took firm root in their affections. and in his face, so "preachin' bill" said, was the look of one who had "done fought his fight to a finish, an' war too dead beat t' even be glad it war all over." between the giant mr. matthews and his shepherd, the friendship, begun that night, grew always stronger. in spite of the difference in education and training, they found much in common. some bond of fellowship, unknown to the mountaineer, at least, drew them close, and the two men spent many evenings upon the front porch of the log house in quiet talk, while the shadows crept over the valley below; and the light went from the sky back of the clump of pines. from the first young matt was strongly drawn to the stranger, who was to have such influence over his life, and pete--pete said that "god lived with dad howitt in mutton hollow." pete somehow knew a great deal about god these days. a strange comradeship had come to be between the thoughtful gentleman, who cared for the sheep, and the ignorant, sorely afflicted, and nameless backwoods boy. the two were always together, out on the hillside and in the little glens and valleys, during the day with the sheep, or at the ranch in the hollow, when the flock was safely folded and the night slipped quietly over the timbered ridges. mr. howitt had fixed a bunk in his cabin for the boy, so that he could come and go at will. often the shepherd awoke in the morning to find that some time during the night his strange friend had come in from his roving. again, after seeing the boy soundly sleeping, the shepherd would arise in the morning to find the bunk empty. sammy lane, too, had fallen under the charm of the man with the white hair and poet's face. sammy was not so often at the matthews place after ollie had gone to the city. the girl could not have told why. she had a vague feeling that it was better to stay away. but this feeling did not prevent her climbing the old trail to the lookout on the shoulder of dewey, and she spent hours at the big rock, looking over the valley to where the smoke from aunt mollie's kitchen curled above the trees. and sometimes, against the sky, she could see a man and a team moving slowly to and fro in the field back of the house. when this happened, sammy always turned quickly away to where the far off line of hills lay like a long, low cloud against the sky. every week the girl rode her brown pony to the postoffice at the forks; and when she had a letter, things were different. she always stopped then at the matthews home. one day when this happened, dad and pete were on the ridge above the old trail, just where the north slope of dewey shades into the rim of the hollow. the elder man was seated on the ground in the shade of an oak, with his back against the trunk of the tree, while the boy lay full length on the soft grass, looking up into the green depths of foliage where a tiny brown bird flitted from bough to bough. in his quaint way, pete was carrying on a conversation with his little friend in the tree top, translating freely the while for his less gifted, but deeply interested, companion on the ground below, when brave, the shepherd dog, lying near, interrupted the talk by a short bark. looking up, they saw young matt riding along the summit of the ridge. the young man paused when he heard the dog, and caught sight of the two under the tree; then he came to them, and seated himself on the grass at pete's side. he spoke no word of greeting, and the look on his face was not good to see. pete's eyes went wide with fear at the manner of his big friend, and he drew back as if to run, but when young matt, throwing himself over on the grass, had hidden his face, a half sad, half knowing look came into the lad's delicate features; reaching forth a hand, as slim as a girl's, he stroked the shaggy, red brown head, as he murmured softly, "poor matt. poor matt. does it hurt? is matt hurt? it'll be better by-and-by." the great form on the grass stirred impatiently. the shepherd spoke no word. pete continued, stroking the big head, and talking in low, soothing tones, as one would hush a child, "pete don't know what's a hurtin' young matt, but it'll be alright, some day. it'll sure grow over after awhile. ain't nothing won't grow over after awhile; 'cause god he says so." still the older man was silent. then the giant burst forth in curses, and the shepherd spoke, "don't do that, grant. it's not like you, lad. you cannot help your trouble that way." young matt turned over to face his friend; "i know it, dad;" he growled defiantly; "but i just got to say somethin'; i ain't meanin' no disrespect to god 'lmighty, and i reckon he ought to know it; but--" he broke forth again. pete drew back in alarm. "look your trouble in the face, lad," said the shepherd; "don't let it get you down like this." "look it in the face!" roared the other. "good god! that's just it! ain't i a lookin' it in the face every day? you don't know about it, dad. if you did, you--you'd cuss too." he started in again. "i know more than you think, grant," said the other, when the big fellow had stopped swearing to get his breath. while he spoke, the shepherd was looking away along the old trail. "there comes your trouble now," he added, pointing to a girl on a brown pony, coming slowly out of the timber near the deer lick. the young man made no reply. pete, at sight of the girl, started to his feet, but the big fellow pulled him down again, and made the boy understand that he must not betray their position. when sammy reached the sheep, she checked her pony, and searched the hillside with her eyes, while her clear call went over the mountain, "oh--h--h--dad!" young matt shook his head savagely at his companion, and even brave was held silent by a low "be still" from his master. again sammy looked carefully on every side, but lying on the higher ground, and partly hidden by the trees, the little group could not be seen. when there was no answer to her second call, the girl drew a letter from her pocket, and, permitting the pony to roam at will, proceeded to read. the big man, looking on, cursed again beneath his breath. "it's from ollie," he whispered to his companions. "she stopped at the house. he says his uncle will give me a job in the shops, and that it'll be fine for me, 'cause ollie will be my boss himself. he my boss! why, dad burn his sneakin' little soul, i could crunch him with one hand. i'd see him in hell before i'd take orders from him. i told her so, too," he finished savagely. "and what did she say?" asked the shepherd quietly, his eyes on the girl below. "just said, kind o' short like, that she reckoned i could. then i come away." the girl finished her letter, and, after another long call for dad, moved on over the shoulder of the mountain. pete, who had withdrawn a little way from his companions, was busily talking in his strange manner to his unseen friends. then young matt opened his heart to the shepherd and told him all. it was the old, old story; and, as mr. howitt listened, dreams that he had thought dead with the death of his only son, stirred again in his heart, and his deep voice was vibrant with emotion as he sought to comfort the lad who had come to him. while they talked, the sun dropped until its lower edge touched the top of the tallest pine on wolf ridge, and the long shadows lay over the valley below. "i'm mighty sorry i let go and cuss, dad," finished, the boy. "but i keep a holdin' in, and a holdin' in, 'til i'm plumb wild; then something happens like that letter, and i go out on the range and bust. i've often wished you knowed. seems like your just knowin' about it will help me to hold on. i get scared at myself sometimes, dad, i do, honest." "i'm glad, too, that you have told me, grant. it means more to me than you can guess. i--i had a boy once, you know. he was like you. he would have come to me this way, if he had lived." the sheep had begun working toward the lower ground. the shepherd rose to his feet. "take them home, brave. come on, boys, you must eat with me at the ranch, to-night." then the three friends, the giant mountaineer, the strangely afflicted youth, and the old scholar went down the mountain side together. as they disappeared in the timber on the lower level, the bushes, near which they had been sitting, parted silently, and a man's head and shoulders appeared from behind a big rock. the man watched the strange companions out of sight. then the bushes swayed together, and the mountain seemed to have swallowed him up. the three friends had just finished their supper when pete saw sammy entering the ranch clearing. young matt caught up his hat. at the rear door he paused. "i've got to go now, dad," he said awkwardly. "i can't see her any more to-day. but if you'll let me, i'll come again when things get too hot." the shepherd held out his hand, "i understand. come always, my boy." the big fellow, with pete, skipped away into the timber at the rear of the cabin, a moment before sammy appeared at the open door in front. chapter xiii. sammy lane's ambition. "law sakes!" cried sammy, looking at the table. "you don't use all them dishes, do you, dad? you sure must eat a lot." "oh, i eat enough," laughed mr. howitt; "but it happens that i had company this evening. young matt and pete were here for supper." he brought two chairs outside the cabin. "shucks!" exclaimed sammy, as she seated herself, and removed her sunbonnet; "they must've eat and run. wish'd i'd got here sooner. young matt run away from me this afternoon. and i wanted to see him 'bout mandy ford's party next week. i done promised mandy that i'd bring him. i reckon he'd go with me if i asked him." "there is not the least doubt about that," observed the man; "i'm sure anyone would be glad for such charming company." the girl looked up suspiciously; "are you a jokin'?" she said. "indeed, i am not; i am very much in earnest." then, taking a cob pipe from his pocket, he added, politely, "may i smoke?" "heh? o law! yes. what you ask me for?" she watched him curiously, as he filled and lighted the pipe. "i reckon that's because you was raised in the city," he added slowly; "is that the way folks do there?" "folks smoke here, sometimes, do they not?" he returned between puffs. "i don't mean that. course they smoke and chew, too. and the women dip snuff, some of 'em. aunt mollie matthews don't, though, and i ain't never goin' to, 'cause she don't. but nobody don't ask nobody else if they can. they just go ahead. that ain't the only way you're different from us, though," she continued, looking at mr. howitt, with that wide questioning gaze. "you're different in a heap o' ways. 'tain't that you wear different clothes, for you don't, no more. nor, 'taint that you act like you were any better'n us. i don't know what it is, but it's somethin'. take your stayin' here in mutton hollow, now; honest, dad, ain't you afear'd to stay here all alone at nights?" "afraid? afraid of what?" he looked at her curiously. "hants," said the girl, lowering her voice; "down there." she pointed toward the old ruined cabin under the bluff. "she's sure been seen there. what if he was to come, too? don't you believe in hants?" the shepherd's face was troubled, as he answered, "i don't know, sammy. i scarcely know what i believe. some marvelous experiences are related by apparently reliable authorities; but i have always said that i could not accept the belief. i--i am not so sure now. after all, the unseen world is not so very far away. strange forces, of which we know nothing, are about us everywhere. i dare not say that i do not believe." "but you ain't scared?" "why should i fear?" sammy shook her head. "ain't 'nother man or woman in the whole country would dast spend the night here, dad; except pete, of course. not even young matt, nor my daddy would do it; and i don't guess they're afraid of anything--anything that's alive, i mean. you're sure different, dad; plumb different. i reckon it must be the city that does it. and that's what i've come to see you about this evenin'. you see ollie's been a tellin' me a lot about folks and things way over there." she waived her hand toward the ridges that shut in the hollow. "and ollie he's changed a heap himself since he went there to live. i got a letter to-day, and, when i went home, i hunted up the first one he wrote, and i can tell there's a right smart difference already. you know all about ollie and me goin' to get married, i reckon?" mr. howitt admitted that he had heard something of that nature; and sammy nodded, "i 'lowed you'd know. but you don't know how mighty proud and particular ollie always is. i figure that bein' in the city with all them one folks ain't goin' to make him any less that way than he was. and if he stays there and keeps on a changin', and i stay here, and don't change none, why it might be that i--i--" she faltered and came to a dead stop, twisting her bonnet strings nervously in her confusion. "ollie he ain't like young matt, nohow," she said again. "such as that wouldn't make no difference with him. but ollie--well you see--" there was a twinkle, now, in the shepherd's eye, as he answered; "yes, i see; i am quite sure that i see." the girl continued; "you know all about these things, dad. and there ain't nobody else here that does. will you learn me to be a sure 'nough lady, so as ollie won't--so he won't--" again she paused in confusion. it was evident, from the look on mr. howitt's face, that, whatever he saw, it was not this. "i feel somehow like i could do it, if i had a chance," she murmured. there was no answer. after a time, sammy stole a look at her quiet companion. what could the man in the chair be thinking about? his pipe was neglected; his gray head bowed. "course," said the young woman, with just a little lifting of her chin; "course, if i couldn't never learn, there ain't no use to try." the old scholar raised his head and looked long at the girl. her splendid form, glowing with the rich life and strength of the wilderness, showed in every line the proud old southern blood. could she learn to be a fine lady? mr. howitt thought of the women of the cities, pale, sickly, colorless, hot-house posies, beside this mountain flower. what would this beautiful creature be, had she their training? what would she gain? what might she not lose? aloud he said, "my dear child, do you know what it is that you ask?" sammy hung her head, abashed at his serious tone. "i 'lowed it would be right smart trouble for you," she said. "but i could let you have brownie in pay; he ain't only five year old, and is as sound as a button. he's all i've got, mr. howitt. but i'd be mighty proud to swap him to you." "my girl, my girl," said the shepherd, "you misunderstand me. i did not mean that. it would be a pleasure to teach you. i was thinking how little you realized what the real life of the city is like, and how much you have that the 'fine ladies,' as you call them, would give fortunes for, and how little they have after all that could add one ray of brightness to your life." sammy laughed aloud, as she cried, "me got anything that anybody would want? why, dad, i ain't got nothin' but brownie, and my saddle, and--and that's all. i sure ain't got nothing to lose." the man smiled in sympathy. then slowly a purpose formed in his mind. "and if you should lose, you will never blame me?" he said at last. "never, never," she promised eagerly. "alright, it is a bargain. i will help you." the girl sprang to her feet. "i knew you would. i knew you would. i was plumb sure you would," she cried, fairly quivering with life and excitement. "it's got to be a sure 'nough lady, dad. i want to be a really truly fine lady, like them ollie tells about in his letters, you know." "yes, sammy. i understand, a 'sure enough' lady, and we will do it, i am sure. but it will take a great deal of hard work on your part, though." "i reckon it will," she returned soberly, coming back to her seat. then drawing her chair a little closer, she leaned toward her teacher, "begin now," she commanded. "tell me what i must do first." mr. howitt carefully searched his pockets for a match, and lighted his pipe again, before he said, "first you must know what a 'sure enough' lady is. you see, sammy, there are several kinds of women who call themselves ladies, but are not real ladies after all; and they all look very much like the 'sure enough' kind; that is, they look like them to most people." sammy nodded, "just like them thompsons down by flat rock. they're all mighty proud, 'cause they come from illinois the same as the matthews's. you'd think to hear 'em that old matt couldn't near run the ranch without 'em, and some folks, strangers like, might believe it. but we all know they ain't nothing but just low down trash, all the time, and no better than some of them folks over on the bend." the shepherd smiled, "something like that. i see you understand. now a real lady, sammy, is a lady in three ways: first, in her heart; i mean just to herself, in the things that no one but she could ever know. a 'sure enough' lady does not pretend to be; she is." again the girl broke in eagerly, "that's just like aunt mollie, ain't it? couldn't no one ever have a finer lady heart than her." "indeed, you are right," agreed the teacher heartily. "and that is the thing that lies at the bottom of it all, sammy. the lady heart comes first." "i won't never forget that," she returned. "i couldn't forget aunt mollie, nohow. tell me more, dad." "next, the 'sure enough' lady must have a lady mind. she must know how to think and talk about the things that really matter. all the fine dresses and jewels in the world can't make a real lady, if she does not think, or if she thinks only of things that are of no value. do you see?" again the girl nodded, and, with a knowing smile, answered quickly, "i know a man like that. and i see now that that is what makes him so different from other folks. it's the things he thinks about all to himself that does it. but i've got a heap to learn, i sure have. i could read alright, if i had something to read, and i reckon i could learn to talk like you if i tried hard enough. what else is there?" then, continued the shepherd, "a lady will keep her body as strong and as beautiful as she can, for this is one way that she expresses her heart and mind. do you see what i mean?" sammy answered slowly, "i reckon i do. you mean i mustn't get stooped over and thin chested, and go slouching around, like so many of the girls and women around here do, and i mustn't let my clothes go without buttons, 'cause i am in a hurry, and i must always comb my hair, and keep my hands as white as i can. is that it?" "that's the idea," said the shepherd. sammy gazed ruefully at a large rent in her skirt, and at a shoe half laced. then she put up a hand to her tumbled hair. "i--i didn't think it made any difference, when only home folks was around," she said. "that's just it, my child," said the old man gently. "i think a 'sure enough' lady would look after these things whether there was anyone to see her or not; just for herself, you know. and this is where you can begin. i will send for some books right away, and when they come we will begin to train your mind." "but the heart, how'll i get a lady heart, dad?" "how does the violet get its perfume, sammy? where does the rose get its color? how does the bird learn to sing its song?" for a moment she was puzzled. then her face lighted; "i see!" she exclaimed. "i'm just to catch it from folks like aunt mollie, and--and someone else i know. i'm just to be, not to make believe or let on like i was, but to be a real lady inside. and then i'm to learn how to talk and look, like i know myself to be." she drew a long breath as she rose to go. "it'll be mighty hard, dad, in some ways; but it'll sure be worth it all when i get out 'mong the folks. i'm mighty thankful to you, i sure am. and i hope you won't never be sorry you promised to help me." as the girl walked swiftly away through the thickening dusk of the evening, the shepherd watched her out of sight; then turned toward the corral for a last look at the sheep, to see that all was right for the night. "brave, old fellow," he said to the dog who trotted by his side; "are we going to make another mistake, do you think? we have made so many, so many, you know." brave looked up into the master's face, and answered with his low bark, as though to declare his confidence. "well, well, old dog, i hope you are right. the child has a quick mind, and a good heart; and, if i am not mistaken, good blood. we shall see. we shall see." suddenly the dog whirled about, the hair on his back bristling as he gave a threatening growl. a man on a dun colored mule was coming up the road. chapter xiv. the common yeller kind. mr. howitt stood quietly by the corral gate when the horseman rode up. it was wash gibbs, on his way home from an all day visit with friends on the river. when the big mountaineer took the short cut through mutton hollow, he thought to get well past the ranch before the light failed. no matter how well fortified with the courage distilled by his friend, jennings, the big man would never have taken the trail by the old ruined cabin alone after dark. he had evidently been riding at a good pace, for his mule's neck and flanks were wet with sweat. gibbs, himself, seemed greatly excited, and one hand rested on the pistol at his hip, as he pulled up in front of the shepherd. without returning mr. howitt's greeting, he pointed toward the two empty chairs in front of the house, demanding roughly, "who was that with you before you heard me comin'?" "sammy lane was here a few minutes ago," replied the shepherd. gibbs uttered an oath, "she was, was she? well, who was th' man?" "there was no man," returned the other. "young matt and pete were here for supper, but they went as soon as the meal was finished, before sammy came." "don't you try to lie to me!" exclaimed the big man, with another burst of language, and a threatening movement with the hand that rested on the pistol. mr. howitt was startled. never in his life before had such words been addressed to him. he managed to reply with quiet dignity, "i have no reason for deceiving you, or anyone else, mr. gibbs. there has been no man here but myself, since matt and pete left after supper." the shepherd's manner carried conviction, and gibbs hesitated, evidently greatly perplexed. during the pause, brave growled again, and faced toward the cliff below the corral, his hair bristling. "what's th' matter with that dog?" said gibbs, turning uneasily in his saddle, to face in the direction the animal was looking. "what is it, brave?" said mr. howitt. the only answer was an uneasy whine, followed by another growl, all of which said plainly, in dog talk, "i don't know what it is, but there is something over there on that cliff that i don't like." "it must be some animal," said the shepherd. "ain't no animal that makes a dog act like that. did any body pass while you was a sittin' there, jest before i come in sight?" "not a soul," answered the other. "did you meet someone down the road?" the big man looked at the shepherd hard before he answered, in a half-frightened, half-bullying tone, "i seed something in th' road yonder, an' hit disappeared right by th' old shack under th' bluffs." he twisted around in his saddle again, facing the cliff with its dense shadows and dim twilight forms, as he muttered, "if i was only right sure, i--" then swinging back he leaned toward the man on the ground; "look a here, mister. there's them that 'lows there's things in this here holler t' be afeared of, an' i reckon hit's so. there's sure been hell t' pay at that there cabin down yonder. i ain't a sayin' what hit was i seed, but if hit war anywhere else, i'd a said hit was a man; but if hit was a man, i don't know why you didn't see him when he come past; er else you're a lyin'. i jest want t' tell you, you're right smart of a stranger in these here parts, even if you have been a workin' fer ol' matt all summer. you're too blame careful 'bout talkin' 'bout yourself, or tellin' whar you come from, t' suit some folks. some strangers are alright, an' again some ain't. but we don't aim t' have nobody in this here neighborhood what jumps into th' brush when they see an honest man a comin'." as he finished speaking, gibbs straightened himself in the saddle, and before mr. howitt could reply, the dun mule, at a touch of the spur, had dashed away up the road in the direction taken by sammy lane. it was quite dark in the heavy timber of the hollow by the time sammy had reached the edge of the open ground on the hill side, but once on the higher level, clear of the trees, the strong glow of the western sky still lighted the way. from here it was not far to the girl's home, and, as she climbed a spur of dewey, sammy saw the cabin, and heard distinctly the sweet strain's of her father's violin. on top of the rise, the young woman paused a moment to enjoy the beauties of the evening, which seemed to come to her with a new meaning that night. as she stood there, her strong young figure was clearly outlined against the sky to the man who was riding swiftly along the road over which she had just passed. sammy turned when she heard the quick beating of the mule's feet; then, recognizing the huge form of the horseman, as he came out of the woods into the light, she started quickly away towards her home; but the mule and its rider were soon beside her. "howdy, sammy." gibbs leaped from the saddle, and, with the bridle rein over his arm, came close to the girl. "fine evening for a walk." "howdy," returned the young woman, coolly, quickening her pace. "you needn't t' be in such a powerful hurry," growled wash. "if you've got time t' talk t' that old cuss at th' ranch, you sure got time t' talk t' me." sammy turned angrily. "you'd better get back on your mule, and go about your business, wash gibbs. when i want you to walk with me, i'll let you know." "that's alright, honey," exclaimed the other insolently. "i'm a goin' your way just th' same; an' we'll mosey 'long t'gether. i was a goin' home, but i've got business with your paw now." "worse thing for daddy, too," flashed the girl. "i wish you'd stay away from him." wash laughed; "your daddy couldn't keep house 'thout me, nohow. who was that feller talkin' with you an' th' old man down yonder?" "there wasn't nobody talkin' to us," replied sammy shortly. "that's what he said, too," growled gibbs; "but i sure seed somebody a sneakin' into th' brush when i rode up. i thought when i was down there hit might o' been a hant; but i know hit was a man, now. there's somethin' mighty funny a goin' on around here, since that feller come int' th' neighborhood; an' he'll sure find somethin' in mutton holler more alive than ol' matt's gal if he ain't careful." the girl caught her breath quickly. she knew the big ruffian's methods, and with good reason feared for her old friend, should he even unconsciously incur the giant's displeasure. as they drew near the house, wash continued, "young matt he was there too. let me tell you i ain't forgot 'bout his big show at th' mill last spring; he'll have t' do a heap better'n he done then, when i get 'round t' him." sammy laughed scornfully, "'pears like you ain't been in no hurry t' try it on. i ain't heard tell of young matt's leaving th' country yet. you'd better stay away from jennings' still though, when you do try it." then, while the man was tying his mule to the fence, she ran into the cabin to greet her father with a hysterical sob that greatly astonished jim. before explanations could be made, a step was heard approaching the door, and sammy had just time to say, "wash gibbs," in answer to her father's inquiring look, when the big man entered. mr. lane arose to hang his violin on its peg. "don't stop fer me, jim," said the newcomer. "jest let her go. me an' sammy's been havin' a nice little walk, an' some right peart music would sound mighty fine." gibbs was angered beyond reason at sammy's last words, or he would have exercised greater care. sammy's father made no reply until the girl had left the room, but whatever it was that his keen eye read in his daughter's face, it made him turn to his guest with anything but a cordial manner, and there was that in his voice that should have warned the other. "so you and sammy went for a walk, did you?" "she was comin' home from th' sheep ranch, an' i caught up with her," explained gibbs. "i 'lowed as how she needed company, so i come 'long. i seemed t' be 'bout as welcome as usual," he added with an ugly grin. "meanin' that my girl don't want your company, and told you so?" asked the other softly. wash answered with a scowl; "sammy's gettin' too dad burned good fer me since ollie's uncle took him in. an' now, this here old man from nowhere has come, it's worse than ever. she'll put a rope 'round our necks th' first thing you know." jim's right hand slipped quietly inside his hickory shirt, where the button was missing, as he drawled, "my girl always was too good for some folks. and it's about time you was a findin' it out. she can't help it. she was born that way. she's got mighty good blood in her veins, that girl has; and i don't aim to ever let it be mixed up with none of the low down common yeller kind." the deliberate purpose of the speaker was too evident to be mistaken. the other man's hand flew to his hip almost before mr. lane had finished his sentence. but wash was not quick enough. like a flash jim's hand was withdrawn from inside the hickory shirt, and the giant looked squarely into the muzzle of jim lane's ever ready, murderous weapon. in the same even voice, without the slightest allusion to the unfinished movement of the other, mr. lane continued, "i done told you before that my girl would pick her own company, and i ain't never feared for a minute that she'd take up with such as you. ollie stewart ain't so mighty much of a man, maybe, but he's clean, he is, and the stock's pretty good. now you can just listen to me, or you can mosey out of that door, and the next time we meet, we will settle it for good, without any further arrangement." as sammy's father talked, the big figure of his visitor relaxed, and when jim had finished his slow speech, wash was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped in front. "we ain't got no call t' fight, now, jim," he said in a tone of respect. "we got something else t' think about; an' that's what i come here fer t'night. i didn't aim t', 'til i seed what i did at th' ranch down yonder. i tell you hit's time we was a doin' somethin'." at this, mr. lane's face and manner changed quickly. he put up his weapon, and the two men drew their chairs close together, as though death had not a moment before stretched forth his hand to them. for an hour they sat talking in low tones. sammy in the next room had heard the conversation up to this point, but now only an occasional word reached her ears. gibbs seemed to be urging some action, and her father was as vigorously protesting. "i tell you, jim, hit's th' only safe way. you didn't use t' be so squeamish." several times the old shepherd was mentioned, and also the stranger whom wash had seen that evening. and once, the trembling girl heard young matt's name. at length the guest rose to go, and mr. lane walked with him to the gate. even after the big man was mounted, the conversation still continued; wash still urging and jim still protesting. when his visitor was gone, mr. lane came slowly back to the house. extinguishing the light, he seated himself in the open doorway, and filled his pipe. sammy caught the odor of tobacco, and a moment later jim heard a light, quick step on the floor behind him. then two arms went around his neck; "what is it, daddy? what is it? why don't you drive that man away?" "did you hear us talkin'?" asked the man, an anxious note in his voice. "i heard you talkin' to him about pesterin' me, but after that, you didn't talk so loud. what is the matter, daddy, that he could stay and be so thick with you after the things you said? i was sure he'd make you kill him." jim laughed softly; "you're just like your mother, girl. just like her, with the old blood a backin' you up." then he asked a number of questions about mr. howitt, and her visit to the ranch that evening. as sammy told him of her ambition to fit herself for the place that would be hers, when she married, and repeating the things that mr. howitt had told her, explained how the shepherd had promised to help, jim expressed his satisfaction and delight. "i knowed you was a studyin' about something, girl," he said, "but i didn't say nothin', 'cause i 'lowed you'd tell me when you got ready." "i didn't want to say nothing 'til i was sure, you see," replied the daughter. "i aimed to tell you as soon as i got home to-night, but wash gibbs didn't give me no chance." the man held her close "dad howitt sure puts the thing just right, sammy. it'll be old times come back, when you're a lady in your own house with all your fine friends around; and you'll do it, girl; you sure will. don't never be afraid to bank on the old blood. it'll see you through." then his voice broke; "you won't never be learned away from your old daddy, will you, honey? will you always stand by daddy, like you do now? will you let me and young matt slip 'round once in a while, just to look at, you, all so fine?" "daddy jim, if you don't--hush--i'll--i'll--" she hid her face on his shoulder. "there, there, honey; i was only funnin'. you'll always be my sammy; the only boy i ever had. you just naturally couldn't be nothin' else." long after his daughter had gone to her room and to her bed, the mountaineer sat in the doorway, looking into the dark. he heard the short bark of a fox in the brush back of the stable; and the wild cry of a catamount from a cliff farther down the mountain was answered by another from the timber below the spring. he saw the great hills heaving their dark forms into the sky, and in his soul he felt the spirit of the wilderness and the mystery of the hour. at last he went into the house to close and bar the door. away down in mutton hollow a dog barked, and high up on old dewey near sammy's lookout, a spot of light showed for a moment, then vanished. chapter xv. the party at ford's. young matt would have found some excuse for staying at home the night of the party at ford's, but the shepherd said he must go. the boy felt that the long evening with sammy would only hurt. he reasoned with himself that it would be better for him to see as little as possible of the girl who was to marry ollie stewart. nevertheless, he was singing as he saddled the big white faced sorrel to ride once more over the trail that is nobody knows how old. mr. lane was leading the brown pony from the stable as young matt rode up to the gate; and from the doorway of the cabin sammy called to say that she would be ready in a minute. "ain't seen you for a coon's age, boy," said jim, while they were waiting for the girl. "why don't you never come down the old trail no more?" the big fellow's face reddened, as he answered, "i ain't been nowhere, jim. 'pears like i just can't get away from the place no more; we're that busy." sammy's father looked his young neighbor squarely in the eye with that peculiar searching gaze; "look a here, grant. i've knowed you ever since you was born, and you ought to know me a little. 'tain't your way to dodge, and 'tain't mine. i reckon you know you're welcome, same as always, don't you?" young matt returned the other's look fairly; "i ain't never doubted it, jim. but things is a heap different now, since it's all done and settled, with ollie gone." the two understood each other perfectly. said jim, drawing a long breath, "well i wish you'd come over just the same, anyway. it can't do nobody no harm as i can see." "it wouldn't do me no good," replied the young man. "maybe not," assented jim. "but i'd like mighty well to have you come just the same." then he drew closer to his young friend; "i've been aimin' to ride over and see you, matt; but sammy said you was a comin' this evenin', and i 'lowed this would be soon enough. i reckon you know what wash gibbs is tellin' he aims to do first chance he gets." the giant drew himself up with a grim smile, "i've heard a good bit, jim. but you don't need to mind about me; i know i ain't quite growed, but i am a growin'." the older man surveyed the great form of the other with a critical eye, as he returned, "durned if i don't believe you'd push him mighty close, if he'd only play fair. but--but i 'lowed you ought to know it was a comin'." "i have knowed it for a long time," said the other cheerfully; "but i heard 'preachin' bill' say once, that if a feller don't fuss about what he knows for sure, the things he don't know ain't apt to bother him none. it's this here guessin' that sure gets a man down." "'preachin' bill' hits it every pop, don't he?" exclaimed jim, admiringly. "but there's somethin' else you ought to know, too, matt. wash has done made his threats agin the old man down there." "you mean dad howitt?" said young matt, sharply. "what's wash got agin dad, jim?" mr. lane shifted uneasily, "some fool notion of hisn. you mind old man lewis, i reckon?" the big man's muscles tightened. "dad told us about his stoppin' at the ranch the other night. wash gibbs better keep his hands off mr. howitt." "i ain't told nobody about this, grant, and you can do as you like about tellin' your father, and the old man. but if anything happens, get word to me, quick." before more could be said, sammy appeared in the doorway, and soon the two young people were riding on their way. long after they had passed from sight in the depth of the forest, the dark mountaineer stood at the big gate, looking in the direction they had gone. young matt was like a captive, tugging at his bonds. mr. lane's words had stirred the fire, and the girl's presence by his side added fuel to the flame. he could not speak. he dared not even look at her, but rode with his eyes fixed upon the ground, where the sunlight fell in long bars of gold. sammy, too, was silent. she felt something that was strangely like fear, when she found herself alone with her big neighbor. now and then she glanced timidly up at him and tried to find some word with which to break the silence. she half wished that she had not come. so they rode together through the lights and shadows down into the valley, the only creatures in all the free life of the forest who were not free. at last the girl spoke, "it's mighty good of you to take me over to mandy's to-night. there ain't no one else i could o' gone with." there was no reply, and sammy, seeming not to notice, continued talking in a matter-of-fact tone that soon--for such is the way of a woman--won him from his mood, and the two chatted away like the good comrades they had always been. just after they had crossed fall creek at slick rock ford, some two miles below the mill, young matt leaned from his saddle, and for a little way studied the ground carefully. when he sat erect again, he remarked, with the air of one who had reached a conclusion, "wouldn't wonder but there'll be doin's at ford's tonight, sure enough." "there's sure to be," returned the girl; "everybody'll be there. mandy's folks from over on long creek are comin', and some from the mouth of the james. mandy wanted daddy to play for 'em, but he says he can't play for parties no more, and they got that old fiddlin' jake from the flag neighborhood, i guess." "there'll be somethin' a heap more excitin' than fiddlin' and dancin', accordin' to my guess," returned young matt. "what do you mean?" asked sammy. her escort pointed to the print of a mule's shoe in the soft soil of the low bottom land. "that there's wash gibbs's dun mule, and he's headed down the creek for jennings's still. wash'll meet a lot of his gang from over on the river, and like's not they'll go from there to the party. i wish your dad was goin' to do the playin' to-night." it was full dark before they reached the ford clearing. the faint, far away sound of a violin, seeming strange and out of place in the gloomy solitude of the great woods, first told them that other guests had already arrived. then as they drew nearer and the tones of the instrument grew louder, they could hear the rhythmic swing and beat of heavily shod feet upon the rough board floors, with the shrill cries of the caller, and the half savage, half pathetic sing-song of the backwoods dancers, singing, "missouri gal." reaching the edge of the clearing, they involuntarily checked their horses, stopping just within the shadow of the timber. here the sound of the squeaking fiddle, the shouting caller, the stamping feet, and the swinging dancers came with full force; and, through the open door and windows of the log house, they could see the wheeling, swaying figures of coatless men and calico gowned women, while the light, streaming out, opened long lanes in the dusk. about them in the forest's edge, standing in groups under the trees, were the shadowy forms of saddle horses and mules, tied by their bridle reins to the lower branches; and nearer to the cabin, two or three teams, tied to the rail-fence, stood hitched to big wagons in which were splint-bottom chairs for extra seats. during the evening, the men tried in their rough, good natured way, to joke young matt about taking advantage of ollie stewart's absence, but they very soon learned that, while the big fellow was ready to enter heartily into all the fun of the occasion, he would not receive as a jest any allusion to his relation to the girl, whom he had escorted to the party. sammy, too, when her big companion was not near, suffered from the crude wit of her friends. "ollie stewart don't own me yet," she declared with a toss of the head, when someone threatened to write her absent lover. "no," replied one of her tormentors, "but you ain't aimin' to miss your chance o' goin' t' th' city t' live with them big-bugs." in the laugh that followed, sammy was claimed by a tall woodsman for the next dance, and escaped to take her place on the floor. "well, ollie'll sure make a good man for her," remarked another joker; "if he don't walk th' chalk, she can take him 'cross her knee an' wallop him." "she'll surely marry him, alright," said the first, "'cause he's got th' money, but she's goin' t' have a heap o' fun makin' young matt play th' fool before she leaves th' woods. he ain't took his eyes off her t'night. everybody's laughin' at him." "i notice they take mighty good care t' laugh behind his back," flashed little black-eyed annie brooke from the cove neighborhood. young matt, who had been dancing with mandy ford, came up behind the group just in time to hear their remarks. two or three who saw him within hearing tried to warn the speakers, but while everybody around them saw the situation, the two men caught the frantic signals of their friends too late. the music suddenly stopped. the dancers were still. by instinct every eye in the room was fixed upon the little group, as the jokers turned to face the object of their jests. the big mountaineer took one long step toward the two who had spoken, his brow dark with rage, his huge fists clenched. but, even as his powerful muscles contracted for the expected blow, the giant came to a dead stop. slowly his arm relaxed. his hand dropped to his side. then, turning deliberately, he walked to the door, the silent crowd parting to give him way. as the big man stepped from the room, a gasp of astonishment escaped from the company, and the two jokers, with frightened faces, broke into a shrill, nervous laughter. then a buzz of talk went round; the fiddlers struck up again; the callers shouted; the dancers stamped, and bowed, and swung their partners as they sang. and out in the night under the trees, at the edge of the gloomy forest, the strongest man in the hills was saying over and over to the big, white faced sorrel, "i don't dare do it. i don't dare. dad howitt wouldn't. he sure wouldn't." very soon two figures left the house, and hurried toward a bunch of saddle horses near by. they had untied their animals, and were about to mount, when suddenly a huge form stepped from the shadows to their horses' heads. "put up your guns, boys," said young matt calmly. "i reckon you know that if i'd wanted trouble, it would o' been all over before this." the weapons were not drawn, and the big man continued, "dad howitt says a feller always whips himself every time he fights when there ain't no--no principle evolved. i don't guess dad would see ary principle in this, 'cause there might be some truth in what you boys said. i reckon i am somethin' at playin' a fool, but it would o' been a heap safer for you to let folks find it out for themselves." "we all were jest a foolin', matt," muttered one. "that's alright," returned the big fellow; "but you'd better tie up again and go back into the house and dance a while longer. folks might think you was scared if you was to leave so soon." chapter xvi. on the way home. not until the party was breaking up, and he saw sammy in the doorway, did young matt go back to the house. when they had ridden again out of the circle of light, and the laughter and shouting of the guests was no longer heard, sammy tried in vain to arouse her silent escort, chatting gaily about the pleasures of the evening. but all the young man's reserve had returned. when she did force him to speak, his responses were so short and cold that at last the girl, too, was silent. then, manlike, he wished she would continue talking. by the time they reached compton ridge the moon was well up. for the last two miles sammy had been watching the wavering shafts of light that slipped through tremulous leaves and swaying branches. as they rode, a thousand fantastic shapes appeared and vanished along the way, and now and then as the sound of their horses' feet echoed through the silent forest, some wild thing in the underbrush leaped away into the gloomy depth. coming out on top of the narrow ridge, the brown pony crowded closer to the big, white faced sorrel, and the girl, stirred by the weird loveliness of the scene, broke the silence with an exclamation, "o matt! ain't it fine? look there!" she pointed to the view ahead. "makes me feel like i could keep on a goin', and goin', and never stop." the man, too, felt the witchery of the night. the horses were crowding more closely together now, and, leaning forward, the girl looked up into his face; "what's the matter, matt? why don't you talk to me? you know it ain't true what them folks said back there." the sorrel was jerked farther away. "it's true enough, so far as it touches me," returned the man shortly. "when are you goin' to the city?" "i don't know," she replied. "let's don't talk about that tonight. i don't want even to think about it, not to-night. you--you don't believe what they was a sayin', matt; you know you don't. you mustn't ever believe such as that. i--i never could get along without you and aunt mollie and uncle matt, nohow." the brown pony was again crowding closer to his mate. the girl laid a hand on her companion's arm. "say you don't blame me for what they said, matt. you know i wouldn't do no such a thing even if i could. there mustn't anything ever come between you and me; never--never. i--i want us always to be like we are now. you've been so good to me ever since i was a little trick, and you whipped big lem wheeler for teasin' me. i--i don't guess i could get along without knowin' you was around somewhere." she finished with a half sob. it was almost too much. the man swung around in his saddle, and the horses, apparently of their own accord, stopped. without a word, the big fellow stretched forth his arms, and the girl, as if swept by a force beyond her control, felt herself swaying toward him. the spell was broken by the trampling of horses and the sound of loud voices. for a moment they held their places, motionless, as if rudely awakened from a dream. the sound was coming nearer. then young matt spoke, "it's wash gibbs and his crowd from the still. ride into the brush quick." there was no time for flight. in the bright moonlight, they would have been easily recognized, and a wild chase would have followed. leaving the road, they forced their horses into a thick clump of bushes, where they dismounted, to hold the animals by their heads. scarcely had they gained this position when the first of the crowd reached the spot where they had been a moment before. wash gibbs was easily distinguished by his gigantic form, and with him were ten others, riding two and two, several of whom were known to young matt as the most lawless characters in the country. all were fired by drink and were laughing and talking, with now and then a burst of song, or a vulgar jest. "i say, wash," called one, "what'll you do if young matt's there?" the unseen listeners could not hear the leader's reply; but those about the speaker laughed and shouted with great glee. then the two in the bushes distinctly heard the last man in the line ask his companion, "do you reckon he'll put up a fight?" and as they passed from sight, the other answered, "wash don't aim t' give him no show." when the sounds had died away; young matt turned to the girl; "come on; we've got to keep 'em in sight." but sammy held back. "oh, matt, don't go yet. we must not. didn't you hear what that man said? it's you they're after. let's wait here until they're clean gone." "no, 'tain't; they ain't a wantin' me," the big fellow replied. and before the young woman could protest further, he lifted her to the saddle as easily as if she were a child. then, springing to the back of his own horse, he led the way at a pace that would keep them within hearing of the company of men. "who is it, matt? who is it, if it ain't you?" asked the girl. "don't know for sure yet, but i'll tell you pretty soon." they had not gone far when young matt stopped the horse to listen intently; and soon by the sound he could tell that the party ahead had turned off the ridge road and were following the trail that leads down the eastern side of the mountain. a moment longer the mountaineer listened, as if to make sure; then he spoke; "them devils are goin' to the ranch after dad howitt. sammy, you've got to ride hard to-night. they won't hear you now, and they're getting farther off every minute. there ain't no other way, and, i know you'll do it for the old man. get home as quick as you can and tell jim what's up. tell him i'll hold 'em until he gets there." even as he spoke, he sprang from his horse and began loosening the saddle girths. "but, matt," protested the girl; "how can you? you can't get by them. how're you goin' to get there in time?" "down the mountain; short cut;" he answered as he jerked the heavy saddle from his horse and threw it under some nearby bushes. "but they'll kill you. you can't never face that whole crowd alone." "i can do it better'n dad, and him not a lookin' for them." slipping the bridle from the sorrel, he turned the animal loose, and, removing his coat and hat, laid them with the saddle. then to the girl on the pony he said sharply, "go on, sammy. why don't you go on? don't you see how you're losin' time? them devils will do for dad howitt like they done for old man lewis. your father's the only man can stop 'em now. ride hard, girl, and tell jim to hurry. and--and, good-by, sammy." as he finished, he spoke to her horse and struck him such a blow that the animal sprang away. for a moment sammy attempted to pull up her startled pony. then young matt saw her lean forward in the saddle, and urge the little horse to even greater speed. as they disappeared down the road, the giant turned and ran crashing through the brush down the steep side of the mountain. there was no path to follow. and with deep ravines to cross, rocky bluffs to descend or scale, and, in places, wild tangles of vines and brush and fallen trees, the trip before him would have been a hard one even in the full light of day. at night, it was almost impossible, and he must go like a buck with the dogs in full cry. when sammy came in sight of her home, she began calling to her father, and, as the almost exhausted horse dashed up to the big gate, the door of the cabin opened, and jim came running out. lifting his daughter from the trembling pony, he helped her into the house, where she sobbed out her message. at the first word, "wash gibbs," jim reached for a cartridge belt, and, by the time sammy had finished, he had taken his winchester from its brackets over the fireplace. slipping a bridle on his horse that was feeding in the yard, he sprang upon the animal's back without waiting for a saddle. "stay in the cabin, girl, put out the light, and don't open the door until i come," he said and he was gone. as sammy turned back into the house, from away down in mutton hollow, on the night wind, came the sound of guns. chapter xvii. what happened at the ranch. it was after midnight when mr. howitt was rudely awakened. the bright moon shining through the windows lit up the interior of the cabin and he easily recognized young matt standing by the bed, with pete, who was sleeping at the ranch that night, near by. "why, matt, what is the matter?" exclaimed the shepherd, sitting up. he could not see that the big fellow's clothing was torn, that his hat was gone, and that he was dripping with perspiration; but he could hear his labored breathing. strong as he was, the young giant was nearly exhausted by the strain of his race over the mountains. "get up quick, dad; i'll tell you while you're puttin' on your clothes," the woodsman answered; and while the shepherd dressed, he told him in a few words, finishing with, "call brave inside, and get your gun, with all the shells you can find. don't show a light for a minute. they'll be here any time now, and it'll be a good bit yet before sammy can get home." he began fastening the front door. the peaceful minded scholar could not grasp the meaning of the message; it was to him an impossible thought; "you must be mistaken, grant," he said. "surely you are excited and unduly alarmed. wash gibbs has no reason to attack me." young matt replied gruffly, "i ain't makin' no mistake in the woods, dad. you ain't in the city now, and there ain't no one can hear you holler. don't think i am scared neither, if that's what you mean. but there's ten of them in that bunch, and they're bad ones. you'd better call brave, sir. he'll be some help when it comes to the rush." but the other persisted, "you must be mistaken, lad. why should any one wish to harm me? those men are only out fox hunting, or something like that. if they should be coming here, it is all a mistake; i can easily explain." "explain, hell!" ejaculated the mountaineer. "i ask your pardon, dad; but you don't know, not being raised in these woods like me. old man lewis hadn't done nothing neither, and he explained, too; only he never got through explainin'. they ain't got no reason. they're drunk. you've never seen wash gibbs drunk, and to-night he's got his whole gang with him. i don't know why he's comin' after you, but, from what you told me 'bout his stoppin' here that evenin', and what i've heard lately, i can guess. i know what he'll do when he gets here, if we don't stop him. it'll be all the same to you whether he's right or wrong." brave came trotting into the cabin through the rear door, and lay down in his corner by the fireplace. "that's mighty funny," said young matt. then, as he glanced quickly around, "where's pete?" the boy had slipped away while the two men were talking. stepping outside they called several times; but, save the "wh-w-h-o--w-h-oo-o" of an owl in a big tree near the corral, there was no answer. "the boy's alright, anyway," said the young man; "nothin' in the woods ever hurts pete. he's safer there than he would be here, and i'm glad he's gone." the shepherd did not reply. he seemed not to hear, but stood as though fascinated by the scene. he still could not grasp the truth of the situation, but the beauty of the hour moved him deeply. "what a marvelous, what a wonderful sight!" he said at last in a low tone. "i do not wonder the boy loves to roam the hills a night like this. look, grant! see how soft the moonlight falls on that patch of grass this side of the old tree yonder, and how black the shadow is under that bush, like the mouth of a cave, a witch's cave. i am sure there are ghosts and goblins in there, with fairies and gnomes, and perhaps a dragon or two. and see, lad, how the great hills rise into the sky. how grand, how beautiful the world is! it is good to live, matt, though life be sometimes hard, still--still it is good to live." at the old scholar's words and manner, the mountaineer, too, forgot for a moment the thing that had brought him there, and a look of awe and wonder came over his rugged features, as the shepherd, with his face turned upward and his deep voice full of emotion, repeated, "the heavens declare the glory of god; and the firmament showeth his handiwork. day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night showeth knowledge." the owl left his place in the old tree and flew across the moonlit clearing into the deeper gloom of the woods. inside the cabin the dog barked, and through the still night, from down the valley, where the ranch trail crosses the creek, came the rattle of horses' feet on the rocky floor of the little stream, and the faint sound of voices. young matt started, and again the man of the wilderness was master of the situation. "they're comin', dad. we ain't got no time to lose." re-entering the cabin, mr. howitt quieted the dog, while his companion fastened the rear door, and, in the silence, while they waited, a cricket under the corner of the house sang his plaintive song. the sound of voices grew louder as the horses drew nearer. brave growled and would have barked again, but was quieted by the shepherd, who crouched at his side, with one hand on the dog's neck. the older man smiled to himself. it all seemed to him so like a child's game. he had watched the mountaineer's preparation with amused interest, and had followed the young woodsman's directions, even to the loaded shotgun in his hand, as one would humor a boy in his play. the scholar's mind, trained to consider the problems of civilization, and to recognize the dangers of the city, refused to entertain seriously the thought that there, in the peaceful woods, in the dead of night, a company of ruffians was seeking to do him harm. the voices had ceased, and the listeners heard only the sound of the horses' feet, as the party passed the ruined cabin under the bluff. a moment or two later the riders stopped in front of the ranch house. brave growled again, but was silenced by the hand on his neck. young matt was at the window. "i see them," he whispered. "they're gettin' off their horses, and tyin' them to the corral fence." the smile on the shepherd's face vanished, and he experienced a queer sensation; it was as though something gripped his heart. the other continued his whispered report; "they're bunchin' up now under the old tree, talkin' things over. don't know what to make of the dog not bein' around, i reckon. now they're takin' a drink. it takes a lot of whiskey to help ten men jump onto one old man, and him a stranger in the woods. now wash is sendin' two of them around to the back, so you can't slip out into the brush. sh--h-h, here comes a couple more to try the front door." he slipped quietly across the room to the shepherd's side. the visitors came softly up to the front door, and tried it gently. a moment later the rear door was tried in the same way. "let brave speak to them," whispered young matt; and the dog, feeling the restraining hand removed, barked fiercely. mr. howitt, following his companion's whispered instructions, spoke aloud, "what's the matter, brave?" a bold knock at the front door caused the dog to redouble his efforts, until his master commanded him to be still. "who is there?" called the shepherd. "young matt's took powerful bad," answered a voice; "an' they want you t' come up t' th' house, an' doctor him." a drunken laugh came from the old tree, followed by a smothered oath. the giant at mr. howitt's side growled under his breath, "oh, i'm sick, am i? there's them that'll be a heap sicker before mornin'. keep on a talkin', dad. we've got to make all the time we can, so's jim can get here." the shepherd called again, "i do not recognize your voice. you must tell me who you are." outside there was a short consultation, followed by a still louder knock; "open up. why don't you open up an' see who we are?" while from under the tree came a call, "quit your foolin' an' bring him out o' there, you fellers." this command was followed by a still more vigorous hammering at the door, and the threats, "open up ol' man. open up, or we'll sure bust her in." mr. howitt whispered to his companion, "let me open the door and talk to them, grant. surely they will listen to reason." but the woodsman returned, "talk to a nest of rattlers! jim lane's the only man that can talk to them now. we've got to stand them off as long as we can." as he spoke he raised his revolver, and was about to fire a shot through the door, when a slight noise at one side of the room attracted his attention. he turned just in time to catch a glimpse of a face as it was withdrawn from one of the little windows. the noise at the door ceased suddenly, and they heard the two men running to join the group under the tree. "they've found you ain't alone," whispered the big fellow, springing to the window again. and, as a wild drunken yell came from the visitors, he added, "seems like they're some excited about it, too. they're holdin' a regular pow-wow. what do you reckon they're thinkin'? hope they'll keep it up 'till jim--sh--h--h here comes another. it's that ornery jim bowles from the mouth of indian creek." the man approached the cabin, but stopped some distance away and called, "hello, ol' man!" "well, what do you want?" answered mr. howitt. "who's that there feller you got with you?" "a friend." "yes! we all 'lowed hit war a friend, an' we all want t' see him powerful bad. can't he come out an' play with us, mister?" another laugh came from the group under the tree. young matt whispered, "keep him a talkin', dad;" and mr. howitt called, "he doesn't feel like playing to-night. come back tomorrow." at this the spokesman dropped his bantering tone, "look a here, ol' man. we'uns ain't got no time t' be a foolin' here. we know who that feller is, an' we're a goin' t' have him. he's been a sneakin' 'round this here neighborhood long enough. as fer you, mister, we 'low your health'll be some better back where you come from; an' we aim t' hep you leave this neck o' th' woods right sudden. open up, now, an' turn that there feller over t' us; an' we'll let you off easy like. if you don't, we'll bust in th' door, an' make you both dance t' th' same tune. there won't be ary thing under you t' dance on, nuther." the old shepherd was replying kindly, when his speech was interrupted by a pistol shot, and a command from the leader, at which the entire gang charged toward the cabin, firing as they came, and making the little valley hideous with their drunken oaths and yells. from his window, young matt coolly emptied his revolver, but even as the crowd faltered, there came from their leader another volley of oaths. "go on, go on," yelled wash. "their guns are empty, now. fetch 'em out 'fore they can load again." with an answering yell, the others responded. carrying a small log they made for the cabin at full speed. one crashing blow--the door flew from its hinges, and the opening was filled with the drunken, sweating, swearing crew. the same instant, young matt dropped his useless revolver, and, springing forward, met them on the threshold. the old shepherd--who had not fired a shot--could scarcely believe his eyes, as he saw the giant catch the nearest man by the shoulder and waist, and, lifting him high above his head, fling him with terrific force full into the faces of his bewildered companions. those who were not knocked down by the strange weapon scattered in every direction, crouching low. for a moment the big fellow was master of the situation, and, standing alone in the doorway, in the full light of the moon, was easily recognized. "hell, boys! hit's young matt hisself!" yelled the one who had raised a laugh, by saying that young matt was sick and the shepherd was wanted to doctor. "yes! it's me, bill simpson. i'm sure ailin' to-night. i need somebody to go for a doctor powerful bad," returned the young giant. "we never knowed it war you," whined the other carefully lengthening the distance between the big man on the doorstep and himself. "no, i reckon not. you all played to find an old man alone, and do for him like you've done for others. a fine lot you are, ten to one, and him not knowin' the woods." while he was speaking, the men slowly retreated, to gather about their big leader under the tree, two of them being assisted by their companions, and one other limping painfully. young matt raised his voice, "i know you, wash gibbs, and i know this here is your dirty work. you've been a braggin' what you'd do when you met up with me. i'm here now. why don't you come up like a man? come out here into the light and let's you and me settle this thing right now. you all--" crack! a jet of flame leaped out of the shadow, and the speaker dropped like a log. with a cry the shepherd ran to the side of his friend; but in a moment the crowd had again reached the cabin, and the old man was dragged from his fallen companion. with all his strength, mr. howitt struggled with his captors, begging them to let him go to the boy. but his hands were bound tightly behind his back, and when he still plead with those who held him, wash gibbs struck him full in the mouth, a blow that brought the blood. they were leading the stunned and helpless old man away, when someone, who was bending over young matt, exclaimed, "you missed him, wash! jest raked him. he'll be up in a minute. an' hell 'll be to pay in th' wilderness if he ain't tied. better fix him quick." the big fellow already showed signs of returning consciousness, and, by the time they had tied his arms, he was able to struggle to his feet. for a moment he looked dizzily around, his eyes turning from one evil, triumphant face to another, until they rested upon the bleeding countenance of his old friend. the shepherd's eyes smiled back a message of cheer, and the kind old man tried to speak, when wash gibbs made another threatening motion, with his clenched fist. at this, a cry like the roar of a mad bull came from the young giant. in his rage, he seemed suddenly endowed with almost superhuman strength. before a man of the startled company could do more than gasp with astonishment, he had shaken himself free from those who held him, and, breaking the rope with which he was bound, as though it were twine, had leaped to the shepherd's side. but it was useless. for a moment, no one moved. then a crashing blow, from the butt of a rifle in the hands of a man in the rear of the two prisoners, sent young matt once more to the ground. when he again regained consciousness, he was so securely bound, that, even with his great strength, he was helpless. leading their captives to the old tree, the men withdrew for a short consultation, and to refresh themselves with another drink. when they had finished, gibbs addressed the two friends; "we'uns didn't aim to hurt you, young matt, but seein' how you're so thick with this here feller, an' 'pear to know so much 'bout him, i reckon we can't hep ourselves nohow." he turned to the shepherd; "there's been too dad burned much funny work, at this ranch, since you come, mister, an' we'uns 'low we'll just give warnin' that we don't want no more strangers snoopin' 'round this neighborhood, an' we don't aim t' have 'em neither. we'uns 'low we can take care o' ourselves, without ary hep from th' dad burned government." the shepherd tried to speak, but gibbs, with an oath, roared, "shut up, i tell you. shut up. i've been a watchin', an' i know what i know. fix that there rope, boys, an we'll get through, an' mosey 'long out o' here. ain't no use to palaver, nohow." a rope was thrown over a limb above their heads, and a man approached the shepherd with the noose. young matt struggled desperately. with an evil grin, gibbs said, "don't you worry, sonny; you're a goin', too." and at his signal another rope was fixed, and the noose placed over the young man's head. the men took their places, awaiting the word from their leader. the shepherd spoke softly to his companion, "thank you, my boy." the giant began another desperate struggle. wash gibbs, raising his hand, opened his lips to give the signal. but no word came. the brutal jaw dropped. the ruffian's eyes fairly started from his head, while the men who held the ropes, stood as if turned to stone, as a long wailing cry came from the dark shadows under the bluff. there was a moment of death-like silence. then another awful, sobbing groan, rising into a blood curdling scream, came from down the road, and, from the direction of the ruined cabin, advanced a ghostly figure. through the deep shadows and the misty light, it seemed to float toward them, moaning and sobbing as it came. a shuddering gasp of horror burst from the frightened crew under the tree. then, at a louder wail from the approaching apparition, they broke and ran. like wild men they leaped for their horses, and, flinging themselves into their saddles, fled in every direction. young matt and the shepherd sank upon the ground in helpless amazement. as the outlaws fled, the spectre paused. then it started onward toward the two men. again it hesitated. for a moment it remained motionless, then turned and vanished, just as jim lane came flying out of the timber, into the bright light of the little clearing. chapter xviii. learning to be a lady. the books sent for by mr. howitt came a few days after the adventure at the ranch, and sammy, with all the intensity of her nature, plunged at once into the work mapped out for her by the shepherd. all through the long summer and autumn, the girl spent hours with her teacher out on the hillside. seated on some rocky bench, or reclining on the grassy slope, she would recite the lessons he gave her, or listen to him, as he read aloud from character forming books, pausing now and then to slip in some comment to make the teaching clear, or to answer her eager questions. at other times, while they followed the sheep, leisurely, from one feeding ground to another, he provoked her to talk of the things they were reading, and, while he thus led her to think, he as carefully guarded her speech and language. at first they took the old familiar path of early intellectual training, but, little by little, he taught her to find the way for herself. always as she advanced, he encouraged her to look for the life that is more than meat, and always, while they read and talked together, there was opened before them the great book wherein god has written, in the language of mountain, and tree, and sky, and flower, and brook, the things that make truly wise those who pause to read. from her mother, and from her own free life in the hills, sammy had a body beautiful with the grace and strength of perfect physical womanhood. with this, she had inherited from many generations of gentle-folk a mind and spirit susceptible of the highest culture. unspoiled by the hot-house, forcing process, that so often leaves the intellectual powers jaded and weak, before they have fully developed, and free from the atmosphere of falsehood and surface culture, in which so many souls struggle for their very existence, the girl took what her teacher had to offer and made it her own. with a mental appetite uninjured by tit-bits and dainties, she digested the strong food, and asked eagerly for more. her progress was marvelous, and the old scholar often had cause to wonder at the quickness with which his pupil's clear mind grasped the truths he showed her. often before he could finish speaking, a bright nod, or word, showed that she had caught the purpose of his speech, while that wide eager look, and the question that followed, revealed her readiness to go on. it was as though many of the things he sought to teach her slept already in her brain, and needed only a touch to arouse them to vigorous life. in time, the girl's very clothing, and even her manner of dressing her hair, came to reveal the development and transformation of her inner self; not that she dressed more expensively; she could not do that; but in the selection of materials, and in the many subtle touches that give distinction even to the plainest apparel, she showed her awakening. to help her in this, there was aunt mollie and a good ladies' magazine, which came to her regularly, through the kindness of her teacher. sammy's father, too, came unconsciously under the shepherd's influence. as his daughter grew, the man responded to the change in her, as he always responded to her every thought and mood. he talked often now of the old home in the south land, and sometimes fell into the speech of other days, dropping, for a moment, the rougher expressions of his associates. but all this was to sammy alone. to the world, there was no change in jim, and he still went on his long rides with wash gibbs. by fall, the place was fixed up a bit; the fence was rebuilt, the yard trimmed, and another room added to the cabin. so the days slipped away over the wood fringed ridges. the soft green of tree, and of bush, and grassy slope changed to brilliant gold, and crimson, and russet brown, while the gray blue haze that hangs always over the hollows took on a purple tone. then in turn this purple changed to a deeper, colder blue, when the leaves had fallen, and the trees showed naked against the winter sky. with the cold weather, the lessons were continued in the lane cabin on the southern slope of dewey. all day, while the shepherd was busy at the ranch, sammy pored over her books; and every evening the old scholar climbed the hill to direct the work of his pupil, with long jim sitting, silent and grim, by the fireside, listening to the talk, and seeing who knows what visions of the long ago in the dancing flame. and so the winter passed, and the spring came again; came, with its soft beauty of tender green; its wealth of blossoms, and sweet fragrance of growing things. then came the summer; that terrible summer, when all the promises of spring were broken; when no rain fell for weary months, and the settlers, in the total failure of their crops, faced certain ruin. chapter xix. the drought. it began to be serious by the time corn was waist high. when the growing grain lost its rich color and the long blades rustled dryly in the hot air, the settlers looked anxiously for signs of coming rain. the one topic of conversation at the mill was the condition of the crops. the stories were all of past drought or tales of hardship and want. the moon changed and still the same hot dry sky, with only now and then a shred of cloud floating lazily across the blue. the grass in the glades grew parched and harsh; the trees rattled their shriveled leaves; creek beds lay glaring white and dusty in the sun; and all the wild things in the woods sought the distant river bottom. in the mutton hollow neighborhood, only the spring below the matthews place held water; and all day the stock on the range, crowding around the little pool, tramped out the narrow fringe of green grass about its edge, and churned its bright life into mud in their struggle. fall came and there was no relief. crops were a total failure. many people were without means to buy food for themselves and their stock for the coming winter and the months until another crop could be grown and harvested. family after family loaded their few household goods into the big covered wagons, and, deserting their homes, set out to seek relief in more fortunate or more wealthy portions of the country. the day came at last when sammy found the shepherd in the little grove, near the deer lick, and told him that she and her father were going to move. "father says there is nothing else to do. even if we could squeeze through the winter, we couldn't hold out until he could make another crop." throwing herself on the ground, she picked a big yellow daisy from a cluster, that, finding a little moisture oozing from a dirtfilled crevice of the rock, had managed to live, and began pulling it to pieces. in silence the old man watched her. he had not before realized how much the companionship of this girl was to him. to the refined and cultivated scholar, whose lot had been cast so strangely with the rude people of the mountain wilderness, the companionship of such a spirit and mind was a necessity. unconsciously sammy had supplied the one thing lacking, and by her demands upon his thought had kept the shepherd from mental stagnation and morbid brooding. day after day she had grown into his life--his intellectual and spiritual child, and though she had dropped the rude speech of the native, she persisted still in calling him by his backwoods title, "dad." but the little word had come to hold a new meaning for them both. he saw now, all at once, what he would lose when she went away. one by one, the petals from the big daisy fell from the girl's hand, dull splashes of gold against her dress and on the grass. "where will you go?" he asked at last. sammy shook her head without looking up; "don't know; anywhere that daddy can earn a livin'--i mean living--for us." "and when do you start?" "pretty soon now; there ain't nothin'--there is nothing to stay for now. father told me when he went away day before yesterday that we would go as soon as he returned. he promised to be home sometime this evening. i--i couldn't tell you before, dad, but i guess you knew." the shepherd did know. for weeks they had both avoided the subject. sammy continued; "i--i've just been over to the matthews place. uncle matt has been gone three days now. i guess you know about that, too. aunt mollie told me all about it. oh, i wish, i wish i could help them." she reached for another daisy and two big tears rolled from under the long lashes to fall with the golden petals. "we'll come back in the spring when it's time to plant again, but what if you're not here?" her teacher could not answer for a time; then he said, in an odd, hesitating way, "have you heard from ollie lately?" the girl raised her head, her quick, rare instinct divining his unspoken thought, and something she saw in her old friend's face brought just a hint of a smile to her own tearful eyes. she knew him so well. "you don't mean that, dad," she said. "we just couldn't do that. i had a letter from him yesterday offering us money, but you know we could not accept it from him." and there the subject was dropped. they spent the afternoon together, and in the evening, at sammy's lookout on the shoulder of dewey, she bade him good-night, and left him alone with his flocks in the soft twilight. that same evening mr. matthews returned from his trip to the settlement. chapter xx. the shepherd writes a letter. to purchase the sheep and the ranch in the hollow, mr. matthews placed a heavy mortgage not only upon the ranch land but upon the homestead as well. in the loss of his stock the woodsman would lose all he had won in years of toil from the mountain wilderness. when the total failure of the crops became a certainty, and it was clear that the country could not produce enough feed to carry his flock through the winter until the spring grass, mr. matthews went to the settlement hoping to get help from the bank there, where he was known. he found the little town in confusion and the doors of the bank closed. the night before a band of men had entered the building, and, forcing the safe, had escaped to the mountains with their booty. old matt's interview with the bank official was brief. "it is simply impossible, mr. matthews," said the man; "as it is, we shall do well to keep our own heads above water." then the mountaineer had come the long way home. as he rode slowly up the last hill, the giant form stooped with a weariness unusual, and the rugged face looked so worn and hopelessly sad, that aunt mollie, who was waiting at the gate, did not need words to tell her of his failure. the old man got stiffly down from his horse, and when he had removed saddle and bridle, and had turned the animal into the lot, the two walked toward the house. but they did not enter the building. without a word they turned aside from the steps and followed the little path to the graves in the rude enclosure beneath the pines, where the sunshine fell only in patches here and there. that night after supper mr. matthews went down into the hollow to see the shepherd. "it's goin' to be mighty hard on mollie and me a leavin' the old place up yonder," said the big man, when he had told of his unsuccessful trip. "it won't matter so much to the boy, 'cause he's young yet, but we've worked hard, mr. howitt, for that home--mollie and me has. she's up there now a sittin' on the porch and a livin' it all over again, like she does when there ain't no one around, with her face turned toward them pines west of the house. it's mighty nigh a breakin' her heart just to think of leavin', but she'll hide it all from me when i go up there, thinkin' not to worry me--as if i didn't know. an' it's goin to be mighty hard to part with you, too, mr. howitt. i don't reckon you'll ever know, sir, how much you done for us; for me most of all." the shepherd made as if to interrupt, but the big man continued; "don't you suppose we can see, sir, how you've made over the whole neighborhood. there ain't a family for ten miles that don't come to you when they're in trouble. an' there's sammy lane a readin', an' talkin' just about the same as you do yourself, fit to hold up her end with anybody what's got education, and jim himself's changed something wonderful. same old jim in lots of ways, but something more, somehow, though i can't tell it. then there's my boy, grant. i know right well what he'd been if it wasn't for you to show him what the best kind of a man's like. he'd a sure never knowed it from me. i don't mean as he'd a ever been a bad man like wash gibbs, or a no account triflin' one, like them thompsons, but he couldn't never a been what he is now, through and through, if he hadn't a known you. there's a heap more, too, all over the country that you've talked to a sunday, when the parson wasn't here. as for me, you--you sure been a god's blessin' to me and mollie, mr. howitt." again the shepherd moved uneasily, as if to protest, but his big friend made a gesture of silence; "let me say it while i got a chance, dad." and the other bowed his head while old matt continued; "i can't tell how it is, an' i don't reckon you'd understand any way, but stayin' as you have after our talk that first night you come, an' livin' down here on this spot alone, after what you know, it's--it's just like i was a little kid, an' you was a standin' big and strong like between me an' a great blackness that was somethin' awful. i reckon it looks foolish, me a talkin' this way. maybe it's because i'm gettin' old, but anyhow i wanted you to know." the shepherd raised his head and his face was aglow with a glad triumphant light, while his deep voice was full of meaning as he said gently, "it has been more to me, too, than you think, mr. matthews. i ought to tell you--i--i will tell you--" he checked himself and added, "some day." then he changed the topic quickly. "are you sure there is no one who can help you over this hard time? is there no way?" the mountaineer shook his head. "i've gone over it all again an' again. williams at the bank is the only man i know who had the money, an' he's done for now by this robbery. you see i can't go to strangers, dad; i ain't got nothin' left for security." "but, could you not sell the sheep for enough to save the homestead?" "who could buy? or who would buy, if they could, in this country, without a bit of feed? and then look at 'em, they're so poor an' weak, now, they couldn't stand the drivin' to the shippin' place. they'd die all along the road. they're just skin an' bones, dad; ain't no butcher would pay freight on 'em, even." mr. howitt sat with knitted brow, staring into the shadows. then he said slowly, "there is that old mine. if this man dewey were only here, do you suppose--?" again the mountaineer shook his head. "colonel dewey would be a mighty old man now, dad, even if he were livin.' 'tain't likely he'll ever come back, nor tain't likely the mine will ever be found without him. i studied all that out on the way home." as he finished speaking, he rose to go, and the dog, springing up, dashed out of the cabin and across the clearing toward the bluff by the corral, barking furiously. the two men looked at each other. "a rabbit," said mr. howitt. but they both knew that the well trained shepherd dog never tracked a rabbit, and old matt's face was white when he mounted to ride away up the trail. long the shepherd stood in the doorway looking out into the night, listening to the voices of the wilderness. in his life in the hills he had found a little brightness, while in the old mountaineer's words that evening, he had glimpsed a future happiness, of which he had scarcely dared to dream. with the single exception of that one wild night, his life had been an unbroken calm. now he was to leave it all. and for what? he seemed to hear the rush and roar of the world beyond the ridges, as one in a quiet harbor hears outside the thunder of the stormy sea. he shuddered. the gloom and mystery of it all crept into his heart. he was so alone. but it was not the wilderness that made him shudder. it was the thought of the great, mad, cruel world that raged beyond the hills; that, and something else. the dog growled again and faced threateningly toward the cliff. "what is it, brave?" the only answer was an uneasy whine as the animal crouched close to the man's feet. the shepherd peered into the darkness in the direction of the ruined cabin. "god," he whispered, "how can i leave this place?" he turned back into the house, closed and barred the door. with the manner of one making a resolution after a hard struggle, he took writing material from the top shelf of the cupboard, and, seating himself at the table, began to write. the hours slipped by, and page after page, closely written, came from the shepherd's pen, while, as he wrote, the man's face grew worn and haggard. it was as though he lifted again the burden he had learned to lay aside. at last it was finished. placing the sheets in an envelope, he wrote the address with trembling hand. while mr. howitt was writing his letter at the ranch, and old matt was tossing sleeplessly on his bed in the big log house, a horseman rode slowly down from the compton ridge road. stopping at the creek to water, he pushed on up the mountain toward the lane cabin. the horse walked with low hung head and lagging feet; the man slouched half asleep in the saddle. it was jim lane. chapter xxi. god's gold. the troubled night passed. the shepherd arose to see the sky above the eastern rim of the hollow glowing with the first soft light of a new day. away over compton ridge one last, pale star hung, caught in the upper branches of a dead pine. not a leaf of the forest stirred. in awe the man watched the miracle of the morning, as the glowing colors touched cloud after cloud, until the whole sky was aflame, and the star was gone. again he seemed to hear, faint and far away, the roar and surge of the troubled sea. with face uplifted, he cried aloud, "o god, my father, i ask thee not for the things that men deem great. i covet not wealth, nor honor, nor ease; only peace; only that i may live free from those who do not understand; only that i may in some measure make atonement; that i may win pardon. oh, drive me not from this haven into the world again!" "again, again," came back from the cliff on the other side of the clearing, and, as the echo died away in the silent woods, a bush on top of the bluff stirred in the breathless air; stirred, and was still again. somewhere up on dewey a crow croaked hoarsely to his mate; a cow on the range bawled loudly and the sheep in the corral chorused in answer. re-entering the cabin, the old man quickly built a fire, then, taking the bucket, went to the spring for water. he must prepare his breakfast. coming back with the brimming pail, he placed it on the bench and was turning to the cupboard, when he noticed on the table a small oblong package. "mr. matthews must have left it last night," he thought. "strange that i did not see it before." picking up the package he found that it was quite heavy, and, to his amazement, saw that it was addressed to himself, in a strange, cramped printing, such letters as a child would make. he ripped open the covering and read in the same crude writing: "this stuff is for you to give to the matthews's and jim lane, but don't tell anyone where you got it. and don't try to find out where it come from either, or you'll wish you hadn't. you needn't be afraid. it's good money alright." the package contained gold pieces of various denominations. with a low exclamation, the shepherd let the parcel slip, and the money fell in a shining heap on the floor. he stood as in a dream, looking from the gold to the letter in his hand. then, going to the door, he gazed long and searchingly in every direction. nothing unusual met his eye. turning back into the cabin again, he caught up the letter he had written, and stepped to the fireplace, an expression of relief upon his face. but with his hand outstretched toward the flames, he paused, the letter still in his grasp, while the expression of relief gave way to a look of fear. "the bank," he muttered; "the robbery." the shining pieces on the floor seemed to glisten mockingly; "no, no, no," said the man. "better the other way, and yet--" he read the letter again. "it's good money, alright; you needn't be afraid." in his quandary, he heard a step without and looking up saw pete in the open door. the boy's sensitive face was aglow, as he said; "pete's glad this morning; pete saw the sky. did dad see the sky?" mr. howitt nodded; then, moved by a sudden impulse, pointed to the money, and said, "does pete see this? it's gold, all gold." the boy drew near with curious eyes. "dad doesn't know where it came from," continued the shepherd. "does pete know?" the youth gave a low laugh of delight; "course pete knows. pete went up on dewey this morning; 'way up to the old signal tree, and course he took me with him. the sky was all soft and silvery, an' the clouds was full, plumb full of gold, like that there." he pointed to the yellow coins on the floor. "didn't dad see? some of it must o' spilled out." "ah, yes, that was god's gold," said the older man softly. the lad touched his friend on the arm, and with the other hand again pointed to the glittering heap on the floor. "pete says that there's god's gold too, and pete he knows." the man started and looked at the boy in wonder; "but why, why should it come to me at such a time as this?" he muttered. "'cause you're the shepherd of mutton hollow, pete says. don't be scared, dad. pete knows. it's sure god's gold." the shepherd turned to the fireplace and dropped the letter he had written upon the leaping flames. chapter xxii. a letter from ollie stewart. the postoffice at the forks occupied a commanding position in the northeast corner of uncle ike's cabin, covering an area not less than four feet square. the fittings were in excellent taste, and the equipment fully adequate to the needs of the service: an old table, on legs somewhat rickety; upon the table, a rude box, set on end and divided roughly into eight pigeon holes, duly numbered; in the table, a drawer, filled a little with stamps and stationery, filled mostly with scraps of leaf tobacco, and an odd company of veteran cob pipes, now on the retired list, or home on furlough; before the table, a little old chair, wrought in some fearful and wonderful fashion from hickory sticks from which the bark had not been removed. with every change of the weather, this chair, through some unknown but powerful influence, changed its shape, thus becoming in its own way a sort of government weather bureau. and if in all this "land of the free and home of the brave" there be a single throne, it must be this same curiously changeable chair. in spite of, or perhaps because of, its strange powers, that weird piece of furniture managed to make itself so felt that it was religiously avoided by every native who called at the forks. not the wildest "hill-billy" of them all dared to occupy for a moment this seat of uncle sam's representative. here uncle ike reigned supreme over his four feet square of government property. and you may be very sure that the mighty mysterious thing known as the "gov'ment" lost none of its might, and nothing of its mystery, at the hands of its worthy official. uncle ike left the group in front of the cabin, and, hurriedly entering the office, seated himself upon his throne. a tall, thin, slow moving mule, brought to before a certain tree with the grace and dignity of an ocean liner coming into her slip. zeke wheeler dismounted, and, with the saddle mail pouch over his arm, stalked solemnly across the yard and into the house, his spurs clinking on the gravel and rattling over the floor. following the mail carrier, the group of mountaineers entered, and, with uncle ike's entire family, took their places at a respectful distance from the holy place of mystery and might, in the north east corner of the room. the postmaster, with a key attached by a small chain to one corner of the table, unlocked the flat pouch and drew forth the contents--five papers, three letters and one postal card. the empty pouch was kicked contemptuously beneath the table. the papers were tossed to one side. all eyes were fixed on the little bundle of first class matter. in a breathless silence the official cut the string. the silence was broken. "ba thundas! mary liz jolly'll sure be glad t' git that there letter. her man's been gone nigh onto three months now, an' ain't wrote but once. that was when he was in mayville. i see he's down in th' nation now at auburn, sendin' mary liz some money, i reckon. ba thundas, it's 'bout time! what!" "james creelman, e-s-q., wal, dad burn me. jim done wrote t' that there house in chicago more'n three weeks ago, 'bout a watch they're a sellin' fer fo' dollars. ba thundas! they'd sure answer me quicker'n that, er they'd hear turkey. what! i done tole jim it was only a blamed ol' fo' dollar house anyhow." at this many nods and glances were exchanged by the group in silent admiration of the "gov'ment," and one mountaineer, bold even to recklessness, remarked, "jim must have a heap o' money t' be a buyin' four dollar watches. must er sold that gray mule o' hisn; hit'd fetch 'bout that much, i reckon." "much you know 'bout it, buck boswell. let me tell you, jim he works, he does. he's the workingest man in this here county, ba thundas! what! jim he don't sit 'round like you fellers down on th' creek an' wait fer pawpaws to git ripe, so he can git a square meal, ba thundas!" the bold mountaineer wilted. uncle ike proceeded with the business of his office. "here's sallie rhodes done writ her maw a card from th' corners. sallie's been a visitin' her paw's folks. says she'll be home on th' hack next mail, an' wants her maw t' meet her here. you can take th' hack next time, zeke. an' ba thundas! here's 'nother letter from that dummed ollie stewart. sammy ain't been over yet after th' last one he wrote. ba thundas! if it weren't for them blamed gov'ment inspectors, i'd sure put a spoke in his wheel. what! i'd everlastin'ly seva' th' connections between that gentleman an' these here ozarks. dad burn me, if i wouldn't. he'd better take one o' them new fangled women in th' city, where he's gone to, an' not come back here for one o' our girls. i don't believe sammy'd care much, nohow, ba thundas! what!" the official tossed the letter into a pigeon hole beside its neglected mate, with a gesture that fully expressed the opinion of the entire community, regarding mr. stewart and his intentions toward miss lane. sammy got the letters the next day, and read them over and over, as she rode slowly through the sweet smelling woods. the last one told her that ollie was coming home on a visit. "thursday, that's the day after to-morrow," she said aloud. then she read the letter again. it was a very different letter from those ollie had written when first he left the woods. most of all it was different in that indefinable something by which a man reveals his place in life in the letters he writes, no less than in the words he speaks, or the clothing he wears. as sammy rode slowly through the pinery and down the narrow fall creek valley, she was thinking of these things, thinking of these things seriously. the girl had been in a way conscious of the gradual change in ollie's life, as it had been revealed in his letters, but she had failed to connect the change with her lover. the world into which young stewart had gone, and by which he was being formed, was so foreign to the only world known to sammy, that, while she realized in a dim way that he was undergoing a transformation, she still saw him in her mind as the backwoods boy. with the announcement of his return, and the thought that she would soon meet him face to face, it burst upon her suddenly that her lover was a stranger. the man who wrote this letter was not the man whom she had promised to marry. who was he? passing the mill and the blacksmith shop, the brown pony with his absorbed rider began to climb the steep road to the matthews place. half way up the hill, the little horse, stepping on a loose stone, stumbled, catching himself quickly. as a flash of lightning on a black night reveals well known landmarks and familiar objects, this incident brought back to sammy the evening when, with ollie and young matt, she had climbed the same way; when her horse had stumbled and her face had come close to the face of the big fellow whose hand was on the pony's neck. the whole scene came before her with a vividness that was startling; every word, every look, every gesture of the two young men, her own thoughts and words, the objects along the road, the very motion of her horse; she seemed to be actually living again those moments of the past. but more than this, she seemed not only to live again the incidents of that evening, but in some strange way to possess the faculty of analyzing and passing judgment upon her own thoughts and words. great changes had come to sammy, too, since that night when her lover had said good-by. and now, in her deeper life, the young woman felt a curious sense of shame, as she saw how trivial were the things that had influenced her to become ollie's promised wife. she blushed, as she recalled the motives that had sent her to the shepherd with the request that he teach her to be a fine lady. coming out on top of the ridge, brownie stopped of his own accord, and the girl saw again the figure of a young giant, standing in the level rays of the setting sun, with his great arms outstretched, saying, "i reckon i was built to live in these hills. i don't guess you'd better count on me ever bein' more'n i am." sammy realized suddenly that the question was no longer whether ollie would be ashamed of her. it was quite a different question, indeed. chapter xxiii. ollie comes home. the day that ollie was expected at the cabin on dewey bald, mr. lane was busy in the field. "i don't reckon you'll need me at th' house nohow," he said with a queer laugh, as he rose from the dinner table; and sammy, blushing, told him to go on to his work, or young matt would get his planting done first. jim went out to get his horse from the stable, but before he left, he returned once more to the house. "what is it, daddy? forget something?" asked sammy, as her father stood in the doorway. "not exactly," drawled jim. "i ain't got a very good forgetter. wish i had. it's somethin' i can't forget. wish i could." in a moment the girl's arms were about his neck, "you dear foolish old daddy jim. i have a bad forgetter, too. you thought when i began studying with dad howitt that my books would make me forget you. well, have they?" a tightening of the long arm about her waist was the only answer. "and now you are making yourself miserable trying to think that ollie stewart and his friends will make me forget you; just as if all the folks in the world could ever be to me what you are; you, and dad, and uncle matt, and aunt mollie, and young matt. daddy, i am ashamed of you. honest, i am. do you think a real genuine lady could ever forget the father who had been so good to her? daddy, i am insulted. you must apologize immediately." she pretended to draw away, but the long arm held her fast, while the mountaineer said in a voice that had in it pride and pain, with a world of love, "i know, i know, girl. but you'll be a livin' in the city, when you and ollie are married, and these old hills will be mighty lonesome with you gone. you see i couldn't never leave the old place. 'tain't much, i know, so far as money value goes. but there's some things worth a heap more than their money value, i reckon. if you was only goin' t' live where i could ride over once or twice a week to see you, it would be different." "yes, daddy; but maybe i won't go after all. i'm not married, yet, you know." something in her voice or manner caused jim to hold his daughter at arm's length, and look full into the brown eyes; "what do you mean, girl?" sammy laughed in an uneasy and embarrassed way. she was not sure that she knew herself all that lay beneath the simple words. she tried to explain. "why, i mean that--that ollie and i have both grown up since we promised, and he has been living away out in the big world and going to school besides. he must have seen many girls since he left me. he is sure to be changed greatly, and-and, maybe he won't want a backwoods wife." the man growled something beneath his breath, and the girl placed a hand over his lips; "you mustn't say swear words, daddy jim. indeed, you must not. not in the presence of ladies, anyway." "you're changed a heap in some ways, too," said jim. "yes, i suppose i am; but my changes are mostly on the inside like; and perhaps he won't see them." "would you care so mighty much, sammy?" whispered the father. "that's just it, daddy. how can i tell? we must both begin all over again, don't you see?" then she sent him away to his work. sammy had finished washing the dinner dishes, and was putting things in order about the house, when she stopped suddenly before the little shelf that held her books. then, with a smile, she carried them every one into her own room, placing them carefully where they could not be seen from the open door. going next to the mirror, she deliberately took down her hair, and arranged it in the old careless way that ollie had always known. "you're just the same backwoods girl, sammy lane, so far as outside things go," she said to the face in the glass; "but you are not quite the same all the way through. we'll see if he--" she was interrupted by the loud barking of the dog outside, and her heart beat more quickly as a voice cried, "hello, hello, i say; call off your dog!" sammy hurried to the door. a strange gentleman stood at the gate. the strangest gentleman that sammy had ever seen. surely this could not be ollie stewart; this slender, pale-faced man, with faultless linen, well gloved hands and shining patent leathers. the girl drew back in embarrassment. but there was no hesitation on the part of the young man. before she could recover from her astonishment, he caught her in his arms and kissed her again and again, until she struggled from his embrace. "you--you must not," she gasped. "why not?" he demanded laughingly. "has anyone a better right? i have waited a long while for this, and i mean to make up now for lost time." he took a step toward her again, but sammy held him off at arm's length, as she repeated, "no--no--you must not; not now." young stewart was helpless. and the discovery that she was stronger than this man brought to the girl a strange feeling, as of shame. "how strong you are," he said petulantly; ceasing his efforts. then carefully surveying the splendidly proportioned and developed young woman, he added, "and how beautiful!" under his look, sammy's face flushed painfully, even to her neck and brow; and the man, seeing her confusion, laughed again. then, seating himself in the only rocking-chair in the room, the young gentleman leisurely removed his gloves, looking around the while with an amused expression on his face, while the girl stood watching him. at last, he said impatiently, "sit down, sit down, sammy. you look at me as if i were a ghost." unconsciously, she slipped into the speech of the old days, "you sure don't look much like you used to. i never see nobody wear such clothes as them. not even dad howitt, when he first come. do you wear 'em every day?" ollie frowned; "you're just like all the rest, sammy. why don't you talk as you write? you've improved a lot in your letters. if you talk like that in the city; people will know in a minute that you are from the country." at this, sammy rallied her scattered wits, and the wide, questioning look was in her eyes, as she replied quietly, "thank you. i'll try to remember. but tell me, please, what harm could it do, if people did know i came from the country?" it was ollie's turn to be amazed. "why you can talk!" he said. "where did you learn?" and the girl answered simply that she had picked it up from the old shepherd. this little incident put sammy more at ease, and she skilfully led her companion to speak of the city and his life there. of his studies the young fellow had little to say, and, to her secret delight, the girl found that she had actually made greater progress with her books than had her lover with all his supposed advantages. but of other things, of the gaiety and excitement of the great city, of his new home, the wealth of his uncle, and his own bright prospects, ollie spoke freely, never dreaming the girl had already seen the life he painted in such glowing colors through the eyes of one who had been careful to point out the froth and foam of it all. neither did the young man discover in the quiet questions she asked that sammy was seeking to know what in all this new world he had found that he could make his own as the thing most worth while. the backwoods girl had never seen that type of man to whom the life of the city, only, is life. ollie was peculiarly fitted by nature to absorb quickly those things of the world, into which he had gone, that were most different from the world he had left; and there remained scarcely a trace of his earlier wilderness training. but there is that in life that lies too deep for any mere change of environment to touch. sammy remembered a lesson the shepherd had given her: gentle spirit may express itself in the rude words of illiteracy; it is not therefore rude. ruffianism may speak the language of learning or religion; it is ruffianism still. strength may wear the garb of weakness, and still be strong; and a weakling may carry the weapons of strength, but fight with a faint heart. so, beneath all the changes that had come to her backwoods lover, sammy felt that ollie himself was unchanged. it was as though he had learned a new language, but still said the same things. sammy, too, had entered a new world. step by step, as the young man had advanced in his schooling, and, dropping the habits and customs of the backwoods, had conformed in his outward life to his new environment, the girl had advanced in her education under the careful hand of the old shepherd. ignorant still of the false standards and the petty ambitions that are so large a part of the complex world, into which he had gone, she had been introduced to a world where the life itself is the only thing worth while. she had seen nothing of the glittering tinsel of that cheap culture that is death to all true refinement, but in the daily companionship of her gentle teacher, she had lived in touch with true aristocracy, the aristocracy of heart and spirit. young matt and jim had thought that, in sammy's education, the bond between the girl and her lover would be strengthened. they had thought to see her growing farther and farther from the life of the hills; the life to which they felt that they must always belong. but that was because young matt and jim did not know the kind of education the girl was getting. so ollie had come back to his old home to measure things by his new standard; and he had come back, too, to be measured according to the old, old standard. if the man's eyes were dimmed by the flash and sparkle that play upon the surface of life, the woman's vision was strong and clear to look into the still depths. later in the day, as they walked together up the old trail to sammy's lookout, the girl tried to show him some of the things that had been revealed to her in the past months. but the young fellow could not follow where she led, and answered her always with some flippant remark, or with the superficial philosophy of his kind. when he tried to turn the talk to their future, she skillfully defeated his purpose, or was silent; and when he would claim a lover's privileges, she held him off. upon his demanding a reason for her coldness, she answered, "don't you see that everything is different now? we must learn to know each other over again." "but you are my promised wife." "i promised to be the wife of a backwoodsman," she answered. "i cannot keep that promise, for that man is dead. you are a man of the city, and i am scarcely acquainted with you." young stewart found himself not a little puzzled by the situation. he had come home expecting to meet a girl beautiful in face and form, but with the mind of a child to wonder at the things he would tell her. he had found, instead, a thoughtful young woman trained to look for and recognize truth and beauty. sammy was always his physical superior. she was now his intellectual superior as well. the change that had come to her was not a change by environment of the things that lay upon the surface, but it was a change in the deeper things of life--in the purpose and understanding of life itself. like many of his kind, ollie could not distinguish between these things. chapter xxiv. what makes a man. mr. matthews and his son finished their planting early in the afternoon and the boy set out to find old kate and the mule colt. those rovers had not appeared at the home place for nearly two weeks, and some one must bring them in before they forgot their home completely. "don't mind if i ain't back for supper, mother," said young matt. "i may eat at the ranch with dad. i ain't been down there for quite a spell now, an' i'd kind o' like to know if that panther we've been a hearin' is givin' dad any trouble." "dad told me yesterday that he thought he heard old kate's bell over on yon side of cox's bald," said mr. matthews; "i believe if i was you i'd take across cox's, along the far side of th' ridge, around dewey an' down into the hollow that way. joe gardner was over north yesterday, an' he said he didn't see no signs on that range. i reckon you'll find 'em on dewey somewheres about jim lane's, maybe. you'd better saddle a horse." "no, i'll take it a foot. i can ride old kate in, if i find them," replied the big fellow; and, with his rifle in the hollow of his arm, he struck out over the hills. all along the eastern slope of the ridge, that forms one side of mutton hollow, he searched for the missing stock, but not a sound of the bell could he hear; not a trace of the vagabonds could he find. and that was because old kate and the little colt were standing quietly in the shade in a little glen below sand ridge not a quarter of a mile from the barn. the afternoon was well on when young matt gave up the search, and shaped his course for the sheep ranch. he was on the farther side of dewey, and the sun told him that there was just time enough to reach the cabin before supper. pushing straight up the side of the mountain, he found the narrow bench, that runs like a great cornice two-thirds of the way around the bald knob. the mountaineer knew that at that level, on the side opposite from where he stood, was sammy's lookout, and from there it was an easy road down to the sheep ranch in the valley. also, he knew that from that rocky shelf, all along the southern side of the mountain, he would look down upon sammy's home; and, who could tell, he might even catch a glimpse of sammy herself. very soon he rounded the turn of the hill, and saw far below the lane homestead; the cabin and the barn in the little clearing looking like tiny doll houses. young matt walked slowly now. the supper was forgotten. coming to the clump of cedars just above the old trail where it turns the shoulder of the hill from the west, he stopped for a last look. beyond this point, he would turn his back upon the scene that interested him so deeply. the young man could not remember when he had not loved sammy lane. she seemed to have been always a part of his life. it was the season of the year when all the wild things of the forest choose their mates, and as the big fellow stood there looking down upon the home of the girl he loved, all the splendid passion of his manhood called for her. it seemed to him that the whole world was slipping away to leave him alone in a measureless universe. he almost cried aloud. it is the same instinct that prompts the panther to send his mating call ringing over the hills and through the forest, and leads the moose to issue his loud challenge. at last young matt turned to go, when he heard the sound of voices. someone was coming along the old trail that lay in full view on the mountain side not two hundred yards away. instinctively the woodsman drew back into the thick foliage of the cedars. the voices grew louder. a moment more and sammy with ollie stewart appeared from around the turn of the hill. they were walking side by side and talking earnestly. the young woman had just denied the claims of her former lover, and was explaining the change in her attitude toward him; but the big fellow on the ledge above could not know that. he could not hear what they were saying. he only saw his mate, and the man who had come to take her from him. half crouching on the rocky shelf in the dark shadow of the cedar, the giant seemed a wild thing ready for his spring; ready and eager, yet held in check by something more powerful still than his passion. slowly the two, following the old trail, passed from sight, and young matt stood erect. he was trembling like a frightened child. a moment longer he waited, then turned and fairly ran from the place. leaving the ledge at the lookout, he rushed down the mountain and through the woods as if mad, to burst in upon the shepherd, with words that were half a cry, half a groan. "he's come, dad; he's come. i've just seen him with her." mr. howitt sprang up with a startled exclamation. his face went white. he grasped the table for support. he tried to speak, but words would not come. he could only stare with frightened eyes, as though young matt himself were some fearful apparition. the big fellow threw himself into a chair, and presently the shepherd managed to say in a hoarse whisper, "tell me about it, grant, if you can." "i seen them up on dewey just now, goin' down the old trail from sammy's lookout to her home. i was huntin' stock." the old scholar leaned toward his friend, as he almost shouted, "saw them going to sammy's home! saw whom, lad? whom did you see?" "why--why--sammy lane and that--that ollie stewart, of course. i tell you he's come back. come to take her away." the reaction was almost as bad as the shock. mr. howitt gasped as he dropped back into his seat. he felt a hysterical impulse to laugh, to cry out. young matt continued; "he's come home, dad, with all his fine clothes and city airs, and now she'll go away with him, and we won't never see her again." as he began to put his thoughts into words, the giant got upon his feet, and walked the floor like one insane. "he shan't have her," he cried, clenching his great fists; "he shan't have her. if he was a man i could stand it, dad. but look at him! look at him, will you? the little white-faced, washed out runt, what is he? he ain't no man, dad. he ain't even as much of a man as he was. and sammy is--god! what a woman she is! you've been a tellin' me that i could be a gentleman, even if i always lived in the backwoods. but you're wrong, dad, plumb wrong. i ain't no gentleman. i can't never be one. i'm just a man. i'm a--a savage, a damned beast, and i'm glad of it." he threw back his shaggy head, and his white teeth gleamed through his parted lips, as he spoke in tones of mad defiance. "dad, you say there's some things bigger'n learnin', and such, and i reckon this here's one of them. i don't care if that little whelp goes to all the schools there is, and gets to be a president or a king; i don't care if he's got all the money there is between here and hell; put him out here in the woods, face to face with life where them things don't count, and what is he? what is he, dad? he's nothin'! plumb nothin'!" the old shepherd waited quietly for the storm to pass. the big fellow would come to himself after a time; until then, words were useless. at last young matt spoke in calmer tones; "i run away, dad. i had to. i was afraid i'd hurt him. something inside o' me just fought to get at him, and i couldn't a held out much longer. i don't want to hurt nobody, dad. i reckon it was a seein' 'em together that did it. it's a god's blessin' i come away when i did; it sure is." he dropped wearily into his chair again. then the teacher spoke, "it is always a god's blessing, lad, when a man masters the worst of himself. you are a strong man, my boy. you hardly know your strength. but you need always to remember that the stronger the man, the easier it is for him to become a beast. your manhood depends upon this, and upon nothing else, that you conquer and control the animal side of yourself. it will be a sad moment for you, and for all of us who love you, if you ever forget. don't you see, lad, it is this victory only that gives you the right to think of yourself as a man. mind, i say to think of yourself, as a man. it doesn't much matter what others think of you. it is what one can honestly think of one's self that matters." so they spent the evening together, and the big mountaineer learned to see still more deeply into the things that had come to the older man in his years of study and painful experience. when at last young matt arose to say good-night, the shepherd tried to persuade him to sleep at the ranch. but he said, no, the folks at home would be looking for him, and he must go. "i'm mighty glad i come, dad," he added; "i don't know what i'd do if it wasn't for you; go plumb hog wild, and make a fool of myself, i reckon. i don't know what a lot of us would do, either. seems like you're a sort of shepherd to the whole neighborhood. i reckon, though, i'm 'bout the worst in the flock," he finished with a grim smile. mr. howitt took his hat from the nail. "if you must go, i will walk a little way with you. i love to be out such nights as this. i often wish pete would take me with him." "he's out somewhere to-night, sure," replied the other, as they started. "we heard him a singin' last night." then he stopped and asked, "where's your gun, dad? there's a panther somewhere on this range." "i know," returned the shepherd; "i heard it scream last night; and i meant to go up to the house to-day for a gun. i broke the hammer of mine yesterday." "that's bad," said young matt. "but come on, i'll leave mine with you until to-morrow. that fellow would sure make things lively, if he should come to see you, and catch you without a shootin' iron." together the two walked through the timber, until they came to where the trail that leads to the matthews place begins to climb the low spur of the hill back of the house. here mr. howitt stopped to say good-night, adding, as the young man gave him the rifle, "i don't like to take this, grant. what if you should meet that panther between here and home?" "shucks!" returned the other; "you're the one that'll need it. you've got to take care of them sheep. i'll get home alright." "don't forget the other beast, lad. remember what it is that makes the man." chapter xxv. young matt remembers. after parting with his friend, young matt continued on his way until he reached the open ground below the point where the path from the ranch joins the old trail. then he stopped and looked around. before him was the belt of timber, and beyond, the dark mass of the mountain ridge with the low gap where his home nestled among the trees. he could see the light from the cabin window shining like a star. behind him lay the darker forest of the hollow, and beyond, like a great sentinel, was the round, treeless form of dewey bald. from where he stood, he could even see clearly against the sky the profile of the mountain's shoulder, and the ledge at sammy's lookout. another moment, and the young man had left the path that led to his home, and was making straight for the distant hill. he would climb to that spot where he had stood in the afternoon, and would look down once more upon the little cabin on the mountain side. then he would go home along the ridge. three quarters of an hour later, he pushed up out of a ravine that he followed to its head below the old trail, near the place where, with pete and the shepherd, he had watched sammy reading her letter. he was climbing to the lookout, for it was the easiest way to the ledge, and, as his eye came on a level with the bench along which the path runs, he saw clearly on the big rock above the figure of a man. instantly young matt stopped. the moon shone full upon the spot, and he easily recognized the figure. it was ollie stewart. young stewart had been greatly puzzled by sammy's attitude. it was so unexpected, and, to his mind, so unreasonable. he loved the girl as much as it was possible for one of his weak nature to love; and he had felt sure of his place in her affections. but the door that had once yielded so readily to his touch he had found fast shut. he was on the outside, and he seemed somehow to have lost the key. in this mood on his way home, he had reached the spot that was so closely associated with the girl, and, pausing to rest after the sharp climb, had fallen to brooding over his disappointment. so intent was he upon his gloomy thoughts that he had not heard young matt approaching, and was wholly unconscious of that big fellow's presence in the vicinity. for a time the face at the edge of the path regarded the figure on the rock intently; then it dropped from sight. young matt slipped quietly down into the ravine, and a few moments later climbed again to the old trail at a point hidden from the lookout. here he stepped quickly across the narrow open space and into the bushes on the slope of the mountain above. then with the skill of one born and reared in the woods, the mountaineer made his way toward the man on the shoulder of the hill. what purpose lay under his strange movement young matt did not know. but certainly it was not in his mind to harm ollie. he was acting upon the impulse of the moment; an impulse to get nearer and to study unobserved the person of his rival. so he stalked him with all the instinct of a creature of the woods. not a twig snapped, not a leaf rustled, as from bush to fallen log, from tree trunk to rock, he crept, always in the black shadows, or behind some object. but there were still other eyes on old dewey that night, and sharp ears heard the big woodsman climbing out of the ravine, if ollie did not. when the young man in the clear light of the moon crossed the old trail, a figure near the clump of trees, where he had sat with his two friends that day, dropped quietly behind a big rock, half hidden in the bushes. as the giant crept toward the lookout, this figure followed, showing but little less skill than the mountaineer himself. once a loose stone rattled slightly, and the big fellow turned his head; but the figure was lying behind a log that the other had just left. when young matt finally reached the position as close to ollie as he could go without certain discovery, the figure also came to a rest, not far away. the moments passed very slowly now to the man crouching in the shadows. ollie looked at his watch. it was early yet to one accustomed to late hours in the city. young matt heard distinctly the snap of the case as the watch was closed and returned to its owner's pocket. then stewart lighted a cigar, and flipped the burned out match almost into his unseen companion's face. it seemed to young matt that he had been there for hours. years ago he left his home yonder on the ridge, to look for stray stock. they must have forgotten him long before this. the quiet cabin in the hollow, and his friend, the shepherd, too, were far away. in all that lonely mountain there was no one--no one but that man on the rock there; that man, and himself. how bright the moon was! suddenly another form appeared upon the scene. it came creeping around the hill from beyond the lookout. it was a long, low, lithe-bodied, form that moved with the easy, gliding movements of a big cat. noiselessly the soft padded feet fell upon the hard rock and loose gravel of the old pathway; the pathway along which so many things had gone for their kill, or had gone to be killed. young matt saw it the moment it appeared. he started in his place. he recognized it instantly as the most feared of all the wild things in the mountain wilderness--a panther. he saw it sniff the footprints on the trail--ollie's footprints. he saw it pause and crouch as it caught sight of the man on the rock. instantly wild and unwelcome thoughts burned within the strong man's brain. the woodsman knew why that thing had come. against such a foe the unconscious weakling on the rock there, calmly puffing his cigar, would have no chance whatever. he would not even know of its presence, until it had made its spring, and its fangs were in his neck. the man of the wilderness knew just how it would be done. it would be over in a minute. the giant clenched his teeth. why had he not gone on to his home after leaving the shepherd? why had he followed that impulse to stand again where he had stood that afternoon? above all, what had possessed him--what had led him to creep to his present position? he shot a quick glance around. how bright--how bright the moon was! the panther turned aside from the trail and with silent grace leaped to the ledge, gaining a position on a level with ollie-still unconscious of its presence. a cold sweat broke out on the big man's forehead. the great hands worked. his breath came in quick gasps. it could not be laid to his door. he had only to withdraw, to stop his ears and run, as he had fled that afternoon. god! how slowly that thing crept forward, crouching low upon its belly, its tail twitching from side to side, nearer, nearer. young matt felt smothered. he loosened the collar of his shirt. the moon--the moon was so bright! he could even see the muscles in the beast's heavy neck and shoulders working under the sleek skin. suddenly the words of the shepherd came to him, as though shouted in his ears, "remember the other beast, lad. don't you see it is this victory only that gives you the right to think of yourself as a man?" ollie was almost brushed from his place as the big mountaineer sprang from the shadow, while the panther, startled by the appearance of another man upon the rock, paused. an exclamation of fright burst from young stewart, as he took in the situation. and the giant by his side reached forth a hand to push him back, as he growled, "shut up and get out of the way! this here's my fight!" at the movement the wild beast seemed to understand that the newcomer was there to rob him of his prey. with a snarl, it crouched low again, gathering its muscles for the spring. the giant waited. suddenly the sharp crack of a rifle rang out on the still night, echoing and echoing along the mountain. the panther leaped, but fell short. the startled men on the rock saw it threshing the ground in its death struggle. "that was a lucky shot for you," said ollie. "lucky for me," repeated young matt slowly, eyeing his well dressed companion; "well, yes, i reckon it was." "who fired it?" the big fellow shook his head in a puzzled way. stewart looked surprised. "wasn't it someone hunting with you?" "with me? huntin'? not to-night;" muttered the other still searching the hill side. "well, i'd like to know what you were doing here alone, then;" said ollie suspiciously. at his tone, young matt turned upon him savagely, "'tain't none of your business, what i was a doin' here, that i can see. i reckon these hills are free yet. but it's mighty lucky for us both that someone was 'round, whoever he is. maybe you ain't thankful that that critter ain't fastened on your neck. but i am. an' i'm goin' to find out who fired that shot if i can." he started forward, but ollie called imperiously, "hold on there a minute, i want to say something to you first." the other paused, and young stewart continued; "i don't know what you mean by prowling around this time of night. but it looks as though you were watching me. i warn you fairly, don't try it again. i know how you feel toward miss lane, and i know how you have been with her while i was away. i tell you it's got to stop. she is to be my wife, and i shall protect her. you may just as well--" he got no further. the big man sprang forward to face him with a look that made the dandy shrink with fear. "protect sammy lane from me! protect her, you! you know what i feel toward her? you!" he fairly choked with his wild rage. the frightened ollie drew a weapon from his pocket, but, with a snarling laugh, the big fellow reached out his great hand and the shining toy went whirling through the air. "go home," said the giant. "damn you, go home! don't you hear? for god's sake get out o' my sight 'fore i forget again!" ollie went. chapter xxvi. ollie's dilemma. as "preachin' bill" used to say, "every hound has hits strong pints, but some has more of 'em." young stewart was not without graces pleasing to the girl whom he hoped to make his wife. he seemed to know instinctively all those little attentions in which women so delight, and he could talk, too, very entertainingly of the things he had seen. to the simple girl of the backwoods, he succeeded in making the life in the city appear very wonderful, indeed. neither was sammy insensible to the influence of his position, and his prospective wealth, with the advantages that these things offered. then, with all this, he loved her dearly; and when, if you please, was ever a woman wholly unmoved by the knowledge that she held first place in a man's heart? for two weeks they were together nearly every day, sometimes spending the afternoon at the girl's home on the side of dewey, or roving over the nearby hills; sometimes going for long rides through the great woods to pass the day with friends, returning in the evening to find jim smoking in the doorway of the darkened cabin. when mr. lane, at the end of the first week, asked his daughter, in his point blank fashion, what she was going to do with young stewart, the girl answered, "he must have his chance, daddy. he mast have a good fair chance. i--i don't know what it is, but there is--i--i don't know, daddy. i am sure i loved him when he want away, that is, i think i am sure." and jim, looking into her eyes, agreed heartily; then he took down his violin to make joyful music far into the night. ollie did not see young matt after their meeting on the lookout. the big fellow, too, avoided the couple, and sammy, for some reason, carefully planned their rides so that they would not be likely to meet their neighbor an the ridge. once, indeed, they called at the matthews place, walking over in the evening, but that was when sammy knew that young matt was not at home. day after day as they talked together, the girl tried honestly to enter into the life of the man she had promised to marry. but always there was that feeling of something lacking. just what that something was, or why she could not feel completely satisfied, sammy did not understand. but the day was soon to come when she would know the real impulses of her heart. since that first afternoon, ollie had not tried to force his suit. while, in a hundred little ways, he had not failed to make her feel his love, he had never openly attempted the role of lover. he was conscious that to put the girl constantly upon the defensive would be disastrous to his hopes; and in this, he was wise. but the time had come when he must speak, for it was the last day of his visit. he felt that he could not go back to the city without a definite understanding. sammy, too, realized this, but still she was not ready to give an answer to the question he would ask. they had been to the forks, and were on their way home. as they rode slowly under the trees, the man pleaded his cause, but the woman could only shake her head and answer quite truthfully, "ollie, i don't know." "but tell me, sammy, is there any one in the way?" again she shook her head, "i--i think not." "you think not! don't you know?" the young man reined his horse closer to the brown pony. "let me help you decide, dear. you are troubled because of the change you see in me, and because the life that i have tried to tell you about is so strange, so different from this. you need not fear. with me, you will very soon be at home there; as much at home as you are here. come, dear, let me answer for you." the girl lifted her face to his; "oh, if you only could!" but, even as she spoke, there came to her the memory of that ride home from the party at ford's, when her pony had crowded close to the big white faced sorrel. it was brownie this time who was pulled sharply aside. the almost involuntary act brought a quick flush to the young man's cheek, and he promptly reined his own horse to the right, thus placing the full width of the road between them. so they went down the hill into the valley, where fall creek tumbled and laughed on its rocky way. a thread of blue smoke, curling lazily up from the old stack, and the sound of a hammer, told them that some one was at the mill. sammy was caught by a sudden impulse. "why, that must be young matt!" she exclaimed. "let us stop. i do believe you haven't seen him since you came home." "i don't want to see him, nor any one else, now," returned ollie. "this is our last evening together, sammy, and i want you all to myself. let us go up the old roark trail, around cox's bald, and home through the big, low gap." he checked his horse as he spoke, for they had already passed the point where the roark trail leaves fall creek. but the girl was determined to follow her impulse. "you can stop just a minute," she urged. "you really ought to see matt, you know. we can ride back this way if you like. it's early yet." but the man held his place, and replied shortly, "i tell you i don't want to see anybody, and i am very sure that young matt doesn't want to see me, not with you, anyway." sammy flushed at this, and answered with some warmth, "there is no reason in the world why you should refuse to meet an old friend; but you may do as you please, of course. only i am going to the mill." so saying, she started down the valley, and as there was really nothing else for him to do, the man followed. as they approached the mill, sammy called for young matt, who immediately left his work, and came to them. the big fellow wore no coat, and his great arms were bare, while his old shirt, patched and faded and patched again, was soiled by engine grease and perspiration. his trousers, too, held in place by suspenders repaired with belt lacing and fastened with a nail, were covered with sawdust and dirt. his hands and arms and even his face were treated liberally with the same mixture that stained his clothing; and the shaggy red brown hair, uncovered, was sadly tumbled. in his hand he held a wrench. the morrow was grinding day, and he had been making some repairs about the engine. altogether, as the backwoodsman came forward, he presented a marked contrast to the freshly clad, well groomed gentleman from the city. and to the woman, the contrast was not without advantages to the man in the good clothes. the thought flashed through her mind that the men who would work for ollie in the shops would look like this. it was the same old advantage; the advantage that the captain has over the private; the advantage of rank, regardless of worth. sammy greeted young matt warmly. "i just told ollie that it was too bad he had not seen you. you were away the night we called at your house, you know; and he is going home to-morrow." the giant looked from one to the other. evidently sammy had not heard of that meeting at the lookout, and stewart's face grew red as he saw what was in the big fellow's mind. "i'm mighty glad to see you again," he said lamely. "i told sammy that i had seen you, but she has forgotten." "oh, no, i haven't," replied the girl. "you said that you saw him in the field as you passed the first day you came, but that you were in such a hurry you didn't stop." at this ollie forced a loud laugh, and remarked that he was in something of a hurry that day. he hoped that in the girl's confusion the point might be overlooked. but the mountaineer was not to be sidetracked so easily. ollie's poor attempt only showed more clearly that he had purposely refrained from telling sammy of the might when young matt had interfered to save his life. to the simple straight-forward lad of the woods, such a course revealed a spirit most contemptible. raising his soiled hands and looking straight at ollie, he said, deliberately, "i'm sorry, seein' as this is the first time we've met, that i can't shake hands with you. this here's clean dirt, though." sammy was puzzled. ollie's objection to their calling at the mill, his evident embarrassment at the meeting, and something in young matt's voice that hinted at a double meaning in his simple words, all told her that there was something beneath the surface which she did not understand. after his one remark to her escort, the woodsman turned to the girl, and, in spite of sammy's persistent attempts to bring the now sullen ollie into the conversation, ignored the man completely. when they had talked for a few moments, young matt said, "i reckon you'll have to excuse me a minute, sammy; i left the engine in such a hurry when you called that i'll have to look at it again. it won't take more'n a minute." as he disappeared in the mill shed, the young lady turned to her companion, "what's the matter with you two? have you met and quarreled since you came home?" fate was being very unkind to ollie. he replied gruffly, "you'll have to ask your friend. i told you how it would be. the greasy hobo doesn't like to see me with you, and hasn't manners enough even to hide his feelings. come, let us go on." a look that was really worth seeing came into the girl's fine eyes, but she only said calmly; "matt will be back in a minute." "all the more reason why we should go. i should think you have had enough. i am sure i have." the young woman was determined now to know what lay at the bottom of all this. she said quietly, but with a great deal of decision, "you may go on home if you wish; i am going to wait here until young matt comes back." ollie was angry now in good earnest. he had not told sammy of the incident at the lookout because he felt that the story would bring the backwoodsman into a light altogether too favorable. he thought to have the girl safely won before he left the hills; then it would not matter. that young matt would have really saved ollie's life at the risk of his own there was no doubt. and stewart realized that his silence under such circumstances would look decidedly small and ungrateful to the girl. to have the story told at this critical moment was altogether worse than if he had generously told of the incident at once. he saw, too, that sammy guessed at some thing beneath the surface, and he felt uneasy in remaining until young matt came back to renew the conversation. and yet he feared to leave. at this stage of his dilemma, he was relieved from his plight in a very unexpected manner. chapter xxvii. the champion. a big wagon, with two men on the seat, appeared coming up the valley road. it was wash gibbs and a crony from the river. they had stopped at the distillery on their way, and were just enough under the influence of drink to be funny and reckless. when they caught sight of ollie stewart and miss lane, wash said something to his companion, at which both laughed uproariously. upon reaching the couple, the wagon came to a stop, and after looking at ollie for some moments, with the silent gravity of an owl, gibbs turned to the young lady, "howdy, honey. where did you git that there? did your paw give hit to you fer a doll baby?" young stewart's face grew scarlet, but he said nothing. "can't hit talk?" continued gibbs with mock interest. glancing at her frightened escort, the girl replied, "you drive on, wash gibbs. you're in no condition to talk to anyone." an ugly leer came over the brutal face of the giant; "oh, i ain't, ain't i? you think i'm drunk. but i ain't, not so mighty much. jest enough t' perten me up a pepper grain." then, turning to his companion, who was grinning in appreciation of the scene, he continued, "here, bill; you hold th' ribbens, an' watch me tend t' that little job i told you i laid out t' do first chance i got." at this, ollie grew as pale as death. once he started as if to escape, but he could not under sammy's eyes. as wash was climbing down from the wagon, he caught sight of young matt standing in the door of the mill shed. "hello, matt," he called cheerfully; "i ain't a lookin' fer you t' day; 'tend t' you some other time. got more important business jest now." young matt made no reply, nor did he move to interfere. in the backwoods every man must fight his own battles, so long as he fights with men. when stewart was in danger from the panther, it was different. this was man to man. sammy, too, reared in the mountains, and knowing the code, waited quietly to see what her lover would do. coming to ollie's side, gibbs said, "git down, young feller, an' look at yer saddle." "you go on, and let me alone, wash gibbs. i've never hurt you." ollie's naturally high pitched voice was shrill with fear. wash paused, looked back at his companion in the wagon; then to young matt, and then to the girl on the horse. "that's right," he said, shaking his head with ponderous gravity. "you all hear him. he ain't never hurted me, nary a bit. nary a bit, ladies an' gentlemen. but, good lord! look at him! hain't hit awful!" suddenly he reached out one great arm, and jerked the young man from his horse, catching him with the other hand as he fell, and setting him on his feet in the middle of the road. ollie was like a child in the grasp of his huge tormentor, and, in spite of her indignation, a look of admiration flashed over sammy's face at the exhibition of the bully's wonderful physical strength; an admiration, that only heightened the feeling of shame for her lover's weakness. gibbs addressed his victim, "now, dolly, you an' me's goin' t' play a little. come on, let's see you dance." the other struggled feebly a moment and attempted to draw a pistol, whereupon wash promptly captured the weapon, remarking in a sad tone as he did so, "you hadn't ought t' tote such a gun as that, sonny; hit might go off. hit's a right pretty little thing, ain't hit?" he continued, holding his victim with one hand, and examining the pearl handled, nickel plated weapon with great interest. "hit sure is. but say, dolly, if you was ever t' shoot me with that there, an' i found hit out, i'd sure be powerful mad. you hear me, now, an' don't you pack that gun no more; not in these mountains. hit ain't safe." the fellow in the wagon roared with delight at these witticisms, and looked from young matt to sammy to see if they also appreciated the joke. "got any more pretties!" asked gibbs of his victim. "no? let's see." catching the young man by the waist, he lifted him bodily, and, holding him head downward, shook him roughly. again sammy felt her blood tingle at the feat of strength. next holding ollie with one huge hand at the back of his neck, wash said, "see that feller in th' wagon there? he's a mighty fine gentleman; friend o' mine. make a bow t' him." as he finished, with his free hand he struck the young man a sharp blow in the stomach, with the result that stewart did make a bow, very low, but rather too suddenly to be graceful. the fellow in the wagon jumped up and bowed again and again; "howdy, mr. city man; howdy. mighty proud t' meet up with you; mighty proud, you bet!" the giant whirled his captive toward the mill. "see that feller yonder? i'm goin' t' lick him some day. make a face at him." catching ollie by the nose and chin, he tried to force his bidding, while the man in the wagon made the valley ring with his laughter. then wash suddenly faced the helpless young man toward sammy. "now ladies and gentlemen," he said in the tones of a showman addressing an audience, "this here pretty little feller from th' city's goin' t' show us hill-billies how t' spark a gal." the bully's friend applauded loudly, roaring at the top of his voice, "marry 'em, wash. marry 'em. you can do hit as good as a parson! you'd make a good parson. let's see how'd you go at hit." the notion tickled the fancy of the giant, for it offered a way to make sammy share the humiliation more fully. "git down an' come here t' yer honey," he said to the girl. "git down, i say," he repeated, when the young woman made no motion to obey. "indeed, i will not," replied sammy shortly. her tone and manner angered gibbs, and dropping ollie he started toward the girl to take her from the horse by force. as he reached the pony's side, sammy raised her whip and with all her strength struck him full across the face. the big ruffian drew back with a bellow of pain and anger. then he started toward her again. "i'll tame you, you wild cat," he yelled. and sammy raised her whip again. but before gibbs could touch the girl, a powerful hand caught him by the shoulder. "i reckon you've had fun enough, wash gibbs," remarked young matt in his slow way. "i ain't interfering between man and man, but you'd best keep your dirty hands off that lady." the young woman's heart leaped at the sound of that deep calm voice that carried such a suggestion of power. and she saw that the blue eyes under the tumbled red brown locks were shining now like points of polished steel. the strong man's soul was rejoicing with the fierce joy of battle. the big bully drew back a step, and glared at the man who had come between him and his victim; the man whom, for every reason, he hated. lifting his huge paws, he said in a voice hoarse with deadly menace, "dirty, be they? by hell, i'll wash 'em. an' hit won't be water that'll clean 'em, neither. don't you know that no man ever crosses my trail an' lives?" the other returned easily, "oh, shucks! get into your wagon and drive on. you ain't on roark now. you're on fall creek, and over here you ain't no bigger'n anybody else." while young matt was speaking, gibbs backed slowly away, and, as the young man finished, suddenly drew the pistol he had taken from ollie. with a quickness and lightness astonishing in one of his bulk and usually slow movements, the mountaineer leaped upon his big enemy. there was a short, sharp struggle, and wash staggered backward, leaving the shining weapon in young matt's hand. "it might go off, you know," said the young fellow quietly, as he tossed the gun on the ground at ollie's feet. with a mad roar, gibbs recovered himself and rushed at his antagonist. it was a terrific struggle; not the skillful sparring of trained fighters, but the rough and tumble battling of primitive giants. it was the climax of long months of hatred; the meeting of two who were by every instinct mortal enemies. ollie shrank back in terror, but sammy leaned forward in the saddle, her beautiful figure tense, her lips parted, and her face flushed with excitement. it was soon evident that the big champion of the hills had at last met his match. as he realized this, a look of devilish cunning crept into the animal face of gibbs, and he maneuvered carefully to bring his enemy's back toward the wagon. catching a look from his friend, over young matt's shoulder, the man in the wagon slipped quickly to the ground, and sammy saw with horror a naked knife in his hand. she glanced toward ollie appealingly, but that gentleman was helpless. the man with the knife began creeping cautiously toward the fighting men, keeping always behind young matt. the young woman felt as though an iron band held her fast. she could not move. she could not speak. then gibbs went down, and the girl's scream rang out, "behind you, matt! look quick!" as he recovered his balance from the effort that had thrown wash, young matt heard her cry, saw the girl's look of horror, and her outstretched hand pointing. like a flash he whirled just as the knife was lifted high for the murderous blow. it was over in an instant. sammy saw him catch the wrist of the uplifted arm, heard a dull snap and a groan, saw the knife fall from the helpless hand, and then saw the man lifted bodily and thrown clear over the wagon, to fall helpless on the rocky ground. the woman gave a low cry, "oh, what a man!" wash gibbs, too, opened his eyes, just in time to witness the unheard-of feat, and to see the bare-armed young giant who performed it turn again, breathing heavily with his great exertion, but still ready to meet his big antagonist. the defeated bully rose from the ground. the other stepped forward to meet him. but without a word, gibbs climbed into the wagon and took up the reins. before they could move, young matt had the mules by their heads. "you have forgotten something," he said quietly, pointing to the man on the ground, who was still unconscious from his terrible fall. "that there's your property. take it along. we ain't got no use for such as that on fall creek." sullenly wash climbed down and lifted his companion into the wagon. as young matt stood aside to let him go, the bully said, "i'll see you agin fer this." the strong man only answered, "i reckon you'd better stay on roark, wash gibbs. you got more room there." chapter xxviii. what pete told sammy. no word was spoken by either sammy or her lover, while their horses were climbing the mill road, and both were glad when they reached the top of the ridge, and turned into the narrow path where they would need to ride one before the other. it was not easy to ride side by side, when each was busy with thoughts not to be spoken. at the gate, ollie dismounted to help the girl from her horse. but before he could reach the pony's side, sammy sprang lightly to the ground, unassisted. opening the big gate, she turned brownie loose in the yard, while the man stood watching her, a baffled look upon his face. he had always done these little things for her. to be refused at this time was not pleasant. the feeling that he was on the outside grew stronger. turning to his own horse, ollie placed his foot in the stirrup to mount, when sammy spoke,--perhaps she felt that she had been a little unkind--"you were going to stay to supper," she said. "not to-night," he answered, gaining his seat in the saddle, and picking up the reins. "but you are going to leave in the morning, are you not? you--you must not go like this." he dropped the reins to the horse's neck again, "look here, sammy, do you blame me because i did not fight that big bully?" sammy did not reply. "what could i do? you know there is not another man in the mountains beside young matt who could have done it. surely you cannot blame me." the young woman moved uneasily, "no, certainly not. i do not blame you in the least. i--but it was very fortunate that young matt was there, wasn't it?" the last sentence slipped out before she knew. ollie retorted angrily, "it seems to be very fortunate for him. he will be a greater hero than ever, now, i suppose. if he is wise, he will stay in the backwoods to be worshipped for he'll find that his size won't count for much in the world. he's a great man here, where he can fight like a beast, but his style wouldn't go far where brains are of value. it would be interesting to see him in town; a man who never saw a railroad." sammy lifted her head quickly at this, and fixed her eyes on the man's face with that wide, questioning gaze that reminded one so of her father, "i never saw a railroad, either; not that i can remember; though, i suppose we must have crossed one or two on our way to texas when i was a baby. is it the railroads then that makes one so--so superior?" the man turned impatiently in the saddle, "you know what i mean." "yes," she answered slowly. "i think i do know what you mean." ollie lifted the reins again from his horse's neck, and angered them nervously. "i'd better go now; there's no use talking about this to-night. i won't leave in the morning, as i had planned. i-i can't go like this." there was a little catch in his voice. "may i come again to-morrow afternoon, sammy?" "yes, you had better go now, and come back to-morrow." "and sammy, won't you try to think that i am not altogether worthless, even if i am not big enough to fight wash gibbs? you are sure that you do not blame me for what happened at the mill?" "no," she said; "of course not. you could not help it. why should i blame anyone for that which he cannot help?" then ollie rode away, and sammy, going to her pony, stood petting the little horse, while she watched her lover up the old trail, and still there was that wide, questioning look in her eyes. as ollie passed from sight around the hill above, the girl slipped out of the gate, and a few minutes later stood at the lookout, where she could watch her lover riding along the ridge. she saw him pass from the open into the fringe of timber near the big gap; and, a few minutes later, saw him reappear beyond the deer lick. still she watched as he moved along the rim of the hollow, looking in the distance like a toy man on a toy horse; watched until he passed from sight into the timber again, and was gone. and all the time that questioning look was in her eyes. did she blame ollie that he had played so poorly his part in the scene at the mill. no, she told herself over and over again, as though repeating a lesson; no, ollie was not to blame, and yet-she knew that he had spoken truly when he said that there were things that counted for more than brute strength. but was there not something more than brute strength in the incident? was there not that which lay deeper? something of which the brute strength, after all, was only an expression? the girl stamped her foot impatiently, as she exclaimed aloud, "oh, why did he not try to do something? he should have forced wash gibbs to beat him into insensibility rather than to have submitted so tamely to being played with." in the distance she saw the shepherd following his flock down the mountain, and the old scholar, who always watched the lookout, when in the vicinity, for a glimpse of his pupil, waved his hand in greeting as he moved slowly on after his charges. it was growing late. her father, too, would be coming home for his supper. but as she rose to go, a step on the mountain side above caught her attention, and, looking up, she saw pete coming toward the big rock. sammy greeted the youth kindly, "i haven't seen pete for days and days; where has he been?" "pete's been everywhere; an' course i've been with him," replied the lad with his wide, sweeping gesture. then throwing himself at full length at the girl's feet, he said, abruptly, "pete was here that night, and god, he was here, too. couldn't nobody else but god o' done it. the gun went bang, and a lot more guns went bang, bang, all along the mountains. and the moonlight things that was a dancin' quit 'cause they was scared; and that panther it just doubled up and died. matt and ollie wasn't hurted nary a bit. pete says it was god done that; he was sure in the hills that night." sammy was startled. "matt and ollie, a panther? what do you mean, boy?" the troubled look shadowed the delicate face, as the lad shook his head; "don't mean nothin', sammy, not me. nobody can't mean nothin', can they?" "but what does pete mean? does pete know about it?" "oh, yes, course pete knows everything. don't sammy know 'bout that night when god was in the hills?" he was eager now, with eyes wide and face aglow. "no," said sammy, "i do not know. will pete tell me all about it?" the strange youth seated himself on the rock, facing the valley below, saying in a low tone, "ollie was a settin' like this, all still; just a smokin' and a watchin' the moonlight things that was dancin' over the tops of the trees down there." then leaping to his feet the boy ran a short way along the ledge, to come stealing back, crouching low, as he whispered, "it come a creepin' and a creepin' towards ollie, and he never knowed nothin' about it. but matt he knowed, and god he knowed too." wonderingly, the girl watched his movement. suddenly he sprang to the rock again, and facing the imaginary beast, cried in childish imitation of a man's deep voice, "get out of the way. this here's my fight." then in his own tones, "it was sure scared when young matt jumped on the rock. everything's scared of matt when he talks like that. it was mad, too, 'cause matt he wouldn't let it get ollie. and it got ready to jump at matt, and matt he got ready for a tussle, and ollie he got out of the way. and all the moonlight things stopped dancin', and the shadow things come out to see the fight." he had lowered his voice again almost to a whisper. sammy was breathless. "bang!" cried the lad, clapping his hands and shouting the words; "bang! bang! god, he fired and all the guns in the hills went off, and that panther it just doubled up and died. it would sure got ollie, though, if matt hadn't a jumped on the rock when he did. but do you reckon it could o' got matt, if god hadn't been here that night?" it was all too clearly portrayed to be mistaken. "sammy needn't be afeared," continued pete, seeing the look on the girl's face. "it can't come back no more. it just naturally can't, you know, sammy; 'cause god he killed it plumb dead. and pete dragged it way over on yon side of the ridge and the buzzards got it." chapter xxix. jim lane makes a promise. sammy went home to find her father getting supper. rushing into the cabin, the girl gave him a hug that caused jim to nearly drop the coffee pot. "you poor abused daddy, to come home from work, all tired and find no supper, no girl, no nothing. sit right down there, now, and rest, while i finish things." jim obeyed with a grin of appreciation. "i didn't fix no taters; thought you wasn't comin'." "going to starve yourself, were you? just because i was gone," replied the girl with a pan of potatoes in her hand. "i see right now that i will have to take care of you always--always, daddy jim." the smile suddenly left the man's face. "where's ollie stewart? didn't he come home with you?" "ollie's at home, i suppose. i have been up to the lookout talking to pete." "ain't ollie goin' back to the city to-morrow?" "no, not to-morrow; the next day. he's coming over here to-morrow afternoon. then he's going away." then, before jim could ask another question, she held up the half of a ham; "daddy, daddy! how many times have i told you that you must not--you must not slice the ham with your pocket knife? just look there! what would aunt mollie say if she saw that, so haggled and one sided?" all during the evening meal, the girl kept up a ceaseless merry chatter, changing the subject abruptly every time it approached the question that her father was most anxious to ask. and the man delighted with her gay mood responded to it, as he answered to all her moods, until they were like two school children in their fun. but, when supper was over and the work done, and jim, taking down his violin, would have made music, sammy promptly relieved him of his instrument, and seated herself on his knee. "not to-night, daddy. i want to talk to-night, real serious." she told him then of the encounter with wash gibbs and his friend at the mill, together with the story that pete had illustrated so vividly at the lookout. "and so, daddy," she finished; "i know now what i shall do. he will come to-morrow afternoon to say good-by, and then he will go away again back to the city and his fine friends for good. and i'll stay and take care of my daddy jim. it isn't that he is a bad man like wash gibbs. he couldn't be a bad man like that; he isn't big enough. and that's just it. he is too little--body, soul and spirit--he is too little. he will do well in the world; perhaps he will even do big things. but i heard dear old preachin' bill say once, that 'some fellers can do mighty big things in a durned little way.' so he is going back to the city, and i am going to stay in the hills." jim took no pains to hide his delight. "i knowed it, girl. i knowed it. bank on the old blood every time. there ain't a drop of yeller in it; not a drop, sammy. ollie ain't to say bad, but he ain't just our kind. lord! but i'd like to o' seen young matt a givin' it to wash gibbs!" he threw back his head and roared with delight. "just wait 'till i see wash. i'll ask him if he thinks young matt would need a pry for to lift that mill engine with, now." then all of a sudden the laugh died out, and the man's dark face was serious, as he said, slowly, "the boy'll have to watch him, though. it'll sure be war from this on; the worst kind of war." "daddy, what do you think wash would have done to me, if young matt had not been there?" that metallic ring was in jim's voice, now, as he replied, "wash gibbs ought to knowed better than to done that. but it was a blessin' young matt was there, wasn't it? he'd take care of you anywhere. i wouldn't never be afraid for you with him." the girl hid her face on her father's shoulder, as she said, "daddy, will wash gibbs come here any more now? it seems to me he wouldn't dare meet you after this." jim answered uneasily, "i don't know, girl. i reckon he'll be around again after a time." there was a pause for a little while; then sammy, with her arms still about his neck, said, "daddy, i'm going to stay in the hills with you now. i am going to send ollie away to-morrow, because as you say, he isn't our kind. daddy, wash gibbs is not our kind either, is he?" "you don't understand, girl, and i can't tell you now. it all started way back when you was a little trick." the young woman answered very gently, "yes, i know. you have told me that often. but, daddy, what will--what will our friends think, if you keep on with wash gibbs now, after what happened at the mill to-day? young matt fought gibbs because he insulted me and was going to hurt me. you say yourself that it will be war between them now? will you side with wash? and if you do, won't it look like there was just a little, tiny streak of yellow in us?" this side of the situation had not struck jim at first. he got up and walked the floor, while the girl, standing quietly by the fireplace, watched him, a proud, fond light in her eyes. sammy did not know what the bond between her father and the big ruffian was, but she knew that it was not a light one. now that the issue was fairly defined, she felt confident that, whatever the cost, the break would be made. but at this time it was well that she did not know how great the cost of breaking the bond between the two men would be. jim stopped before his daughter, and, placing a hand upon each shoulder, said, "tell me, girl; are you so powerful anxious to have me and young matt stay good friends like we've always been?" "i--i am afraid i am, daddy." and then, a rare smile came into the dark face of jim lane. he kissed the girl and said, "i'll do it, honey. i ain't afraid to, now." chapter xxx. sammy graduates. the next day when young stewart came, the books were all back on the shelf in the main room of the cabin, and sammy, dressed in a fresh gown of simple goods and fashion, with her hair arranged carefully, as she had worn it the last two months before ollie's coming, sat at the window reading. the man was surprised and a little embarrassed. "why, what have you been doing to yourself?" he exclaimed. "i have not been doing anything to myself. i have only done some things to my clothes and hair," returned the girl. then he saw the books. "why, where did these come from?" he crossed the room to examine the volumes. "do you--do you read all these?" "the shepherd has been helping me," she explained. "oh, yes. i understood that you were studying with him." he looked at her curiously, as though they were meeting for the first time. then, as she talked of her studies, his embarrassment deepened, for he found himself foundering hopelessly before this clear-eyed, clear-brained backwoods girl. "come," said sammy at last. "let us go for a walk." she led the way to her favorite spot, high up on the shoulder of dewey, and there, with mutton hollow at their feet and the big hills about them, with the long blue ridges in the distance beyond which lay ollie's world, she told him what he feared to learn. the man refused to believe that he heard aright. "you do not understand," he protested, and he tried to tell her of the place in life that would be hers as his wife. in his shallowness, he talked even of jewels, and dresses, and such things. "but can all this add one thing to life itself?" she asked. "is not life really independent of all these things? do they not indeed cover up the real life, and rob one of freedom? it seems to me that it must be so." he could only answer, "but you know nothing about it. how can you? you have never been out of these woods." "no," she returned, "that is true; i have never been out of these woods, and you can never, now, get away from the world into which you have gone." she pointed to the distant hills. "it is very, very far over there to where you live. i might, indeed, find many things in your world that would be delightful; but i fear that i should lose the things that after all are, to me, the really big things. i do not feel that the things that are greatest in your life could bring happiness without that which i find here. and there is something here that can bring happiness without what you call the advantages of the world to which you belong." "what do you know of the world?" he said roughly. "nothing," she said. "but i know a little of life. and i have learned some things that i fear you have not. beside, i know now that i do not love you. i have been slow to find the truth, but i have found it. and this is the one thing that matters, that i found it in time." "did you reach this conclusion at the mill yesterday?" he asked with a sneer. "no. it came to me here on the rock last evening after you were gone. i heard a strange story; the story of a weak man, a strong man, and a god who was very kind." ollie saw that further persuasion was of no avail, and as he left her, she watched him out of sight for the last time--along the trail that is nobody knows how old. when he was gone, in obedience to an impulse she did not try to understand, she ran down the mountain to the cabin in the hollow--young matt's cabin. and when the shepherd came in from the hills with his flock he found the house in such order as only a woman's hand can bring. the table was set, and his supper cooking on the stove. "dad," she asked, "do you think i know enough now to live in the city?" the old man's heart sank. it had come then. bravely he concealed his feelings, as he assured her in the strongest terms, that she knew enough, and was good enough to live anywhere. "then," said sammy; "i know enough, even if i am not good enough, to live in the hills." the brown eyes, deep under their shaggy brows, were aglow with gladness, and there was a note of triumph in the scholar's voice as he said, "then you do not regret learning the things i have tried to teach you? you are sure you have no sorrow for the things you are losing." "regret? dad. regret?" the young woman drew herself up and lifted her arms. "oh, dad, i see it all, now; all that you have been trying in a thousand ways to teach me. you have led me into a new world, the real world, the world that has always been and must always be, and in that world man is king; king because he is a man. and the treasure of his kingdom is the wealth of his manhood." "and the woman, sammy, the woman?" "'and they twain shall be one flesh.'" then the master knew that his teaching had not been in vain. "i can lead you no farther, my child," he said with a smile. "you have passed the final test." she came close to him, "then i want my diploma," she said, for he had told her about the schools. reverently the old scholar kissed her brow. "this is the only diploma i am authorized to give--the love and homage of your teacher." "and my degree?" she waited with that wide, questioning look in her eyes. "the most honorable in all the world--a sure enough lady." chapter xxxi. castle building. the corn was big enough to cultivate the first time, and young matt with old kate was hard at work in the field west of the house. it was nearly three weeks since the incident at the mill, since which time the young fellow had not met sammy lane to talk with her. he had seen her, though, at a distance nearly every day, for the girl had taken up her studies again, and spent most of her time out on the hills with the shepherd. that day he saw her as she turned into the mill road at the lower corner of the field, on her way to the forks. and he was still thinking of her three hours later, as he sat on a stump in the shade of the forest's edge, while his horse was resting. young matt recalled the fight at the mill with a wild joy in his heart. under any circumstances it was no small thing to have defeated the champion strong man and terror of the hills. it was a glorious thing to have done the deed for the girl he loved, and under her eyes. sammy might give herself to ollie, now, and go far away to the great world, but she could never forget the man who had saved her from insult, when her lover was far too weak to save even himself. and young matt would stay in the hills alone, but always he would have the knowledge and the triumph of this thing that he had done. yes, it would be easier now, but still--still the days would be years when there was no longer each morning the hope that somewhere before the day was gone he would see her. the sun fell hot and glaring on the hillside field, and in the air was the smell of the freshly turned earth. high up in the blue a hawk circled and circled again. a puff of air came sighing through the forest, touched lightly the green blades in the open, slipped over the ridge, and was lost in the sky beyond. old kate, with head down, was dreaming of cool springs in shady dells, and a little shiny brown lizard with a bright blue tail crept from under the bottom rail of the fence to see why the man was so still. the man turned his head quickly; the lizard dodged under the rail; and old kate awoke with a start. someone was coming along the road below. young matt knew the step of that horse, as well as he knew the sound of old kate's bell, or the neigh of his own sorrel. the brown pony stopped at the lower corner of the field, and a voice called, "you'd better be at work. i don't believe you have ploughed three rows since i passed." the big fellow went eagerly down the hill to the fence. "i sure ought to o' done better'n that, for it's been long enough since you went by. i always notice, though, that it gets a heap farther to the other side of the field and back about this time o' day. what's new over to the forks?" sammy laughed, "couldn't hear a thing but how the champion strong man was beaten at his own game. uncle ike says, 'ba thundas! you tell young matt that he'd better come over. a man what can ride wash gibbs a bug huntin' is too blamed good a man t' stay at home all th' time. we want him t' tell us how he done it. ba thundas! he'll be gittin' a job with th' gov'ment next. what!'" the man crossed his arms on the top rail of the worm fence, and laughed. it was good to have sammy deliver her message in just that way. "i reckon uncle ike thinks i ought to go dancin' all over the hills now, with a chip on my shoulder," he said. "i don't think you'll do that," she returned. "dad howitt wouldn't, would he? but i must hurry on now, or daddy's supper won't be ready when he comes in. i stopped to give you these papers for your father." she handed him the package. "and--and i want to thank you, matt, for what you did at the mill. all my life you have been fighting for me, and--and i have never done anything for you. i wish i could do something--something that would show you how--how i care." her voice faltered. he was so big and strong, and there was such a look of hopeless love and pain on his rugged face--a face that was as frank and open as a child's. here was a man who had no need for the shallow cunning of little fox-like men. this one would go open and bold on his way, and that which he could not take by his strength he would not have. had she not seen him in battle? had she not seen his eyes like polished steel points? deep down in her heart, the woman felt a thrill of triumph that such a man should stand so before her. she must go quickly. young matt climbed slowly up the hill again to his seat on the stump. here he watched until across the hollow he saw the pony and his rider come out of the timber and move swiftly along the ridge; watched until they faded into a tiny spot, rounded the mountain and disappeared from sight. then, lifting his eyes, he looked away beyond the long blue line that marked the distant horizon. some day he would watch sammy ride away and she would go on, and on, and on, beyond that blue line, put of his life forever. ollie had gone over there to live, and the shepherd had come from there. what was that world like, he wondered. between the young man of the mountains and that big world yonder there had always been a closely shut door. he had seen the door open to ollie, and now sammy stood on the threshold. would it ever open for him? and, if it did, what? then came a thought that made his blood leap. might he not force it open? the shepherd had told him of others who had done so. young matt felt a strong man's contempt for the things ollie had gotten out of the world, but he stood in awe before mr. howitt. he told himself, now, that he would look for and find the things yonder that made dad the man he was. he would carry to the task his splendid strength. nothing should stop him. and sammy, when she understood that he was going away to be like the shepherd, would wait awhile to give him his chance. surely, she would wait when he told her that. but how should he begin? looking up again, his eye caught a slow, shifting patch of white on the bench above lost creek, where the little stream begins its underground course. the faint bark of a dog came to him through the thin still air, and the patch of white turned off into the trail that leads to the ranch. "dad!" exclaimed the young man in triumph. dad should tell him how. he had taught sammy. and so while the sunlight danced on the green field, and old kate slept in the lengthening shadows of the timber, the lad gave himself to his dreams and built his castles--as we all have builded. his dreaming was interrupted as the supper bell rang, and, with the familiar sound, a multitude of other thoughts came crowding in; the father and mother--they were growing old. would it do to leave them alone with the graves on the hill yonder, and the mystery of the hollow? and there was the place to care for, and the mill. who but young matt could get work from the old engine? it was like the strong man that the fight did not last long. young matt's fights never lasted very long. by the time he had unhitched old kate from the cultivator, it was finished. the lad went down the hill, his bright castles in ruin--even as we all have gone, or must sometime go down the hill with our brightest castles in ruin. chapter xxxii. preparation. that same night, mr. lane told his daughter that he would leave home early the next morning to be gone two days. jim was cleaning his big forty-five when he made the announcement. sammy paused with one hand on the cupboard door to ask, "with wash gibbs, daddy?" "no, i ain't goin' with wash; but i'll likely meet up with him before i get back." there was a hint of that metallic ring in the man's voice. the girl placed her armful of dishes carefully on the cupboard shelf; "you're--you're not going to forget your promise, are you, daddy jim?" the mountaineer was carefully dropping a bit of oil into the lock of his big revolver. "no, girl, i ain't forgettin' nothin'. this here's the last ride i aim to take with wash. i'm goin' to see him to,"--he paused and listened carefully to the click, click, click, as he tested the action of his weapon--"to keep my promise." "oh, daddy, daddy, i'm so glad! i wanted this more than i ever wanted anything in all my life before. you're such a good daddy to me, i never could bear to see you with that bad, bad man." she was behind his chair now, and, stooping, laid her fresh young cheek against the swarthy, furrowed face. the man sat like a grim, stone image, his eyes fixed on the gun resting on his knees. not until she lifted her head to stand erect behind his chair, with a hand on each shoulder, did he find words. "girl, there's just one thing i've got to know for sure before i go to-morrow. i reckon i'm right, but somehow a man can't never tell about a woman in such things. will you tell your daddy, sammy?" "tell what, daddy jim?" the girl asked, her hands stealing up to caress her father's face. "what answer will you give to young matt when he asks you what ollie did?" "but why must you know that before you go to-morrow?" "'cause i want to be plumb sure i ain't makin' no mistake in sidin' with the boy in this here trouble." "you couldn't make a mistake in doing that, daddy, no matter whether i--no matter what--but perhaps matt will not ask me what ollie did." just a ray of humor touched the dark face. "i ain't makin' no mistake there. i know what the man will do." he laid the gun upon the table, and reaching up caught the girl's hand. "but i want to know what you'll say when he asks you. tell me, honey, so i'll be plumb certain i'm doin' right." sammy lowered her head and whispered in his ear. "are you sure this time, girl, dead sure?" "oh, i'm so sure that it seems as if i--i couldn't wait for him to come to me. i never felt this way before, never." the mountaineer drew his daughter into his arms, and held her close, as he said, "i ain't afraid to do it, now, girl." the young woman was so occupied with her own thoughts and the emotions aroused by her father's question, that she failed to note the ominous suggestion that lay under his words. so she entered gaily into his plans for her during his two days' absence. jim would leave early in the morning, and sammy was to stay with her friend, mandy ford, over on jake creek. mr. lane had arranged with jed holland to do the milking, so there would be no reason for the girl's return until the following evening, and she must promise that she would not come home before that time. sammy promised laughingly. he need not worry; she and mandy had not had a good visit alone for weeks. when his daughter had said good-night, jim extinguished the light, and slipping the big gun inside his shirt went to sit outside the cabin door with his pipe. an hour passed. sammy was fast asleep. and still the man sat smoking. a half hour more went by. suddenly the pipe was laid aside, and jim's hand crept inside his shirt to find the butt of the revolver. his quick ear had caught the sound of a swiftly moving horse coming down the mountain. the horse stopped at the gate and a low whistle came out of the darkness. leaving his seat, sammy's father crossed the yard, and, a moment later, the horse with its rider was going on again down the trail toward the valley below and the distant river. jim waited at the gate until the sound of the horse's feet had died away in the night. then he returned to the cabin. but even as he walked toward the house, a dark figure arose from a clump of bushes within a few feet of the spot where jim and the horseman had met. the figure slipped noiselessly away into the forest. the next morning jim carefully groomed and saddled the brown pony for sammy, then, leading his own horse ready for the road, he came to the cabin door. "going now, daddy?" said the girl, coming for the good-by kiss. "my girl, my girl," whispered the man, as he took her in his arms. sammy was frightened at the sight of his face, so strange and white. "why daddy, daddy jim, what is the matter?" "nothin', girl, nothin'. only--only you're so like your mother, girl. she--she used to come just this way when i'd be leavin'. you're sure like her, and--and i'm glad. i'm glad you're like the old folks, too. remember now, stay at mandy's until to-morrow evenin'. kiss me again, honey. good-by." he mounted hurriedly and rode away at a brisk gallop. pulling up a moment at the edge of the timber, he turned in the saddle to wave his hand to the girl in the cabin door. chapter xxxiii. a ride in the night. sammy arrived at the ford homestead in time for dinner, and was joyfully received by her friend, mandy. but early in the afternoon, their pleasure was marred by a messenger from long creek on the other side of the river. mrs. ford's sister was very ill, and mrs. ford and mandy must go at once. "but sammy can't stay here alone," protested the good woman. "mandy, you'll just have to stay." "indeed, she shall not," declared their guest. "i can ride up jake creek to the forks and stay all night at uncle ike's. brownie will make it easily in time for supper. you just get your things on and start right away." "you'd better hurry; too," put in mr. ford. "there's a storm comin' 'fore long, an' we got t' git across th' river 'fore hit strikes. i'll be here with th' horses by the time you get your bonnets on." he hurried away to the barn for his team, while the women with sammy's assistance made their simple preparation. as mother ford climbed into the big wagon, she said to sammy, "hit's an awful lonely ol' trip fer you, child; an' you must start right away, so's t' be sure t' get there 'fore hit gets plumb dark," while mr. ford added, as he started the team, "your pony's ready saddled, an' if you'll hurry along, you can jest 'bout make hit. don't get catched on jakey in a big rain whatever you do." "don't you worry about me," returned the girl, "brownie and i could find the way in the dark." but when her friends were gone, sammy, womanlike, busied herself with setting the disordered house aright before she started on her journey. watching the clouds, she told herself that there was plenty of time for her to reach the postoffice before the storm. it might not come that way at all, in fact. but the way up jake creek was wild and rough, and along the faint trail, that twisted and wound like a slim serpent through the lonely wilderness, brownie could make but slow time. as they followed the little path, the walls of the narrow valley grew steeper, more rocky, and barren; and the road became more and more rough and difficult, until at last the valley narrowed to a mere rocky gorge, through which the creek ran, tumbling and foaming on its way. it was quite late when sammy reached the point near the head of the stream where the trail leads out of the canon to the road on the ridge above. it was still a good two miles to the forks. as she passed the spring, a few big drops of rain came pattering down, and, looking up, she saw, swaying and tossing in the wind, the trees that fringed the ledges above, and she heard the roar of the oncoming storm. a short way up the side of the mountain at the foot of a great overhanging cliff, there is a narrow bench, and less than a hundred feet from where the trail finds its way through a break in the rocky wall, there is a deep cave like hollow. sammy knew the spot well. it would afford excellent shelter. pushing brownie up the steep path, she had reached this bench, when the rushing storm cloud shut out the last of the light, and the hills shook with a deafening crash of thunder. instinctively the girl turned her pony's head from the trail, and, following the cliff, reached the sheltered nook, just as the storm burst in all its wild fury. the rain came down in torrents; the forest roared; and against the black sky, in an almost continuous glare of lightning, the big trees tugged and strained in their wild wrestle with the wind; while peal after peal of thunder, rolling, crashing, reverberating through the hills, added to the uproar. it was over in a little while. the wind passed; the thunder rumbled and growled in the distance; and the rain fell gently; but the sky was still lighted by the red glare. though it was so dark that sammy could see the trees and rocks only by the lightning's flash, she was not frightened. she knew that brownie would find the way easily, and, as for the wetting, she would soon be laughing at that with her friends at the postoffice. but, as the girl was on the point of moving, a voice said, "it's a mighty good thing for us this old ledge happened to be here, ain't it?" it was a man's voice, and another replied, "right you are. and it's a good thing, too, that this blow came early in the evening." the speakers were between sammy and the trail. they had evidently sought shelter from the storm a few seconds after the girl had gained her position. in the wild uproar she had not heard them, and, as they crouched under the cliff, they were hidden by a projection of the rock, though now and then, when the lightning flashed, she could see a part of one of the horses. they might be neighbors and friends. they might be strangers, outlaws even. the young woman was too wise to move until she was sure. the first voice spoke again. "jack got off in good time, did he?" "got a good start," replied the other. "he ought to be back with the posse by ten at the latest. i told him we would meet them at nine where this trail comes into the big road." "and how far do you say it is to jim lane's place, by the road and the old trail?" asked the first voice. at the man's words a terrible fear gripped sammy's heart. "posse," that could mean only one thing,--officers of the law. but her father's name and her home--in an instant jim's strange companionship with wash gibbs, their long mysterious rides together, her father's agitation that morning, when he said goodby, with a thousand other things rushed through her mind. what terrible thing was this that she had happened upon in the night? what horrible trap had they set for her daddy, her daddy jim? for trap it was. it could be nothing else. at any risk she must hear more. she had already lost the other man's reply. calming herself, the girl listened eagerly for the next word. a match cracked. the light flared out, and a whiff of tobacco smoke came curling around the rock, as one of the men said: "are you sure there is no mistake about their meeting at lane's tonight?" "can't possibly be," came the answer. "i was lying in the brush, right by the gate when the messenger got there, and i heard jim give the order myself. take it all the way through, unless we make a slip to-night, it will be one of the prettiest cases i ever saw." "yes," said the other; "but you mustn't forget that it all hinges on whether or not that bank watchman was right in thinking he recognized wash gibbs." "the man couldn't be mistaken there," returned the other. "there is not another man in the country the size of gibbs, except the two matthews's, and of course they're out of the question. then, look! jim lane was ready to move out because of the drought, when all at once, after being away several days the very time of the robbery, he changes his mind, and stays with plenty of money to carry him through. and now, here we are to-night, with that same old bald knobber gang, what's left of them, called together in the same old way by jim himself, to meet in his cabin. take my word for it, we'll bag the whole outfit, with the rest of the swag before morning. it's as sure as fate. i'm glad that girl is away from home, though." sammy had heard enough. as the full meaning of the officers' words came to her, she felt herself swaying dizzily in the saddle and clung blindly to the pony's mane for support. then something in her brain kept beating out the words, "ride, ride, ride." never for an instant did sammy doubt her father. it was all some horrible mistake. her daddy jim would explain it all. of course he would, if--if she could only get home first. but the men were between her and the path that led to the road. then all at once she remembered that young matt had told her how sake creek hollow headed in the pinery below the ridge along which they went from fall creek to the forks. it might be that this bench at the foot of the ledge would lead to a way out. as quick as thought the girl slipped to the ground, and taking brownie by the head began feeling her way along the narrow shelf. dead leaves, tangled grass and ferns, all wet and sodden, made a soft carpet, so that the men behind the rock heard no sound. now and then the lightning revealed a glimpse of the way for a short distance, but mostly she trusted blindly to her pony's instinct. several times she stumbled over jagged fragments of rock that had fallen from above, cutting her hand and bruising her limbs cruelly. once, she was saved from falling over the cliff by the little horse's refusal to move. a moment she stood still in the darkness; then the lightning showed a way past the dangerous point. after a time that seemed hours, she noticed that the ledge had become no higher than her head, and that a little farther on the bench was lost in the general slope of the hill. she had reached the head of the hollow. a short climb up the side of the mountain, and, pushing through the wet bushes, she found herself in the road. she had saved about three miles. it was still nearly five to her home. an instant later the girl was in her saddle, and the brown pony was running his best. sammy always looked back upon that ride in the darkness, and, indeed, upon all that happened that night, as to a dream of horror. as she rode, that other night came back to her, the night she had ridden to save the shepherd, and she lived over again that evening in the beautiful woods with young matt. oh, if he were only with her now! unconsciously, at times, she called his name aloud again and again, keeping time to the beat of her pony's feet. at other times she urged brownie on, and the little horse, feeling the spirit of his mistress, answered with the best he had to give. with eager, outstretched head, and wide nostrils, he ran as though he understood the need. how dark it was! at every bound they seemed plunging into a black wall. what if there should be a tree blown across the road? at the thought she grew faint. she saw herself lying senseless, and her father carried away to prison. then rallying, she held her seat carefully. she must make it as easy as possible for brownie, dear little brownie. how she strained her eyes to see into the black night! how she prayed god to keep the little horse! only once in a lifetime, it seemed to her, did the pony's iron shoe strike sparks of fire from the rocks, or the lightning give her a quick glimpse of the road ahead. they must go faster, faster, faster. those men should not--they should not have her daddy jim; not unless brownie stumbled. where the road leaves the ridge for fall creek valley, sammy never tightened the slack rein, and the pony never shortened his stride by so much as an inch. it was well that he was hill bred, for none but a mountain horse could have kept his feet at such a terrific pace down the rocky slope. down the valley road, past the mill, and over the creek they flew; then up the first rise of the ridge beyond. the pony was breathing hard now, and the girl encouraged him with loving words and endearing terms; pleading with him to go on, go on, go on. at last they reached the top of the ridge. the way was easier now. here and there, where the clouds were breaking, the stars looked through; but over the distant hills, the lightning still played, showing which way the storm had gone; and against the sky, now showing but dimly under ragged clouds and peeping stars, now outlined clearly against the flashing light, she saw the round treeless form of old dewey above her home. chapter xxxiv. jim lane keeps his promise. sammy, on her tired pony, approached the lookout on the shoulder of dewey. as they drew near a figure rose quickly from its place on the rock, and, running swiftly along the ledge, concealed itself in the clump of cedars above the trail on the southern side of the mountain. a moment later the almost exhausted horse and his rider passed, and the figure, slipping from the ledge, followed them unobserved down the mountain. nearing the house sammy began to wonder what she should do next. with all her heart the girl believed in her father's innocence. she did not know why those men were at her home. but she did know that the money that helped her father over the drought had come through the shepherd; the matthews family, too, had been helped the same way. surely dad howitt was incapable of any crime. it was all some terrible mistake; some trap from which her father must be saved. but sammy knew, too, that wash gibbs and his companions were bad men, who might easily be guilty of the robbery. to help them escape the officers was quite a different matter. leaving the trembling brownie in a clump of bushes a little way from the clearing, the girl went forward on foot, and behind her still crept the figure that had followed from the lookout. once the figure paused as if undecided which course to pursue. close by, two saddle horses that had carried their riders on many a long ride were tied to a tree a few feet from the corner of the barn. sammy would have recognized these, but in her excitement she had failed to notice them. at first the girl saw no light. could it be that the officers were wrong? that there was no one at the cabin after all? then a little penciled gleam set her heart throbbing wildly. blankets were fastened over the windows. sammy remembered that a few days before a bit of chinking had fallen from between the logs in the rear of the cabin. she had spoken to her father about it, but it was not likely that he had remembered to fix it. cautiously she passed around the house, and, creeping up to the building, through the crevice between the logs, gained a clear view of the interior. seated or lounging on chairs and on the floor about the room were eleven men; one, the man who had been with wash gibbs at the mill, carried his arm in a sling. the girl outside could hear distinctly every word that was spoken. wash, himself, was speaking. "well, boys, we're all here. let's get through and get away. bring out the stuff, jim." mr. lane went to one corner of the cabin, and, pulling up a loose board of the flooring, drew out two heavy sacks. as he placed the bags on the table, the men all rose to their feet. "there it is just as you give it to me," said jim. "but before you go any farther, men, i've got something to say." the company stirred uneasily, and all eyes turned from jim to their big leader, while sammy noticed for the first time that the table had been moved from its usual place, and that her father had taken such a position that the corner of the cabin was directly behind him, with the table in front. for her life the girl could not have moved. slowly jim swept the group of scowling, wondering faces on the other side of the table. then, in his slow drawling speech, he said, "most of you here was in the old organization. tom and ed and me knows how it started away back, for we was in it at the beginnin'. wash, here, was the last man to join, 'fore we was busted, and he was the youngest member, too; bein' only a boy, but big for his age. you remember how he was taken in on account of his daddy's bein' killed by the gov'ment. "didn't ary one of us fellers that started it ever think the bald knobber's would get to be what they did. we began it as a kind of protection, times bein' wild then. but first we knowed some was a usin' the order to protect themselves in all kinds of devilment, and things went on that way, 'cause nobody didn't dare say anything; for if they did they was tried as traitors, and sentenced to the death. "i ain't a sayin', boys, that i was any better than lots of others, for i reckon i done my share. but when my girl's mother died, away down there in texas, i promised her that i'd be a good daddy to my little one, and since then i done the best i know. "after things quieted down, and i come back with my girl, wash here got the old crowd, what was left of us, together, and wanted to reorganize again. i told you then that i'd go in with you and stand by the old oath, so long as it was necessary to protect ourselves from them that might be tryin' to get even for what had been done, but that i wouldn't go no farther. i don't mind tellin' you now, boys--though i reckon you know it--that i went in because i knowed what you'd do for me if i didn't. and i didn't dare risk leaving my girl all alone then. i've 'tended every meetin', and done everything i agreed, and there ain't a man here can say i ain't." some of the men nodded, and "that's so," and "you're right, jim" came from two or three. jim went on, "you know that i voted against it, and tried to stop you when you hung old man lewis. i thought then, and i think yet, that it was spite work and not protection; and you know how i was against goin' for the shepherd, and you went when i didn't know it. as for this here bank business, i didn't even know of it, 'till you give me this stuff here for me to keep for you. i had to take it 'count of the oath. "it's got to be just like it was before. we come together first to keep each other posted, and save ourselves if there was any call to, and little by little you've been led into first one thing and then another, 'till you're every bit and grain as bad as the old crowd was, only there ain't so many of you, and you've kept me in it 'cause i didn't dare leave my girl." jim paused. there was an ominous silence in the room. with his eyes covering every scowling face in the company, jim spoke again, "but things has changed for me right smart, since our last meetin', when you give me this stuff to hold. you boys all know how i've kept wash gibbs away from my girl, and there ain't one of you that don't know i'm right, knowin' him as we do. more'n two weeks ago, when i wasn't around, he insulted her, and would have done worse, if young matt hadn't been there to take care of her. i called you here to-night, because i knowed that after what happened at the mill, wash and bill would be havin' a meetin' as soon as they could get around, and votin' you all to go against young matt and his people. but i'm goin' to have my say first." wash gibbs reached stealthily for his weapon, but hesitated when he saw that the dark faced man noted his movement. jim continued, in his drawling tones, but his voice rang cold and clear, "i ain't never been mealy mouthed with no man, and i'm too old to begin now. i know the law of the order, and i reckon gibbs there will try to have you keep it. you boys have got to say whether you'll stand by him or me. it looks like you was goin' to go with him alright. but whether you do or don't, i don't aim to stay with nobody that stands by such as wash gibbs. i'm goin' to side with decent folks, who have stood by my girl, and you can do your damnedest. you take this stuff away from here. and as for you, wash gibbs, if you ever set foot on my place again, if you ever cross my path after to-night i'll kill you like the measly yeller hound you are." as he finished, jim stood with his back to the corner of the room, his hand inside of the hickory shirt where the button was missing. while her father was speaking, sammy forgot everything, in the wild joy and pride of her heart. he was her daddy, her daddy jim; that man standing so calmly there before the wild company of men. whatever the past had been, he had wiped it clean to-night. he belonged to her now, all to her. she looked toward wash gibbs. then she remembered the posse, the officers of the law. they could not know what she knew. if her father was taken with the others and with the stolen gold, he would be compelled to suffer with the rest. yet if she called out to save him, she would save wash gibbs and his companions also, and they would menace her father's life day and night. the girl drew back from the window. she must think. what should she do? even as she hesitated, a score of dark forms crept swiftly, silently toward the cabin. at the same moment a figure left the side of the house near the girl, and, crouching low, ran to the two horses that were tied near the barn. sammy was so dazed that for a moment she did not grasp the meaning of those swiftly moving forms. then a figure riding one horse and leading another dashed away from the barn and across a corner of the clearing. the silence was broken by a pistol shot in the cabin. like an echo came a shot from the yard, and a voice rang out sharply, "halt!" the figure reeled in the saddle, as if to fall, but recovered, and disappeared in the timber. the same instant there was a rush toward the house--a loud call to surrender--a woman's scream--and then, came to sammy, blessed, kindly darkness. chapter xxxv. "i will lift up mine eyes unto the hills." when sammy opened her eyes, she was on the bed in her own room. in the other room someone was moving about, and the light from a lamp shone through the door. at first the girl thought that she had awakened from a night's sleep, and that it was her father whom she heard, building the fire before calling her, as his custom was. but no, he was not building the fire, he was scrubbing the floor. how strange. she would call presently and ask what he meant by getting up before daylight, and whether he thought to keep her from scolding him by trying to clean up what he had spilled before she should see it. she had had a bad dream of some kind, but she could not remember just what it was. it was very strange that something seemed to keep her from calling to her father just then. she would call presently. she must remember first what that dream was. she felt that she ought to get up and dress, but she did not somehow wish to move. she was strangely tired. it was her dream, she supposed. then she discovered that she was already fully dressed, and that her clothing was wet, muddy and torn. and with this discovery every incident of the night came vividly before her. she hid her face. after awhile, she tried to rise to her feet, but fell back weak and dizzy. who was that in the other room? could it be her father? would he never finish scrubbing the floor in that corner? when she could bear the suspense no longer, she called in a voice that sounded weak and far away; "daddy, oh, daddy." instantly the noise ceased; a step crossed the room; and the shepherd appeared in the doorway. placing the lamp on a little stand, the old man drew a chair to the side of the bed, and laid his hand upon her forehead, smoothing back the tangled hair. he spoke no word, but in his touch there was a world of tenderness. sammy looked at him in wonder. where had he come from? why was he there at all? and in her room? she glanced uneasily about the apartment, and then back to the kind face of her old teacher. "i-don't think i understand." "never mind, now, dear. don't try to understand just yet. aunt mollie will be here in a few minutes. matt has gone for her. when she comes and you are a little stronger, we shall talk." the girl caught his hand; "you--you won't leave me, dad? you won't leave me alone? i'm afraid, dad. i never was before." "no, no, my child; i shall not leave you. but you must have something warm to drink. i have been preparing it." he stepped into the other room, soon returning with a steaming cup. when she had finished the strengthening draught, young matt, with his mother and father, arrived. while helping the girl into clean, dry clothing, aunt mollie spoke soothingly to her, as one would reassure a frightened child. but sammy could hear only the three men, moving about in the other room, doing something and talking always in low tones. she did not speak, but in her brown eyes, that never left the older woman's face, was that wide, questioning look. when mrs. matthews had done what she could for the comfort of the girl, and the men had finished whatever they were doing in the other room, sammy said, "aunt mollie, i want to know. i must know. won't you tell dad to come, please?" instinctively she had turned to her teacher. when the shepherd came, she met him with the old familiar demand, "tell me everything, dad; everything. i want to be told all about it." "you will be brave and strong, sammy?" instantly, as ever, her quick mind grasped the meaning that lay back of the words and her face grew deathly white. then she answered, "i will be brave and strong. but first, please open the window, dad." he threw up the sash. it was morning, and the mists were over the valley, but the mountain tops were bathed in light. sammy arose, and walked steadily to a chair by the open window. looking out upon the beautiful scene, her face caught the light that was on the higher ground, and she said softly, "'i will lift up mine eyes unto the hills.' that's our word, now, isn't it, dad? i can share it with you, now." then the shepherd told her. young matt had been at the ranch with mr. howitt since early in the evening, and was taking his leave for the night when they heard horses stopping at the corral, and a voice calling. upon their answering, the voice said, "there is trouble at jim lane's. take these horses and go quick." and then as they had run from the house, the messenger had retreated into the shadow of the bluff, saying, "never mind me. if you love sammy, hurry." at this they mounted and had ridden as fast as possible. the old man did not tell the girl that he had found his saddle wet and slippery, and that when he reached the light his hands were red. they had found the officers ready to leave with their prisoners. all but two of the men were captured with their booty--wash gibbs alone escaping badly hurt, they thought, after killing one of the posse. when they had asked for sammy, one of the officers told them that she was at ford's over on jake creek, but another declared that he had heard a woman scream as they were making the attack. young matt had found her unconscious on the ground behind the cabin. when the shepherd finished his brief account, the girl said, "tell me all, dad. i want to know all. did--did they take daddy away?" the old man's eyes were dim as he answered gently, "no, dear girl; they did not take him away." then sammy knew why dad had scrubbed the cabin floor, and what the three men who talked so low had been doing in the other room. she made no outcry, only a moan, as she looked away across the silent hills and the valley, where the mists were slowly lifting; lifting slowly like the pale ghost of the starlight that was. "oh, daddy, daddy jim. you sure kept your promise. you sure did. i'm glad--glad they didn't get you, daddy. they never would have believed what i know; never--never." but there were no tears, and the shepherd, seeing after a little touched her hand. "everything is ready, dear; would you like to go now?" "not just yet, dad. i must tell you first how i came to be at home, and why i am glad--oh, so glad, that i was here. but call the others, please; i want them all to know." when the three, who with her teacher loved her best, had come, sammy told her story; repeating almost word for word what she had heard her father say to the men. when she had finished, she turned her face again to the open window. the mists were gone. the landscape lay bright in the sun. but sammy could not see. "it is much better, so much better, as it is, my child," said the old scholar. "you see, dear, they would have taken him away. nothing could have saved him. it would have been a living death behind prison walls away from you." "yes, i know, dad. i understand. it is better as it is. now, we will go to him, please." they led her into the other room. the floor in the corner of the cabin where the shepherd had washed it was still damp. through it all, sammy kept her old friend constantly by her side. "it is easier, dad, when you are near." nor would she leave the house until it was all over, save to walk a little way with her teacher. young matt and his father made the coffin of rough boards, sawed at the mill; and from the country round about, the woods-people came to the funeral, or, as they called it in their simple way, the "burying." the grave was made in a little glen not far from the house. when some of the neighbors would have brought a minister from the settlement, sammy said, "no." dad would say all that was necessary. so the shepherd, standing under the big trees, talked a little in his simple kindly way, and spoke the words, "earth to earth, dust to dust, ashes to ashes." "as good," declared some, "as any preacher on earth could o' done hit;" though one or two held "it warn't jest right to put a body in th' ground 'thout a regular parson t' preach th' sermon." when the last word was spoken, and the neighbors had gone away over the mountains and through the woods to their homes, aunt mollie with her motherly arm about the girl, said, "come, honey; you're our girl now. as long as you stay in the hills, you shall stay with us." and old matt added, "you're the only daughter we've got, sammy; and we want you a heap worse than you know." when sammy told them that she was not going to the city to live, they cried in answer, "then you shall be our girl always," and they took her home with them to the big log house on the ridge. for a week after that night at the lane cabin, pete was not seen. when at last, he did appear, it was to the shepherd on the hill, and his voice and manner alarmed dad. but the boy's only reply to mr. howitt's question was, "pete knows; pete knows." then in his own way he told something that sent the shepherd to young matt, and the two followed the lad to a spot where the buzzards were flying low through the trees. by the shreds of clothing and the weapons lying near, they knew that the horrid thing, from which as they approached, carrion birds flapped their wings in heavy flight, was all that remained of the giant, wash gibbs. many facts were brought out at the trial of the outlaws and it was made clear that jim lane had met his death at the hands of wash gibbs, just at the beginning of the attack, and that gibbs himself had been wounded a moment later by one of the attacking posse. thus does justice live even in the hills. chapter xxxvi. another stranger. mr. matthews and his son first heard of the stranger through lou gordon, the mail carrier, who stopped at the mill on his way to flag with the week's mail. the native rode close to the shed, and waited until the saw had shrieked its way through the log of oak, and the carriage had rattled back to first position. then with the dignity belonging to one of his station, as a government officer, he relieved his overcharged mouth of an astonishing quantity of tobacco, and drawled, "howdy, men." "howdy, lou," returned young matt from the engine, and old matt from the saw. "reckon them boards is fer a floor in joe gardner's new cabin?" "yes," returned old matt; "we ought to got 'em out last week, but seems like we couldn't get at it with the buryin' an' all." "'pears like you all 'r gettin' mighty proud in this neighborhood. puncheon floors used t' be good enough fer anybody t' dance on. be a buildin' board houses next, i reckon." mr. matthews laughed, "bring your logs over to fall creek when you get ready to build, lou; we'll sure do you right." the representative of the government recharged his mouth. "'lowed as how i would," he returned. "i ain't one o' this here kind that don't want t' see no changes. gov'ment's all th' time makin' 'provements. inspector 'lowed last trip we'd sure be a gettin' mail twice a week at flag next summer. this here's sure bound t' be a big country some day. "talkin' 'bout new fangled things, though, men! i seed the blamdest sight las' night that ever was in these woods, i reckon. i gonies! hit was a plumb wonder!" kicking one foot from the wooden stirrup and hitching sideways in the saddle, he prepared for an effort. "little feller, he is. ain't as tall as preachin' bill even, an' fat! i gonies! he's fat as a possum 'n 'simmon time. he don't walk, can't; just naturally waddles on them little duck legs o' hisn. an' he's got th' prettiest little ol' face; all red an' white, an' as round's a walnut; an' a fringe of th' whitest hair you ever seed. an' clothes! say, men." in the pause the speaker deliberately relieved his overcharged mouth. the two in the mill waited breathlessly. "long tailed coat, stove pipe hat, an' cane with a gold head as big as a 'tater. 'fo' god, men, there ain't been ary such a sight within a thousand miles of these here hills ever. an' doin's! my lord, a'mighty!" the thin form of the native doubled up as he broke into a laugh that echoed and re-echoed through the little valley, ending in a wild, "whoop-e-e-e. say! when he got out of th' hack last night at th' forks, uncle ike he catched sight o' him an' says, says he t' me, 'ba thundas! lou, looky there! talk 'bout prosperity. i'm dummed if there ain't ol' santa claus a comin' t' th' forks in th' summa time. 'ba thundas! what!' "an' when santa come in, he--he wanted--now what d' you reckon he wanted? a bath! yes, sir-e-e. dad burn me, 'f he didn't. a bath! whoop-e-e, you ought t' seen uncle ike! he told him, 'ba thundas!' he could give him a bite to eat an' a place to sleep, but he'd be pisined bit by rattlers, clawed by wild cats, chawed by the hogs, et by buzzards, an' everlastin'ly damned 'fore he'd tote water 'nough fer anybody t' swim in. 'ba thundas! what!' "what's he doin' here?" asked mr. matthews, when the mountaineer had recovered from another explosion. lou shook his head, as he straightened himself in the saddle. "blame me 'f i kin tell. jest wouldn't tell 't all last night. wanted a bath. called uncle ike some new fangled kind of a savage, an' th' old man 'lowed he'd show him. he'd sure have him persecuted fer 'sultin' a gov'ment servant when th' inspector come around. yes he did. oh, thar was doin's at the forks last night!" again the mail carrier's laugh echoed through the woods. "well, i must mosey along. he warn't up this mornin' when i left. reckon he'll show up 'round here sometime 'fore sun down. him an' uncle ike won't hitch worth a cent an' he'll be huntin' prouder folks. i done told th' old man he'd better herd him fer a spell, fer if he was t' get loose in these woods, there wouldn't be nary deer er bear left come thanksgivin' time. uncle ike said 'ba thundas!' he'd let me know that he warn't runnin' no dummed asylum. he 'lowed he was postmaster, 'ba thundas!' an' had all he could do t' keep th' dad burned gov'ment straight." late that afternoon lou's prophecy was fulfilled. a wagon going down the creek with a load of supplies for the distillery stopped at the mill shed and the stranger began climbing carefully down over the wheels. budd wilson on his high seat winked and nodded at mr. matthews and his son, as though it was the greatest joke of the season. "hold those horses, driver. hold them tight; tight, sir." "got 'em, mister," responded budd promptly. the mules stood with drooping heads and sleepy eyes, the lines under their feet. the gentleman was feeling carefully about the hub of the wheel with a foot that, stretch as he might, could not touch it by a good six inches. "that's right, man, right," he puffed. "hold them tight; tight. start now, break a leg sure, sure. then what would sarah and the girls do? oh, blast it all, where is that step? can't stay here all day. bring a ladder. bring a high chair, a table, a box, a big box, a--heh--heh--look out, i say, look out! blast it all, what do you mean?" this last was called forth by young matt lifting the little man bodily to the ground, as an ordinary man would lift a child. to look up at the young giant, the stranger tipped back his head, until his shining silk hat was in danger of falling in the dirt. "bless my soul, what a specimen! what a specimen!" then with a twinkle in his eye, "which one of the boys are you, anyway?" at this the three mountaineers roared with laughter. with his dumpy figure in the long coat, and his round face under the tall hat, the little man was irresistible. he fairly shone with good humor; his cheeks were polished like big red apples; his white hair had the luster of silver; his blue eyes twinkled; his silk hat glistened; his gold watch guard sparkled; his patent leathers glistened; and the cane with the big gold head gleamed in the sunlight. "that's him, doc," called the driver. "that's the feller what wallered wash gibbs like i was a tellin' ye. strongest man in the hills he is. dad burn me if i believe he knows how strong he is." "doc--doc--dad burned--doc," muttered the stranger. "what would sarah and the girls say!" he waddled to the wagon, and reached up one fat hand with a half dollar to budd, "here, driver, here. get cigars with that; cigars, mind you, or candy. i stay here. mind you don't get anything to drink; nothing to drink, i say." budd gathered up the reins and woke the sleepy mules with a vigorous jerk. "nary a drink, doc; nary a drink. thank you kindly all the same. got t' mosey 'long t' th' still now; ought t' o' been there hour ago. 'f i can do anything fer you, jest le' me know. i live over on sow coon gap, when i'm 't home. come over an' visit with me. young matt there'll guide you." as he watched the wagon down the valley, the stranger mused. "doc--doc--huh. quite sure that fellow will buy a drink; quite sure." when the wagon had disappeared, he turned to mr. matthews and his son; "according to that fellow, i am not far from a sheep ranch kept by a mr. howitt. that's it, mr. daniel howitt; fine looking man, fine; brown eyes; great voice; gentleman, sir, gentleman, if he is keeping sheep in this wilderness. blast it all, just like him, just like him; always keeping somebody's sheep; born to be a shepherd; born to be. know him?" at mention of mr. howitt's name, young matt had looked at his father quickly. when the stranger paused, he answered, "yes, sir. we know dad howitt. is he a friend of yourn?" "dad--dad howitt. doc and dad. well, what would sarah and the girls say? friend of mine? young man daniel and david, i am david; daniel and david lay on the same blanket when they were babies; played in the same alley; school together same classes; colleged together; next door neighbors. know him! blast it all, where is this sheep place?" again the two woodsmen exchanged glances. the elder matthews spoke, "it ain't so far from here, sir. the ranch belongs to me and my son. but mr. howitt will be out on the hills somewhere with the sheep now. you'd better go home with us and have supper, and the boy will take you down this evenin'." "well, now, that's kind, sir; very kind, indeed. man at the postoffice is a savage, sir; blasted, old incorrigible savage. my name is coughlan; dr. david coughlan, of chicago; practicing physician for forty years; don't do anything now; not much, that is. sarah and the girls won't let me. your name, sir?" "grant matthews. my boy there has the same. we're mighty glad to meet any friend of dad's, i can tell you. he's sure been a god's blessin' to this neighborhood." soon they started homeward, young matt going ahead to do the chores, and to tell his mother of their coming guest, while mr. matthews followed more slowly with the doctor. shortening his stride to conform to the slow pace of the smaller man, the mountaineer told his guest about the shepherd; how he had come to them; of his life; and how he had won the hearts of the people. when he told how mr. howitt had educated sammy, buying her books himself from his meager wages, the doctor interrupted in his quick way, "just like him! just like him. always giving away everything he earned. made others give, too. blast it all, he's cost me thousands of dollars, thousands of dollars, treating patients of his that never paid a cent; not a cent, sir. proud, though; proud as lucifer. fine old, family; finest in the country, sir. right to be proud, right to be." old matt scowled as he returned coldly, "he sure don't seem that way to us, mister. he's as common as an old shoe." and then the mountaineer told how his son loved the shepherd, and tried to explain what the old scholar's friendship had meant to them. the stranger ejaculated, "same old thing; same old trick. did me that way; does everybody that way. same old daniel. proud, though; can't help it; can't help it." the big man answered with still more warmth, "you ought to hear how he talks to us folks when we have meetin's at the cove school house. he's as good as any preacher you ever heard; except that he don't put on as much, maybe. why, sir, when we buried jim lane week before last, everybody 'lowed he done as well as a regular parson." at this dr. coughlan stopped short and leaned against a convenient tree for support, looking up at his big host, with merriment he could not hide; "parson, parson! daniel howitt talk as good as a parson! blast it all! dan is one of the biggest d. d.'s in the united states; as good as a parson, i should think so! why, man, he's my pastor; my pastor. biggest church, greatest crowds in the city. well what would sarah and the girls say!" he stood there gasping and shaking with laughter, until old matt, finding the ridiculous side of the situation, joined in with a guffaw that fairly drowned the sound of the little man's merriment. when they finally moved on again, the doctor said, "and you never knew? the papers were always full, always. his real name is--" "stop!" old matt spoke so suddenly and in such a tone that the other jumped in alarm. "i ain't a meanin' no harm, doc; but you oughtn't to tell his name, and--anyway i don't want to know. preacher or no preacher, he's a man, he is, and that's what counts in this here country. if dad had wanted us to know about himself, i reckon he'd a told us, and i don't want to hear it until he's ready." the doctor stopped short again, "right, sir; right. daniel has his reasons, of course. i forgot. that savage at the postoffice tried to interrogate me; tried to draw me. i was close; on guard you see. fellow in the wagon tried; still on guard. you caught me. blast it all, i like you! fine specimen that boy of yours; fine!" when they reached the top of the ridge the stranger looked over the hills with exclamations of delight, "grand, sir; grand! wish sarah and the girls could see. don't wonder daniel staid. that hollow down there you say; way down there? mutton--mutton hollow? daniel lives there? blast it all; come on, man; come on." as they drew near the house, pete came slowly up the old trail and met them at the gate. chapter xxxvii. old friends. after supper young matt guided the stranger down the trail to the sheep ranch in mutton hollow. when they reached the edge of the clearing, the mountaineer stopped. "yonder's the cabin, sir, an' dad is there, as you can see by the smoke. i don't reckon you'll need me any more now, an' i'll go back. we'll be mighty glad to see you on the ridge any time, sir. any friend of dad's is mighty welcome in this neighborhood." "thank you; thank you; very thoughtful; very thoughtful, indeed; fine spirit, fine. i shall see you again when daniel and i have had it out. blast it all; what is he doing here? good night, young man; good-night." he started forward impetuously. matt turned back toward home. the dog barked as dr. coughlan approached the cabin, and the shepherd came to the open door. he had been washing the supper dishes. his coat was off, his shirt open at the throat, and his sleeves rolled above his elbows. "here, brave." the deep voice rolled across the little clearing, and the dog ran to stand by his master's side. then, as mr. howitt took in the unmistakable figure of the little physician, he put out a hand to steady himself. "oh, it's me, daniel; it's me. caught you didn't i? blast it all; might have known i would. bound to; bound to, daniel; been at it ever since i lost you. visiting in kansas city last week with my old friends, the stewarts; young fellow there, ollie, put me right. first part of your name, description, voice and all that; knew it was you; knew it. didn't tell them, though; blasted reporters go wild. didn't tell a soul, not a soul. sarah and the girls think i am in kansas city or denver. didn't tell old man matthews, either; came near, though, very near. blast it all; what does it mean? what does it all mean?" in his excitement the little man spoke rapidly as he hurried toward the shepherd. when he reached the cabin, the two friends, so different, yet so alike, clasped hands. as soon as the old scholar could speak, he said, "david, david! to think that this is really you. you of all men; you, whom i most needed." "huh!" grunted the other. "look like you never needed me less. look fit for anything, anything; ten years younger; every bit of ten years. blast it all; what have you done to yourself? what have you done?" he looked curiously at the tanned face and rude dress of his friend. "bless my soul, what a change! what a change! told matthews you were an aristocrat. he wouldn't believe it. don't wonder. doubt it myself, now." the other smiled at the doctor's amazement. "i suppose i have changed some, david. the hills have done it. look at them!" he pointed to the encircling mountains. "see how calm and strong they are; how they lift their heads above the gloom. they are my friends and companions, david. and they have given me of their calmness and strength a little. but come in, come in; you must be very tired. how did you come?" the doctor followed him into the cabin. "railroad, hack, wagon, walked. postoffice last night. man there is a savage, blasted incorrigible savage. mill this afternoon. home with your friends on the ridge. old man is a gentleman, a gentleman, sir, if god ever made one. his boy's like him. the mother, she's a real mother; made to be a mother; couldn't help it. and that young woman, with the boy's name, bless my soul, i never saw such a creature before, daniel, never! if i had i--i--blast it all; i wouldn't be bossed by sarah and the girls, i wouldn't. see in that young man and woman what god meant men and women to be. told them they ought to marry; that they owed it to the race. you know my ideas, daniel. think they will?" the shepherd laughed, a laugh that was good to hear. "what's the matter now, daniel? what is the matter? have i said anything wrong again? blast it all; you know how i always do the wrong thing. have i?" "no, indeed, david; you are exactly right," returned mr. howitt. "but tell me, did you see no one else at the house? there is another member of the family." the doctor nodded. "i saw him; pete, you mean. looked him over. mr. matthews asked me to. sad case, very sad. hopeless, absolutely hopeless, daniel." "pete has not seemed as well as usual lately. i fear so much night roaming is not good for the boy," returned the other slowly. "but tell me, how are sarah and the girls? still looking after dr. davie, i suppose." "just the same; haven't changed a bit; not a bit. jennie looks after my socks and handkerchiefs; mary looks after my shirts and linen; anna looks after my ties and shoes; sue looks after my hats and coats; and kate looks after the things i eat; and sarah, sarah looks after everything and everybody, same as always. blast it all! if they'd give me a show, i'd be as good as ever; good as ever, daniel. what can a man do; what can a man do, with an only sister and her five old maid daughters looking after him from morning until night, from morning until night, daniel? tell them i am a full grown man; don't do no good; no good at all. blast it all; poor old things, just got to mother something; got to, daniel." while he was speaking, his eyes were dancing from one object to another in the shepherd's rude dwelling, turning for frequent quick glances to dad himself. "you live here, you? you ought not, daniel, you ought not. what would sarah and the girls say? blast it all; what do you mean by it? i ordered you away on a vacation. you disappear. think you dead; row in the papers, mystery; i hate mystery. blast it all; what does it mean, what does it all mean? not fair to me, daniel; not fair." by this time the little man had worked himself up to an astonishing pitch of excitement; his eyes snapped; his words came like pistol shots; his ejaculations were genuine explosions. he tapped with his feet; rapped with his cane; shook his finger; and fidgeted in his chair. "we want you back, daniel. i want you. church will want you when they know; looking for a preacher right now. i come after you, daniel. blast it all, i'll tell sarah and the girls, and they'll come after you, too. chicago will go wild when they know that daniel howitt cha--" "stop!" the doctor bounced out of his chair. the shepherd was trembling, and his voice shook with emotion. "forgive me, david. but that name must never be spoken again, never. my son is dead, and that name died with him. it must be forgotten." the physician noted his friend's agitation in amazement. "there, there, daniel. i didn't mean to. thought it didn't matter when we were alone. i--i--blast it all! tell me daniel, what do you mean by this strange business, this very strange business?" a look of mingled affection, regret and pain, came into the shepherd's face, as he replied, "let me tell you the story, david, and you will understand." when he had finished, mr. howitt asked gently, "have i not done right, david? the boy is gone. it was hard, going as he did. but i am glad, now, for old matt would have killed him, as he would kill me yet, if he knew. thank god, we have not also made the father a murderer. did i not say rightly, that the old name died with howard? have i not done well to stay on this spot and to give my life to this people?" "quite right, daniel; quite right. you always are. it's me that goes wrong; blundering, bumping, smashing into things. blast it all! i--i don't know what to say. b--b--blast it all!" the hour was late when the two men finally retired for the night. long after his heavy, regular breathing announced that the doctor was sleeping soundly, the shepherd lay wide awake, keenly sensitive to every sound that stirred in the forest. once he arose from his bed, and stepping softly left the cabin, to stand under the stars, his face lifted to the dark summit of old dewey and the hills that rimmed the hollow. and once, when the first light of day came over the ridges, he went to the bunk where his friend lay, to look thoughtfully down upon the sleeping man. breakfast was nearly ready when dr. coughlan awoke. the physician saw at once by the worn and haggard look on his friend's face that his had been a sleepless night. it was as though all the pain and trouble of the old days had returned. the little doctor muttered angrily to himself while the shepherd was gone to the spring for water. "blast it all, i'm a fool, a meddlesome, old fool. ought to have let well enough alone. no need to drag him back into it all again; no need. do no good; no good at all." when the morning meal was finished, mr. howitt said, "david, will you think me rude, if i leave you alone to-day? the city pavement fits one but poorly to walk these hills of mine, and you are too tired after your trip and the loss of your regular sleep to go with me this morning. stay at the ranch and rest. if you care to read, here are a few of your favorites. will you mind very much? i should like to be alone to-day, david." "right, daniel, right. i understand. don't say another word; not a word. go ahead. i'm stiff and sore anyway; just suit me." the shepherd arranged everything for his friend's comfort, putting things in readiness for his noonday meal, and showing him the spring. then, taking his own lunch, as his custom was, he went to the corral and released the sheep. the doctor watched until the last of the flock was gone, and he could no longer hear the tinkle of the bells and the bark of the dog. chapter xxxviii. i ain't nobody no more. with the coming of the evening, the shepherd returned to his guest. dr. coughlan heard first the bells on the leaders of the flock, and the barking of the dog coming nearer and nearer through the woods. soon the sheep appeared trooping out of the twilight shadows into the clearing; then came brave followed by his master. the countenance of the old scholar wore again that look of calm strength and peace that had marked it before the coming of his friend. "have you had a good rest, david? or has your day been long and tiresome? i fear it was not kind of me to leave you alone in this wilderness." the doctor told how he had passed the time, reading, sleeping and roaming about the clearing and the nearby woods. "and you," he said, looking the other over with a professional eye, "you look like a new man; a new man, daniel. how do you do it? some secret spring of youth in the wilderness? blast it all, wish you would show me. fool sarah and the girls, fool them, sure." "david, have you forgotten the prescription you gave me when you ordered me from the city? you took it you remember from one of our favorite volumes." the shepherd bared his head and repeated, "if thou art worn and hard beset, with sorrows, that thou wouldst forget; if thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep, go to the woods and hills! no tears dim the sweet look that nature wears." "david, i never understood until the past months why the master so often withdrew alone into the wilderness. there is not only food and medicine for one's body; there is also healing for the heart and strength for the soul in nature. one gets very close to god, david, in these temples of god's own building." dr. coughlan studied his old friend curiously; "change; remarkable change in you! remarkable! never said a thing like that in all your life before, never." the shepherd smiled, "it's your prescription, doctor," he said. they retired early that evening, for the physician declared that his friend must need the rest. "talk to-morrow," he said; "all day; nothing else to do." he promptly enforced his decision by retiring to his own bunk, leaving the shepherd to follow his example. but not until the doctor was sure that his friend was sleeping soundly did he permit himself to sink into unconsciousness. it was just past midnight, when the shepherd was aroused by the doctor striking a match to light the lamp. as he awoke, he heard pete's voice, "where is dad? pete wants dad." dr. coughlan, thinking it some strange freak of the boy's disordered brain, and not wishing to break his friend's much needed rest, was trying in low tones to persuade the boy to wait until morning. "what does pete want?" asked the shepherd entering the room. "pete wants dad; dad and the other man. they must sure go with pete right quick." "go where with pete? who told pete to come for dad?" asked mr. howitt. "he told pete. right now, he said. and pete he come. 'course i come with him. dad must go, an' the other man too, 'cause he said so." in sickness or in trouble of any kind the people for miles around had long since come to depend upon the shepherd of mutton hollow. the old man turned now to the doctor. "someone needs me, david. we must go with the boy." "but, daniel, daniel! blast it all! the boy's not responsible. where will he take us? where do you want us to go, boy?" "not me; not me; nobody can't go nowhere, can they? you go with pete, mister." "yes, yes; go with pete; but where will pete take us?" persisted the doctor. "pete knows." "now, look at that, daniel! look at that. blast it all; we ought not go; not in the night this way. what would sarah and the girls say?" notwithstanding his protests, the doctor was ready even before the shepherd. "take a gun, daniel; take a gun, at least," he said. the other hesitated, then asked, "does pete want dad to take a gun?" the youth, who stood in the doorway waiting impatiently, shook his head and laughed, "no, no; nothing can't get dad where pete goes. god he's there just like dad says." "it's all right, david," said the shepherd with conviction. "pete knows. it is safe to trust him to-night." and the boy echoed, as he started forward, "it's alright, mister; pete knows." "i wish you had your medicine case, though, david," added mr. howitt, as they followed the boy out into the night. "got one, daniel; got one. always have a pocket case; habit." pete led the way down the road, and straight to the old cabin ruin below the corral. though the stars were hidden behind clouds, it was a little light in the clearing; but, in the timber under the shadow of the bluff, it was very dark. the two men were soon bewildered and stood still. "which way, pete?" said the shepherd. there was no answer. "where's pete? tell pete to come here," said mr. howitt again. still there was on reply. their guide seemed to have been swallowed up in the blackness. they listened for a sound. "this is strange," mused the shepherd. a grunt of disgust came from the doctor, "crazy, man, crazy. there's three of us. which way is the house? blast it all, what would--" a spot of light gleamed under the bushes not fifty feet away. "come, dad. come on, pete's ready." they were standing close to the old cabin under the bluff. in a narrow space between the log wall of the house and the cliff, pete stood with a lighted lantern. the farther end of the passage was completely hidden by a projection of the rock; the overhanging roof touched the ledge above; while the opening near the men was concealed by the heavy growth of ferns and vines and the thick branches of a low cedar. even in daylight the place would have escaped anything but a most careful search. dropping to his knees and to one hand the shepherd pushed aside the screen of vines and branches with the other, and then on all fours crawled into the narrow passage. the doctor followed. they found their guide crouching in a small opening in the wall of rock. mr. howitt uttered an exclamation, "the lost cave! old man dewey!" the boy laughed, "pete knows. come, dad. come, other man. ain't nothin' can get you here." he scrambled ahead of them into the low tunnel. some twenty feet from the entrance, the passage turned sharply to the left and opened suddenly into a hallway along which the shepherd could easily walk erect. pete went briskly forward as one on very familiar ground, his lantern lighting up the way clearly for his two companions. for some distance their course dipped downward at a gentle angle, while the ceilings and sides dripped with moisture. soon they heard the sound of running water, and entering a wider room saw sparkling in the lantern's light a stream that came from under the rocky wall, crossed their path, and disappeared under the other wall of the chamber. "lost creek!" ejaculated the shepherd, as he picked his way over the stream on the big stones. and the boy answered, "pete knows. pete knows." from the bank of the creek the path climbed strongly upward, the footing grew firmer, and the walls and ceiling drier; as they went on, the passage, too, grew wider and higher, until they found themselves in a large underground hallway that echoed loudly as they walked. overhead, pure white stalactites and frost-like formations glittered in the light, and the walls were broken by dark nooks and shelf-like ledges with here and there openings leading who could tell where? at the farther end of this hallway where the ceiling was highest, the guide paused at the foot of a ledge against which rested a rude ladder. the shepherd spoke again, "dewey bald?" he asked. pete nodded, and began to climb the ladder. another room, and another ledge; then a long narrow passage, the ceiling of which was so high that it was beyond the lantern light; then a series of ledges, and they saw that they were climbing from shelf to shelf on one side of an underground canon. following along the edge of the chasm, the doctor pushed a stone over the brink, and they heard it go bounding from ledge to ledge into the dark heart of the mountain. "no bottom, daniel. blast it all, no bottom to it! what would sarah and the girls say?" they climbed one more ladder and then turned from the canon into another great chamber, the largest they had entered. the floor was perfectly dry; the air, too, was dry and pure; and, from what seemed to be the opposite side of the huge cavern, a light gleamed like a red eye in the darkness. they were evidently nearing the end of their journey. drawing closer they found that the light came from the window of a small cabin built partly of rock and partly of logs. instinctively the two men stopped. pete said in a low tone, as one would speak in a sacred presence, "he is there. come on, dad. come, other man. don't be scared." still the boy's companions hesitated. mr. howitt asked, "who, boy? who is there? do you know who it is?" "no, no, not me. nobody can't know nothin', can they?" "hopeless case, daniel; hopeless. too bad, too bad," muttered the physician, laying his hand upon his friend's shoulder. the shepherd tried again, "who does pete say it is?" "oh, pete says it's him, just him." "but who does pete say he is?" suggested dr. coughlan. again the boy's voice lowered to a whisper, "sometimes pete says it must be god, 'cause he's so good. dad says god is good an' that he takes care of folks, an' he sure does that. 'twas him that scared wash gibbs an' his crowd that night. an' he sent the gold to you, dad; god's gold it was; he's got heaps of it. he killed that panther, too, when it was a goin' to fight young matt. pete knows. you see, dad, when pete is with him, i ain't nobody no more. i'm just pete then, an' pete is me. funny, ain't it? but he says that's the way it is, an' he sure knows." the two friends listened with breathless interest. "and what does pete call him?" asked the doctor. "pete calls him father, like dad calls god. he talks to god, too, like dad does. do you reckon god would talk to god, mister?" with a cry the shepherd reeled. the doctor caught him. "strong, daniel, strong." pete drew away from the two men in alarm. the old scholar's agitation was pitiful. "david, david; tell me, what is this thing? can it be--my boy--howard, my son--can it be? my god, david, what am i saying? he is dead. dead, i tell you. can the dead come back from the grave, david?" he broke from his friend and ran staggering toward the cabin; but at the door he stopped again. it was as if he longed yet feared to enter, and the doctor and the boy came to his side. without ceremony pete pushed open the door. the room was furnished with a cupboard, table and small cook stove. it was evidently a living room. through a curtained opening at the right, a light showed from another apartment, and a voice called, "is that you, pete?" a look of pride came into the face of the lad, "that's me," he whispered. "i'm pete here, an' pete is me. it's always that way with him." aloud, he said, "yes, father, it's pete. pete, an' dad, an' the other man." as he spoke he drew aside the curtain. for an instant the two men paused on the threshold. the room was small, and nearly bare of furniture. in the full glare of the lamp, so shaded as to throw the rest of the room in deep shadow, hung a painting that seemed to fill the rude chamber with its beauty. it was the picture of a young woman, standing by a spring of water, a cup brimming full in her outstretched hand. on a bed in the shadow, facing the picture, lay a man. a voice faltered, "father. dr. coughlan." chapter xxxix. a matter of hours. "father--father; can--you--can--you--forgive me?" the man on his knees raised his head. "forgive you, my son? forgive you? my dear boy, there has never been in my heart a thought but of love and sympathy. pain there has been, i can't deny, but it has helped me to know what you have suffered. i understand it now, my boy. i understand it all, for i, too, have felt it. but when i first knew, even beneath all the hurt, i was glad--glad to know, i mean. it is a father's right to suffer with his child, my son. it hurt most, when the secret stood between us, and i could not enter into your life, but i understand that, too. i understand why you could not tell me. i, too, came away because i was not strong enough." "i--i thought it would be easier for you never to know," said the son as he lay on the bed. "i am--sorry, now. and i am glad that you know. but i must tell you all about it just the same. i must tell you myself, you see, so that it will be all clear and straight when i--when i go." he turned his eyes to the picture on the wall. "when you go?" howard laid a hand upon the gray head. "poor father; yes, i am going. it was an accident, but it was a kindness. it will be much better that way--only--only i am sorry for you, father. i thought i could save you all this. i intended to slip quietly away without your ever knowing, but when pete said that dr. coughlan was here, i could not go without--without--" the little doctor came forward. "i am a fool, howard, an old fool. blast it all; no business to go poking into this; no business at all! daniel would have sent if he had wanted me. ought to have known. old native can give me lessons on being a gentleman every time. blast it all! what's wrong, howard? get hurt? now i am here, might as well be useful." "indeed, doctor, you did right to come. you will be such a help to father. you will help us both, just as you have always done. will you excuse us, father, while dr. coughlan looks at this thing here in my side?" the physician arranged the light so that it shone full upon the man on the bed, then carefully removed the bandages from an ugly wound in the artist's side. dr. coughlan looked very grave. "when did this happen, howard?" "i--i can't tell exactly. you see i thought at first i could get along with pete to help, and i did, for a week, i guess. then things--didn't go so well. some fever, i think, for she--she came." he turned his eyes toward the picture again. "and i--i lost all track of time. it was the night of the eighteenth. father will know." "two weeks," muttered the physician. a low exclamation came from the shepherd. "it was you--you who brought the horses to the ranch that night?" the artist smiled grimly. "the officers saw me, and thought that i was one of the men they wanted. it's alright, though." the old scholar instinctively lifted his hands and looked at them. he remembered the saddle, wet with blood. making a careful examination, the doctor asked more questions. when he had finished and had skilfully replaced the bandages, the wounded man asked, "what about it, dr. coughlan?" the kind hearted physician jerked out a volley of scientific words and phrases that meant nothing, and busied himself with his medicine case. when his patient had taken the medicine, the doctor watched him for a few minutes, and then asked, "feel stronger, howard?" the artist nodded. "tell me the truth, now, doctor. i know that i am going. but how long have i? wait a minute first. where's pete? come here, my boy." the lad drew near. "father." mr. howitt seated himself on the bedside. "you'll be strong, father? we are ready now, dr. coughlan." "yes, tell us, david," said the shepherd, and his voice was steady. the physician spoke, "matter of hours, i would say. twenty-four, perhaps; not more; not more." "there is no possible chance, david?" asked the shepherd. again the little doctor took refuge behind a broadside of scientific terms before replying, "no; no possible chance." a groan slipped from the gray bearded lips of the father. the artist turned to the picture and smiled. pete looked wonderingly from face to face. "poor father," said the artist. "one thing more, doctor; can you keep up my strength for awhile?" "reasonably well, reasonably well, howard." "i am so glad of that because there is much to do before i go. there is so much that must be done first, and i want you both to help me." chapter xl. the shepherd's mission. during the latter part of that night and most of the day, it rained; a fine, slow, quiet rain, with no wind to shake the wet from burdened leaf or blade. but when the old shepherd left the cave by a narrow opening on the side of the mountain, near sammy's lookout, the sky was clear. the mists rolled heavily over the valley, but the last of the sunlight was warm on the knobs and ridges. the old man paused behind the rock and bushes that concealed the mouth of the underground passage. not a hundred feet below was the old trail; he followed the little path with his eye until it vanished around the shoulder of dewey. along that way he had come into the hills. then lifting his eyes to the far away lines of darker blue, his mind looked over the ridge to the world that is on the other side, the world from which he had fled. it all seemed very small and mean, now; it was so far--so far away. he started as the sharp ring of a horse's iron shoe on the flint rocks came from beyond the lookout, and, safely hidden, he saw a neighbor round the hill and pass on his way to the store on roark. he watched, as horse and rider followed the old trail around the rim of the hollow; watched, until they passed from sight in the belt of timber. then his eyes were fixed on a fine thread of smoke that curled above the trees on the matthews place; and, leaving the shelter of rock and bush, he walked along the old trail toward the big log house on the distant ridge. below him, on his left, mutton hollow lay submerged in the drifting mists, with only a faint line of light breaking now and then where lost creek made its way; and on the other side compton ridge lifted like a wooded shore from the sea. a black spot in the red west shaped itself into a crow, making his way on easy wing toward a dead tree on the top of boulder bald. the old shepherd walked wearily; the now familiar objects wore a strange look. it was as though he saw them for the first time, yet had seen them somewhere before, perhaps in another world. as he went his face was the face of one crushed by shame and grief, made desperate by his suffering. supper was just over and young matt was on the porch when mr. howitt entered the gate. the young fellow greeted his old friend, and called back into the house, "here's dad, father." as mr. matthews came out, aunt mollie and sammy appeared in the doorway. how like it all was to that other evening. the mountaineer and the shepherd sat on the front porch, while young matt brought the big sorrel and the brown pony to the gate, and with sammy rode away. they were going to the postoffice at the forks. "ain't had no news for a week," said aunt mollie, as she brought her chair to join the two men. "and besides, sammy needs the ride. there's goin' to be a moon, so it'll be light by the time they start home." the sound of the horses' feet and the voices of the young people died away in the gray woods. the dusk thickened in the valley below, and, as the light in the west went out, the three friends saw the clump of pines etched black and sharp against the blood red background of the sky. old matt spoke, "reckon everything's alright at the ranch, dad. how's the little doctor? you ought to brung him up with you." he watched the shepherd's face curiously from under his heavy brows, as he pulled at his cob pipe. "tired out trampin' over these hills, i reckon," ventured aunt mollie. mr. howitt tried to answer with some commonplace, but his friends could not but note his confusion. mrs. matthews continued, "i guess you'll be a leavin' us pretty soon, now. well, i ain't a blamin' you; and you've sure been a god's blessin' to us here in the woods. i don't reckon we're much 'long 'side the fine friends you've got back where you come from in the city; and we--we can't do nothin' for you, but--but--" the good soul could say no more. "we've often wondered, sir," added old matt, "how you've stood it here, an educated man like you. i reckon, though, there's somethin' deep under it all, keepin' you up; somethin' that ignorant folks, without no education, like us, can't understand." the old scholar could have cried aloud, but he was forced to sit dumb while the other continued, "you're goin' won't make no difference, though, with what you've done. this neighborhood won't never go back to what it was before you come. it can't with all you've taught us, and with sammy stayin' here to keep it up. it'll be mighty hard, though, to have you go; it sure will, mr. howitt." looking up, the shepherd said quietly, "i expect to live here until the end if you will let me. but i fear you will not want me to stay when you know what i've come to tell you this evening." the mountaineer straightened his huge form as he returned, "dad, there ain't nothin' on earth or in hell could change what we think of you, and we don't want to hear nothin' about you that you don't like to tell us. we ain't a carin' what sent you to the hills. we're takin' you for what you are. and there ain't nothin' can change that." "not even if it should be the grave under the pine yonder?" asked the other in a low voice. old matt looked at him in a half frightened way, as though, without knowing why, he feared what the shepherd would say next. mr. howitt felt the look and hesitated. he was like one on a desperate mission in the heart of an enemy's country, feeling his way. was the strong man's passion really tame? or was his fury only sleeping, waiting to destroy the one who should wake it? who could tell? the old scholar looked away to dewey bald for strength. "mr. matthews," he said, "you once told me a story. it was here on this porch when i first came to you. it was a sad tale of a great crime. to-night i know the other side of that story. i've come to tell you." at the strange words, aunt mollie's face turned as white as her apron. old matt grasped the arms of his chair, as though he would crush the wood, as he said shortly, "go on." at the tone of his voice, the old shepherd's heart sank. chapter xli. the other side of the story. with a prayer in his heart for the boy who lay dying in that strange underground chamber, the artist's father began. "it is the story, mr. matthews, of a man and his only son, the last of their family. with them will perish--has perished one of the oldest and proudest names in our country. "from his childhood this man was taught the honored traditions of his people, and, thus trained in pride of ancestry, grew up to believe that the supreme things of life are what his kind call education, refinement, and culture. in his shallow egotism, he came to measure all life by the standards of his people. "it was in keeping with this that the man should enter the pulpit of the church of his ancestors, and it was due very largely, no doubt, to the same ancestral influence that he became what the world calls a successful minister of the gospel. but christianity to him was but little more than culture, and his place in the church merely an opportunity to add to the honor of his name. soon after leaving the seminary, he married. the crowning moment of his life was when his first born--a boy--was laid in his arms. the second child was a girl; there were no more. "for ten years before her death the wife was an invalid. the little girl, too, was never strong, and six months after they buried the mother the daughter was laid beside her. "you, sir, can understand how the father lavished every care upon his son. the first offspring of the parents' love, the sole survivor of his home, and the last to bear the name of a family centuries old, he was the only hope of the proud man's ambition. "the boy was a beautiful child, a delicate, sensitive soul in a body of uncommon physical grace and strength, and the proud father loved to think of him as the flower of long ages of culture and refinement. the minister, himself, jealously educated his son, and the two grew to be friends, sir, constant companions. this, also, you will understand--you and your boy. but with all this the young man did not follow his father in choosing his profession. he--he became an artist." old matt started from his seat. aunt mollie uttered an exclamation. but the shepherd, without pausing, continued: "when his schooling was completed the boy came into the ozarks one summer to spend the season painting. the man had expected to go with his son. for months they had planned the trip together, but at last something prevented, and the father could not go--no, he could not go--" the speaker's voice broke; the big mountaineer was breathing hard; aunt mollie was crying. presently mr. howitt went on. "when the young artist returned to his father, among many sketches of the mountains, he brought one painting that received instant recognition. the people stood before it in crowds when it was exhibited in the art gallery; the papers were extravagant in their praise; the artist became famous; and wealthy patrons came to his studio to sit for their portraits. the picture was of a beautiful girl, standing by a spring, holding out a dripping cup of water." at this a wild oath burst from the giant. springing to his feet, he started toward the speaker. aunt mollie screamed, "grant, oh grant! think what dad has done for us." the mountaineer paused. "mr. matthews," said the shepherd, in trembling tones, "for my sake, will you not hear me to the end? for my sake?" the big man dropped back heavily into his chair. "go on," he said. but his voice was as the growl of a beast. "the boy loved your girl, mr. matthews. it was as though he had left his soul in the hills. night and day he heard her calling. the more his work was praised, the more his friends talked of honors and planned his future, the keener was his suffering, and most of all there was the shadow that had come between him and his father, breaking the old comradeship, and causing them to shun each other; though the father never knew why. the poor boy grew morose and despondent, giving way at times to spells of the deepest depression. he tried to lose himself in his work. he fled abroad and lived alone. it seemed a blight had fallen on his soul. the world called him mad. many times he planned to take his life, but always the hope of meeting her again stopped him. "at last he returned to this country determined to see her at any cost, and, if possible, gain her forgiveness and his father's consent to their marriage. he came into the hills only to find that the mother of his child had died of a broken heart. "then came the end. the artist disappeared, leaving a long, pitiful letter, saying that before the word reached his father, he would be dead. the most careful investigation brought nothing but convincing evidence that the unhappy boy had taken his own life. the artist knew that it would be a thousand times easier for the proud man to think his son dead than for him to know the truth, and he was right. mr. matthews, he was right. i cannot tell you of the man's suffering, but he found a little comfort in the reflection that such extravagant praise of his son's work had added to the honor of the family, for the lad's death was held by all to be the result of a disordered mind. there was not a whisper of wrong doing. his life, they said, was without reproach, and even his sad mental condition was held to be evidence of his great genius. "the minister was weak, sir. he knew something of the intellectual side of his religion and the history of his church, but he knew little, very little, of the god that could sustain him in such a trial. he was shamefully weak. he tried to run away from his trouble, and, because the papers had made so much of his work as a preacher, and because of his son's fame, he gave only the first part of his name, thinking thus to get away from it all for a season. "but god was to teach the proud man of culture and religious forms a great lesson, and to that end directed his steps. he was led here, here, sir, to your home, and you--you told him the story of his son's crime." the shepherd paused. a hoarse whisper came from the giant in the chair, "you--you, dad, your--name is--" the other threw out his hand, as if to guard himself, and shrank back; "hush, oh hush! i have no name but the name by which you know me. the man who bore that name is dead. in all his pride of intellect and position he died. your prayers for vengeance were answered, sir. you--you killed him; killed him as truly as if you had plunged a knife into his heart; and--you--did--well." aunt mollie moaned. "is that all?" growled the mountaineer. "all! god, no! i--i must go on. i must tell you how the man you killed staid in the hills and was born again. there was nothing else for him to do but stay in the hills. with the shame and horror of his boy's disgrace on his heart, he could not go back-back to the city, his friends and his church--to the old life. he knew that he could not hope to deceive them. he was not skilled in hiding things. every kind word in praise of himself, or in praise of his son, would have been keenest torture. he was a coward; he dared not go back. his secret would have driven him mad, and he would have ended it all as his son had done. his only hope for peace was to stay here; here on the very spot where the wrong was done, and to do what little he could to atone for the crime. "at first it was terrible; the long, lonely nights with no human friend near; the weight of shame; the memories; and the lonely wind--always the wind--in the trees--her voice, pete said, calling for him to come. god, sir, i wonder the man did not die under his punishment! "but god is good, mr. matthews. god is good and merciful. every day out on the range with the sheep, the man felt the spirit of the hills, and little by little their strength and their peace entered into his life. the minister learned here, sir, what he had not learned in all his theological studies. he learned to know god, the god of these mountains. the hills taught him, and they came at last to stand between him and the trouble from which he had fled. the nights were no longer weary and long. he was never alone. the voices in the wilderness became friendly voices, for he learned their speech, and the poor girl ceased to call in the wailing wind. then dr. coughlan came, and--" again the shepherd stopped. he could not go on. the light was gone from the sky and he felt the blackness of the night. but against the stars he could still see the crown of the mountain where his son lay. when he had gathered strength, he continued, saying simply, "dr. coughlan came, and--last night we learned that my son was not dead but living." again that growl like the growl of a wild beast came from the mountaineer. silently mr. howitt prayed. "go on," came the command in hoarse tones. in halting, broken words, the shepherd faltered through the rest of his story as he told how, while using the cabin under the cliff as a studio, the artist had discovered the passage to the old dewey cave; how, since his supposed death, he had spent the summers at the scene of his former happiness; how he had met his son roaming the hills at night, and had been able to have the boy with him much of the time; how he had been wounded the night jim lane was killed; and finally how pete had led them to his bedside. "he is dying yonder. dr. coughlan is with him--and pete--pete is there, too. i--i came for you. he is calling for you. i came to tell you. all that a man may suffer here, he has suffered, sir. your prayer has been doubly answered, mr. matthews. both father and son are dead. the name--the old name is perished from the face of the earth. for christ's dear sake, forgive my boy, and let him go. for my sake, sir, i--i can bear no more." who but he that looketh upon the heart of man could know the battle that was fought in the soul of that giant of the hills? he uttered no sound. he sat in his seat as if made of stone; save once, when he walked to the end of the porch to stand with clenched hands and passion shaken frame, facing the dark clump of pines on the hill. slowly the moon climbed over the ridge and lighted the scene. the mountaineer returned to his chair. all at once he raised his head, and, leaning forward, looked long and earnestly at the old shepherd, where he sat crouching like a convict awaiting sentence. from down the mill road came voices and the sound of horses' feet. old matt started, turning his head a moment to listen. the horses stopped at the lower gate. "the children," said aunt mollie softly. "the children. grant, oh, grant! sammy and our boy." then the shepherd felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, and a voice, that had in it something new and strange, said, "dad,--my brother,--daniel, i--i ain't got no education, an' i--don't know rightly how to say it--but, daniel, what these hills have been to you, you--you have been to me. it's sure god's way, daniel. let's--let's go to the boy." chapter xlii. the way of the lower trail. "fix--the--light, as it was--please? that's--it. thank you, doctor. how beautiful she is--how beautiful!" he seemed to gather strength, and looked carefully into the face of each member of the little group about the bed; the shepherd, old matt, aunt mollie, pete, and the physician. then he turned his eyes back to the painting. to the watchers, the girl in the picture, holding her brimming cup, seemed to smile back again. "i loved her--i loved--her. she was my natural mate--my other self. i belonged to her--she to me. i--i can't tell you of that summer--when we were together--alone in the hills--the beautiful hills--away from the sham and the ugliness of the world that men have made. the beauty and inspiration of it all i put into my pictures, and i knew because of that they were good--i knew they would win a place for me--and--they did. most of all--i put it there," (he pointed to the painting on the wall) "and the crowd saw it and felt it, and did not know what it was. but i knew--i knew--all the time, i knew. oh!--if that short summer could have been lengthened--into years, what might i not have done? oh, god! that men--can be--so blind--so blind!" for a time he lay exhausted, his face still turned toward the picture, but with eyes closed as though he dreamed. then suddenly, he started up again, raising himself on his elbows, his eyes opened wide, and on his face a look of wondering gladness. they drew near. "do--do--you--hear? she is calling--she is calling again. yes-sweetheart--yes, dear. i--i am--com--" then, old matt and aunt mollie led the shepherd from the room. and this way runs the trail that follows the lower level, where those who travel, as they go, look always over their shoulders with eyes of dread, and the gloomy shadows gather long before the day is done. chapter xliii. poor pete. they buried the artist in the cave as he had directed, close under the wall on the ledge above the canon, with no stone or mark of any sort to fix the place. the old mine which he had discovered was reached by one of the side passages far below in the depth of the mountain. the grave would never be disturbed. for two weeks longer, dr. coughlan staid with his friend; out on the hills with him all day, helping to cook their meals at the ranch, or sitting on the porch at the matthews place when the day was gone. when the time finally came that he must go, the little physician said, as he grasped the shepherd's hand, "you're doing just right, daniel; just right. always did; always did. blast it all! i would stay, too, but what would sarah and the girls do? i'll come again next spring, daniel, sure, sure, if i'm alive. don't worry, no one will ever know. blast it all! i don't like to leave you, daniel. don't like it at all. but you are right, right, daniel." the old scholar stood in the doorway of his cabin to watch the wagon as it disappeared in the forest. he heard it rattle across the creek bottom below the ruined cabin under the bluff. he waited until from away up on compton ridge the sound of wheels came to him on the breeze that slipped down the mountain side. still he waited, listening, listening, until there were only the voices of the forest and the bleating of the sheep in the corral. slipping a book in his pocket, and taking a luncheon for himself and pete he opened the corral gate and followed his flock to the hills. all that summer pete was the shepherd's constant companion. at first he seemed not to understand. frequently he would start off suddenly for the cave, only to return after a time, with that look of trouble upon his delicate face. mr. howitt tried to help the boy, and he appeared gradually to realize in part. once he startled his old friend by saying quietly, "when are you goin', dad?" "going where? where does pete think dad is going?" the boy was lying on his back on the grassy hillside watching the clouds. he pointed upward, "there, where he went; up there in the white hills. pete knows." the other looked long at the lad before answering quietly, "dad does not know when he will go. but he is ready any time, now." "pete says better not wait long, dad; 'cause pete he's a goin' an' course when he goes i've got to go 'long. do you reckon dad can see pete when he is up there in them white hills? some folks used to laugh at pete when he told about the white hills, the flower things, the sky things, an' the moonlight things that play in the mists. an' once a fellow called pete a fool, an' young matt he whipped him awful. but folks wasn't really to blame, 'cause they couldn't see 'em. that's what he said. an' he knew, 'cause he could see 'em too. but aunt mollie, an' uncle matt, an' you all, they don't never laugh. they just say, 'pete knows.' but they couldn't see the flower things, or the tree things neither. only he could see." the summer passed, and, when the blue gray haze took on the purple touch and all the woods and hills were dressed with cloth of gold, pete went from the world in which he had never really belonged, nor had been at home. mr. howitt, writing to dr. coughlan of the boy's death, said: "here and there among men, there are those who pause in the hurried rush to listen to the call of a life that is more real. how often have we seen them, david, jostled and ridiculed by their fellows, pushed aside and forgotten, as incompetent or unworthy. he who sees and hears too much is cursed for a dreamer, a fanatic, or a fool, by the mad mob, who, having eyes, see not, ears and hear not, and refuse to understand. "we build temples and churches, but will not worship in them; we hire spiritual advisers, but refuse to heed them; we buy bibles, but will not read them; believing in god, we do not fear him; acknowledging christ, we neither follow nor obey him. only when we can no longer strive in the battle for earthly honors or material wealth, do we turn to the unseen but more enduring things of life; and, with ears deafened by the din of selfish war and cruel violence, and eyes blinded by the glare of passing pomp and folly, we strive to hear and see the things we have so long refused to consider. "pete knew a world unseen by us, and we, therefore, fancied ourselves wiser than he. the wind in the pines, the rustle of the leaves, the murmur of the brook, the growl of the thunder, and the voices of the night were all understood and answered by him. the flowers, the trees, the rocks, the hills, the clouds were to him, not lifeless things, but living friends, who laughed and wept with him as he was gay or sorrowful. "'poor pete,' we said. was he in truth, david, poorer or richer than we?" they laid the boy beside his mother under the pines on the hills; the pines that showed so dark against the sky when the sun was down behind the ridge. and over his bed the wild vines lovingly wove a coverlid of softest green, while all his woodland friends gathered about his couch. forest and hill and flower and cloud sang the songs he loved. all day the sunlight laid its wealth in bars of gold at his feet, and at night the moonlight things and the shadow things came out to play. summer and autumn slipped away; the winter passed; spring came, with all the wonder of the resurrection of flower and leaf and blade. so peace and quiet came again into the shepherd's life. when no answer to his letter was received, and the doctor did not return as he had promised, the old man knew that the last link connecting him with the world was broken. chapter xliv. the trail on the sunlit hills. when young matt first knew that sammy had sent ollie back to the city with no promise to follow, he took to the woods, and returned only after miles of tramping over the wildest, roughest part of the country. the big fellow said no word, but on his face was a look that his father understood, and the old mountaineer felt his own blood move more quickly at the sight. but when sammy with her books was fully established in the matthews home, and young matt seemed always, as the weeks went by, to find her reading things that he could not understand, he was made to realize more fully what her studies with the shepherd meant. he came to feel that she had already crossed the threshold into that world where mr. howitt lived. and, thinking that he himself could never enter, he grew lonely and afraid. with the quickness that was so marked in her character, sammy grasped the meaning of his trouble almost before young matt himself knew fully what it was. then the girl, with much care and tact, set about helping him to see the truths which the shepherd had revealed to her. all through the summer and fall, when the day's work was done, or on a sunday afternoon, they were together, and gradually the woods and the hills, with all the wild life that is in them, began to have for the young man a new meaning; or, rather, he learned little by little to read the message that lay on the open pages; first a word here and there, then sentences, then paragraphs, and soon he was reading alone, as he tramped the hills for stray stock, or worked in the mountain field. the idle days of winter and the long evenings were spent in reading aloud from the books that had come to mean most to her. so she led him on slowly, along the way that her teacher had pointed out to her, but always as they went, he saw her going before, far ahead, and he knew that in the things that men call education, he could never hope to stand by her side. but he was beginning to ask, are there not after all things that lie still deeper in life than even these? often he would go to his old friend in the hollow with some thought, and the shepherd, seeing how it was, would smile as he helped the lad on his way. the scholar looked forward with confidence to the time when young matt would discover for himself, as sammy had found for herself, that the only common ground whereon men and women may meet in safety is the ground of their manhood and womanhood. and so it was, on that spring morning when the young giant felt the red life throbbing strongly in his great limbs, as he followed his team to and fro across the field. and in his voice, as he shouted to his horses at the end of the furrow, there was something under the words, something of a longing, something also of a challenge. sammy was going to spend the day with her friends on jake creek. she had not been to see mandy since the night of her father's death. as she went, she stopped at the lower end of the field to shout a merry word to the man with the plow, and it was sometime later when the big fellow again started his team. the challenge in his tone had grown bolder. sammy returned that afternoon in time for the evening meal, and aunt mollie thought, as the girl came up the walk, that the young woman had never looked so beautiful. "why, honey," she said, "you're just a bubblin' over with life. your cheeks are as rosy; your eyes are as sparklin', you're fairly shinin' all over. your ride sure done you good." the young woman replied with a hug that made her admirer gasp. "law, child; you're strong as a young panther. you walk like one too; so kind of strong, easy like." the girl laughed. "i hope i don't impress everybody that way, aunt mollie. i don't believe i want to be like a panther. i'd rather be like--like--" "like what, child?" "like you, just like you; the best, the very best woman in the whole world, because you've got the best and biggest heart." she looked back over her shoulder laughing, as she ran into the house. when young matt came in from the field, sammy went out to the barn, while he unharnessed his team. "are you very tired tonight?" she asked. the big fellow smiled, "tired? me tired? where do you want to go? haven't you ridden enough to-day? i should think you'd be tired yourself." "tired? me tired?" said the girl. "i don't want to ride. i want to walk. it's such a lovely evening, and there's going to be a moon. i have been thinking all day that i would like to walk over home after supper, if you cared to go." that night the work within the house and the chores about the barn were finished in a remarkably short time. the young man and woman started down the old trail like two school children, while the father and mother sat on the porch and heard their voices die away on the mountain side below. the girl went first along the little path, moving with that light, sure step that belongs only to perfect health, the health of the woods and hills. the man followed, walking with the same sure, easy step; strength and power revealed in every movement of his body. two splendid creatures they were--masterpieces of the creator's handiwork; made by him who created man, male and female, and bade them have dominion "over every living thing that moveth upon the earth;" kings by divine right. in the belt of timber, where the trail to the ranch branches off, they met the shepherd on his way to the house for an evening visit. the old man paused only long enough to greet them, and pushed on up the hill, for he saw by their faces that the time was come. sammy had grown very quiet when they rounded the shoulder of dewey, and they went in silence down to the cabin on the southern slope of the mountain. the girl asked young matt to wait for her at the gate, and, going to the house, she entered alone. a short time she remained in the familiar rooms, then, slipping out through the rear door, ran through the woods to the little glen back of the house. dropping beside the mound she buried her face in the cool grass, as she whispered, "oh, daddy, daddy jim! i wish you were here to-night; this night that means so much to me. do you know how happy i am, daddy? do you know, i wonder?" the twilight deepened, "i must go now, daddy; i must go to him. you told me you would trust me anywhere with him. he is waiting for me, now; but i wish--oh, i wish that you were here to-night, daddy jim!" quickly she made her way back to the cabin, passed through the house, and rejoined young matt. the two returned silently up the mountain side, to the higher levels, where the light still lingered, though the sun was down. at the lookout they stopped. "we'll wait for the moon, here," she said; and so seated on a big rock, they watched the last of the evening go out from the west. from forest depth and mountain side came the myriad voices of nature's chorus, blending softly in the evening hymn; and, rising clear above the low breathed tones, yet in perfect harmony, came a whip-poor-will's plaintive call floating up from the darkness below; the sweet cooing of a wood-dove in a tree on the ridge, and the chirping of a cricket in a nearby crevice of the ledge. like shadowy spirits, the bats flitted here and there in the gathering gloom. the two on the mountain's shoulder felt themselves alone above it all; above it all, yet still a part of all. then the moon looked over the mountain behind them turning mutton hollow into a wondrous sea of misty light out of which the higher hills lifted their heads like fairy islands. the girl spoke, "come, matt; we must go now. help me down." he slipped from his seat and stood beside the rock with uplifted arms. sammy leaned forward and placed her hands upon his shoulders. he felt her breath upon his forehead. the next instant he held her close. so they went home along the trail that is nobody knows how old, and the narrow path that was made by those who walked one before the other, they found wide enough for two. dad howitt, returning to the ranch, saw them coming so in the moonlight, and slipped aside from the path into the deeper shadows. as they passed, the old shepherd, scholar and poet stood with bowed, uncovered head. when they were gone and their low voices were no longer heard, he said aloud, "what god hath joined; what god hath joined." and this way runs the trail that lies along the higher, sunlit hills where those who journey see afar and the light lingers even when the day is done. chapter xlv. some years later. a wandering artist, searching for new fields, found his way into the ozark country. one day, as he painted in the hills, a flock of sheep came over the ridge through a low gap, and worked slowly along the mountain side. a few moments later, the worker at the easel lifted his eyes from the canvas to find himself regarded by an old man in the dress of a native. "hello, uncle. fine day," said the artist shortly, his eyes again upon his picture. "the god of these hills gives us many such, young sir, and all his days are good." the painter's hand paused between palette and canvas, and his face was turned toward the speaker in wonder. every word was perfect in accent of the highest culture, and the deep musical tone of the voice was remarkable in one with the speaker's snowy hair and beard. the young man arose to his feet. "i beg your pardon, sir. i thought--" he hesitated, as he again took in the rude dress of the other. the brown eyes, under their white shaggy brows, lighted with good nature. "you mean, young sir, that you did not think. 'tis the privilege of youth; make the most of it. very soon old age will rob you of your freedom, and force you to think, whether you will or no. your greeting under the circumstance is surely excusable. it is i who should beg pardon, for i have interrupted your study, and i have no excuse; neither my youth nor my occupation will plead for me." the charm of his voice and manner were irresistible. the painter stepped forward with outstretched hand, "indeed, sir; i am delighted to meet you. i am here for the summer from chicago. my camp is over there." the other grasped the offered hand cordially, "i am daniel howitt, young sir; from the sheep ranch in mutton hollow. dad howitt, the people call me. so you see you were not far wrong when you hailed me 'uncle.' uncle and dad are 'sure close kin,' as preachin' bill would say." both men laughed, and the painter offered his folding easel chair. "thank you, no. here is a couch to which i am more accustomed. i will rest here, if you please." the old man stretched himself upon the grassy slope. "do you like my hills?" he asked. "but i am sure you do," he added, as his eye dwelt fondly upon the landscape. "ah, you are the owner of this land, then? i was wondering who--" "no, no, young sir," the old man interrupted, laughing again. "others pay the taxes; these hills belong to me only as they belong to all who have the grace to love them. they will give you great treasure, that you may give again to others, who have not your good strength to escape from the things that men make and do in the restless world over there. one of your noble craft could scarcely fail to find the good things god has written on this page of his great book. your brothers need the truths that you will read here; unless the world has greatly changed." "you are not then a native of this country?" "i was a native of that world yonder, young sir. before your day, they knew me; but long since, they have forgotten. when i died there, i was born again in these mountains. and so," he finished with a smile, "i am, as you see, a native. it is long now since i met one from beyond the ridges. i will not likely meet another." "i wonder that others have not discovered the real beauty of the ozarks," remarked the painter. the old shepherd answered softly, "one did." then rising to his feet and pointing to roark valley, he said, "before many years a railroad will find its way yonder. then many will come, and the beautiful hills that have been my strength and peace will become the haunt of careless idlers and a place of revelry. i am glad that i shall not be here. but i must not keep you longer from your duties." "i shall see you again, shall i not?" the painter was loath to let him go. "more often than will be good for your picture, i fear. you must work hard, young sir, while the book of god is still open, and god's message is easily read. when the outside world comes, men will turn the page, and you may lose the place." after that they met often, and one day the old man led the artist to where a big house looked down upon a ridge encircled valley. though built of logs without, the house within was finished and furnished in excellent taste. to his surprise, the painter found one room lined with shelves, and upon the shelves the best things that men have written for their fellows. in another room was a piano. the floors were covered with rugs. draperies and hangings softened the atmosphere; and the walls were hung with pictures; not many, but good and true; pictures that had power over those who looked upon them. the largest painting hung in the library and was veiled. "my daughter, mrs. matthews," said the old shepherd, as he presented the stranger to the mistress of the house. in all his search for beauty, never had the artist looked upon such a form and such a face. it was a marvelous blending of the physical with the intellectual and spiritual. a firm step was heard on the porch. "my husband," said the lady. and the stranger rose to greet--the woman's mate. the children of this father and mother were like them; or, as the visitor afterwards said in his extravagant way, "like young gods for beauty and strength." the next summer the painter went again to the ozarks. even as he was greeted by the strong master of the hills and his charming wife, there fell upon his ears a dull report as of distant cannon; then another, and another. they led him across the yard, and there to the north on the other side of roark, men were tearing up the mountain to make way for the railroad. as they looked, another blast sent the rocks flying, while the sound rolled and echoed through the peaceful hills. the artist turned to his friends with questioning eyes; "mr. howitt said it would come. is he--is he well?" mrs. matthews answered softly, "dad left us while the surveyors were at work. he sleeps yonder." she pointed to dewey bald. then they went into the library, where the large picture was unveiled. when the artist saw it, he exclaimed, "mad howard's lost masterpiece! how--where did you find it?" "it was father howitt's request that i tell you the story," sammy replied. and then she told the artist a part of that which i have set down here. the end. library, agnes scott college. jurgen _a comedy of justice_ by james branch cabell 1922 _"of jurgen eke they maken mencioun, that of an old wyf gat his youthe agoon, and gat himselfe a shirte as bright as fyre wherein to jape, yet gat not his desire in any countrie ne condicioun."_ to burton rascoe before each tarradiddle, uncowed by sciolists, robuster persons twiddle tremendously big fists. "our gods are good," they tell us; "nor will our gods defer remission of rude fellows' ability to err." so this, your jurgen, travels content to compromise ordainments none unravels explicitly ... and sighs. * * * * * "others, with better moderation, do either entertain the vulgar history of jurgen as a fabulous addition unto the true and authentic story of st. iurgenius of poictesme, or else we conceive the literal acception to be a misconstruction of the symbolical expression: apprehending a veritable history, in an emblem or piece of christian poesy. and this emblematical construction hath been received by men not forward to extenuate the acts of saints." --philip borsdale. "a forced construction is very idle. if readers of _the high history of jurgen_ do not meddle with the allegory, the allegory will not meddle with them. without minding it at all, the whole is as plain as a pikestaff. it might as well be pretended that we cannot see poussin's pictures without first being told the allegory, as that the allegory aids us in understanding _jurgen_." --e. noel codman. "too urbane to advocate delusion, too hale for the bitterness of irony, this fable of jurgen is, as the world itself, a book wherein each man will find what his nature enables him to see; which gives us back each his own image; and which teaches us each the lesson that each of us desires to learn." --john frederick lewistam. * * * * * _contents_ a foreword: which asserts nothing i why jurgen did the manly thing ii assumption of a noted garment iii the garden between dawn and sunrise iv the dorothy who did not understand v requirements of bread and butter vi showing that sereda is feminine vii of compromises on a wednesday viii old toys and a new shadow ix the orthodox rescue of guenevere x pitiful disguises of thragnar xi appearance of the duke of logreus xii excursus of yolande's undoing xiii philosophy of gogyrvan gawr xiv preliminary tactics of duke jurgen xv of compromises in glathion xvi divers imbroglios of king smoit xvii about a cock that crowed too soon xviii why merlin talked in twilight xix the brown man with queer feet xx efficacy of prayer xxi how anaïtis voyaged xxii as to a veil they broke xxiii shortcomings of prince jurgen xxiv of compromises in cocaigne xxv cantraps of the master philologist xxvi in time's hour-glass xxvii vexatious estate of queen helen xxviii of compromises in leukê xxix concerning horvendile's nonsense xxx economics of king jurgen xxxi the fall of pseudopolis xxxii sundry devices of the philistines xxxiii farewell to chloris xxxiv how emperor jurgen fared infernally xxxv what grandfather satan reported xxxvi why coth was contradicted xxxvii invention of the lovely vampire xxxviii as to applauded precedents xxxix of compromises in hell xl the ascension of pope jurgen xli of compromises in heaven xlii twelve that are fretted hourly xliii postures before a shadow xliv in the manager's office xlv the faith of guenevere xlvi the desire of anaïtis xlvii the vision of helen xlviii candid opinions of dame lisa xlix of the compromise with koshchei l the moment that did not count a foreword _"nescio quid certè est: et hylax in limine latrat."_ _a foreword: which asserts nothing._ in continental periodicals not more than a dozen articles in all would seem to have given accounts or partial translations of the jurgen legends. no thorough investigation of this epos can be said to have appeared in print, anywhere, prior to the publication, in 1913, of the monumental _synopses of aryan mythology_ by angelo de ruiz. it is unnecessary to observe that in this exhaustive digest professor de ruiz has given (vii, p. 415 _et sequentia_) a summary of the greater part of these legends as contained in the collections of verville and bülg; and has discussed at length and with much learning the esoteric meaning of these folk-stories and their bearing upon questions to which the "solar theory" of myth explanation has given rise. to his volumes, and to the pages of mr. lewistam's _key to the popular tales of poictesme_, must be referred all those who may elect to think of jurgen as the resplendent, journeying and procreative sun. equally in reading hereinafter will the judicious waive all allegorical interpretation, if merely because the suggestions hitherto advanced are inconveniently various. thus verville finds the nessus shirt a symbol of retribution, where bülg, with rather wide divergence, would have it represent the dangerous gift of genius. then it may be remembered that dr. codman says, without any hesitancy, of mother sereda: "this mother middle is the world generally (an obvious anagram of _erda es_), and this sereda rules not merely the middle of the working-days but the midst of everything. she is the factor of _middleness_, of mediocrity, of an avoidance of extremes, of the eternal compromise begotten by use and wont. she is the mrs. grundy of the léshy; she is comstockery: and her shadow is common-sense." yet codman speaks with certainly no more authority than prote, when the latter, in his _origins of fable_, declares this epos is "a parable of ... man's vain journeying in search of that rationality and justice which his nature craves, and discovers nowhere in the universe: and the shirt is an emblem of this instinctive craving, as ... the shadow symbolizes conscience. sereda typifies a surrender to life as it is, a giving up of man's rebellious self-centredness and selfishness: the anagram being _se dare_." thus do interpretations throng and clash, and neatly equal the commentators in number. yet possibly each one of these unriddlings, with no doubt a host of others, is conceivable: so that wisdom will dwell upon none of them very seriously. with the origin and the occult meaning of the folklore of poictesme this book at least is in no wise concerned: its unambitious aim has been merely to familiarize english readers with the jurgen epos for the tale's sake. and this tale of old years is one which, by rare fortune, can be given to english readers almost unabridged, in view of the singular delicacy and pure-mindedness of the jurgen mythos: in all, not more than a half-dozen deletions have seemed expedient (and have been duly indicated) in order to remove such sparse and unimportant outcroppings of mediæval frankness as might conceivably offend the squeamish. since this volume is presented simply as a story to be read for pastime, neither morality nor symbolism is hereinafter educed, and no "parallels" and "authorities" are quoted. even the gaps are left unbridged by guesswork: whereas the historic and mythological problems perhaps involved are relinquished to those really thoroughgoing scholars whom erudition qualifies to deal with such topics, and tedium does not deter.... in such terms, and thus far, ran the foreword to the first issues of this book, whose later fortunes have made necessary the lengthening of the foreword with a postscript. the needed addition--this much at least chiming with good luck--is brief. it is just that fragment which some scholars, since the first appearance of this volume, have asserted--upon what perfect frankness must describe as not indisputable grounds--to be a portion of the thirty-second chapter of the complete form of _la haulte histoire de jurgen_. and in reply to what these scholars assert, discretion says nothing. for this fragment was, of course, unknown when the high history was first put into english, and there in consequence appears, here, little to be won either by endorsing or denying its claims to authenticity. rather, does discretion prompt the appending, without any gloss or scholia, of this fragment, which deals with _the judging of jurgen._ now a court was held by the philistines to decide whether or no king jurgen should be relegated to limbo. and when the judges were prepared for judging, there came into the court a great tumblebug, rolling in front of him his loved and properly housed young ones. with the creature came pages, in black and white, bearing a sword, a staff and a lance. this insect looked at jurgen, and its pincers rose erect in horror. the bug cried to the three judges, "now, by st. anthony! this jurgen must forthwith be relegated to limbo, for he is offensive and lewd and lascivious and indecent." "and how can that be?" says jurgen. "you are offensive," the bug replied, "because this page has a sword which i choose to say is not a sword. you are lewd because that page has a lance which i prefer to think is not a lance. you are lascivious because yonder page has a staff which i elect to declare is not a staff. and finally, you are indecent for reasons of which a description would be objectionable to me, and which therefore i must decline to reveal to anybody." "well, that sounds logical," says jurgen, "but still, at the same time, it would be no worse for an admixture of common-sense. for you gentlemen can see for yourselves, by considering these pages fairly and as a whole, that these pages bear a sword and a lance and a staff, and nothing else whatever; and you will deduce, i hope, that all the lewdness is in the insectival mind of him who itches to be calling these things by other names." the judges said nothing as yet. but they that guarded jurgen, and all the other philistines, stood to this side and to that side with their eyes shut tight, and all these said: "we decline to look at the pages fairly and as a whole, because to look might seem to imply a doubt of what the tumblebug has decreed. besides, as long as the tumblebug has reasons which he declines to reveal, his reasons stay unanswerable, and you are plainly a prurient rascal who are making trouble for yourself." "to the contrary," says jurgen, "i am a poet, and i make literature." "but in philistia to make literature and to make trouble for yourself are synonyms," the tumblebug explained. "i know, for already we of philistia have been pestered by three of these makers of literature. yes, there was edgar, whom i starved and hunted until i was tired of it: then i chased him up a back alley one night, and knocked out those annoying brains of his. and there was walt, whom i chivvied and battered from place to place, and made a paralytic of him: and him, too, i labelled offensive and lewd and lascivious and indecent. then later there was mark, whom i frightened into disguising himself in a clown's suit, so that nobody might suspect him to be a maker of literature: indeed, i frightened him so that he hid away the greater part of what he had made until after he was dead, and i could not get at him. that was a disgusting trick to play on me, i consider. still, these are the only three detected makers of literature that have ever infested philistia, thanks be to goodness and my vigilance, but for both of which we might have been no more free from makers of literature than are the other countries." "now, but these three," cried jurgen, "are the glory of philistia: and of all that philistia has produced, it is these three alone, whom living ye made least of, that to-day are honored wherever art is honored, and where nobody bothers one way or the other about philistia." "what is art to me and my way of living?" replied the tumblebug, wearily. "i have no concern with art and letters and the other lewd idols of foreign nations. i have in charge the moral welfare of my young, whom i roll here before me, and trust with st. anthony's aid to raise in time to be god-fearing tumblebugs like me, delighting in what is proper to their nature. for the rest, i have never minded dead men being well-spoken-of. no, no, my lad: once whatever i may do means nothing to you, and once you are really rotten, you will find the tumblebug friendly enough. meanwhile i am paid to protest that living persons are offensive and lewd and lascivious and indecent, and one must live." then the philistines who stood to this side and to that side said in indignant unison: "and we, the reputable citizenry of philistia, are not at all in sympathy with those who would take any protest against the tumblebug as a justification of what they are pleased to call art. the harm done by the tumblebug seems to us very slight, whereas the harm done by the self-styled artist may be very great." jurgen now looked more attentively at this queer creature: and he saw that the tumblebug was malodorous, certainly, but at bottom honest and well-meaning; and this seemed to jurgen the saddest thing he had found among the philistines. for the tumblebug was sincere in his insane doings, and all philistia honored him sincerely, so that there was nowhere any hope for this people. therefore king jurgen addressed himself, as his need was, to submit to the strange customs of the philistines. "now do you judge me fairly," cried jurgen to his judges, "if there be any justice in this mad country. and if there be none, do you relegate me to limbo or to any other place, so long as in that place this tumblebug is not omnipotent and sincere and insane." and jurgen waited.... * * * * * jurgen ... _amara lento temperet risu_ 1. why jurgen did the manly thing it is a tale which they narrate in poictesme, saying: in the 'old days lived a pawnbroker named jurgen; but what his wife called him was very often much worse than that. she was a high-spirited woman, with no especial gift for silence. her name, they say, was adelais, but people by ordinary called her dame lisa. they tell, also, that in the old days, after putting up the shop-windows for the night, jurgen was passing the cistercian abbey, on his way home: and one of the monks had tripped over a stone in the roadway. he was cursing the devil who had placed it there. "fie, brother!" says jurgen, "and have not the devils enough to bear as it is?" "i never held with origen," replied the monk; "and besides, it hurt my great-toe confoundedly." "none the less," observes jurgen, "it does not behoove god-fearing persons to speak with disrespect of the divinely appointed prince of darkness. to your further confusion, consider this monarch's industry! day and night you may detect him toiling at the task heaven set him. that is a thing can be said of few communicants and of no monks. think, too, of his fine artistry, as evidenced in all the perilous and lovely snares of this world, which it is your business to combat, and mine to lend money upon. why, but for him we would both be vocationless! then, too, consider his philanthropy! and deliberate how insufferable would be our case if you and i, and all our fellow parishioners, were to-day hobnobbing with other beasts in the garden which we pretend to desiderate on sundays! to arise with swine and lie down with the hyena?--oh, intolerable!" thus he ran on, devising reasons for not thinking too harshly of the devil. most of it was an abridgement of some verses jurgen had composed, in the shop when business was slack. "i consider that to be stuff and nonsense," was the monk's glose. "no doubt your notion is sensible," observed the pawnbroker: "but mine is the prettier." then jurgen passed the cistercian abbey, and was approaching bellegarde, when he met a black gentleman, who saluted him and said: "thanks, jurgen, for your good word." "who are you, and why do you thank me?" asks jurgen. "my name is no great matter. but you have a kind heart, jurgen. may your life be free from care!" "save us from hurt and harm, friend, but i am already married." "eh, sirs, and a fine clever poet like you!" "yet it is a long while now since i was a practising poet." "why, to be sure! you have the artistic temperament, which is not exactly suited to the restrictions of domestic life. then i suppose your wife has her own personal opinion about poetry, jurgen." "indeed, sir, her opinion would not bear repetition, for i am sure you are unaccustomed to such language." "this is very sad. i am afraid your wife does not quite understand you, jurgen." "sir," says jurgen, astounded, "do you read people's inmost thoughts?" the black gentleman seemed much dejected. he pursed his lips, and fell to counting upon his fingers: as they moved his sharp nails glittered like flame-points. "now but this is a very deplorable thing," says the black gentleman, "to have befallen the first person i have found ready to speak a kind word for evil. and in all these centuries, too! dear me, this is a most regrettable instance of mismanagement! no matter, jurgen, the morning is brighter than the evening. how i will reward you, to be sure!" so jurgen thanked the simple old creature politely. and when jurgen reached home his wife was nowhere to be seen. he looked on all sides and questioned everyone, but to no avail. dame lisa had vanished in the midst of getting supper ready--suddenly, completely and inexplicably, just as (in jurgen's figure) a windstorm passes and leaves behind it a tranquillity which seems, by contrast, uncanny. nothing could explain the mystery, short of magic: and jurgen on a sudden recollected the black gentleman's queer promise. jurgen crossed himself. "how unjustly now," says jurgen, "do some people get an ill name for gratitude! and now do i perceive how wise i am, always to speak pleasantly of everybody, in this world of tale-bearers." then jurgen prepared his own supper, went to bed, and slept soundly. "i have implicit confidence," says he, "in lisa. i have particular confidence in her ability to take care of herself in any surroundings." that was all very well: but time passed, and presently it began to be rumored that dame lisa walked on morven. her brother, who was a grocer and a member of the town-council, went thither to see about this report. and sure enough, there was jurgen's wife walking in the twilight and muttering incessantly. "fie, sister!" says the town-councillor, "this is very unseemly conduct for a married woman, and a thing likely to be talked about." "follow me!" replied dame lisa. and the town-councillor followed her a little way in the dusk, but when she came to amneran heath and still went onward, he knew better than to follow. next evening the elder sister of dame lisa went to morven. this sister had married a notary, and was a shrewd woman. in consequence, she took with her this evening a long wand of peeled willow-wood. and there was jurgen's wife walking in the twilight and muttering incessantly. "fie, sister!" says the notary's wife, who was a shrewd woman, "and do you not know that all this while jurgen does his own sewing, and is once more making eyes at countess dorothy?" dame lisa shuddered; but she only said, "follow me!" and the notary's wife followed her to amneran heath, and across the heath, to where a cave was. this was a place of abominable repute. a lean hound came to meet them there in the twilight, lolling his tongue: but the notary's wife struck thrice with her wand, and the silent beast left them. and dame lisa passed silently into the cave, and her sister turned and went home to her children, weeping. so the next evening jurgen himself came to morven, because all his wife's family assured him this was the manly thing to do. jurgen left the shop in charge of urien villemarche, who was a highly efficient clerk. jurgen followed his wife across amneran heath until they reached the cave. jurgen would willingly have been elsewhere. for the hound squatted upon his haunches, and seemed to grin at jurgen; and there were other creatures abroad, that flew low in the twilight, keeping close to the ground like owls; but they were larger than owls and were more discomforting. and, moreover, all this was just after sunset upon walburga's eve, when almost anything is rather more than likely to happen. so jurgen said, a little peevishly: "lisa, my dear, if you go into the cave i will have to follow you, because it is the manly thing to do. and you know how easily i take cold." the voice of dame lisa, now, was thin and wailing, a curiously changed voice. "there is a cross about your neck. you must throw that away." jurgen was wearing such a cross, through motives of sentiment, because it had once belonged to his dead mother. but now, to pleasure his wife, he removed the trinket, and hung it on a barberry bush; and with the reflection that this was likely to prove a deplorable business, he followed dame lisa into the cave. 2. assumption of a noted garment the tale tells that all was dark there, and jurgen could see no one. but the cave stretched straight forward, and downward, and at the far end was a glow of light. jurgen went on and on, and so came presently to a centaur: and this surprised him not a little, because jurgen knew that centaurs were imaginary creatures. certainly they were curious to look at: for here was the body of a fine bay horse, and rising from its shoulders, the sun-burnt body of a young fellow who regarded jurgen with grave and not unfriendly eyes. the centaur was lying beside a fire of cedar and juniper wood: near him was a platter containing a liquid with which he was anointing his hoofs. this stuff, as the centaur rubbed it in with his fingers, turned the appearance of his hoofs to gold. "hail, friend," says jurgen, "if you be the work of god." "your protasis is not good greek," observed the centaur, "because in hellas we did not make such reservations. besides, it is not so much my origin as my destination which concerns you." "well, friend, and whither are you going?" "to the garden between dawn and sunrise, jurgen." "surely, now, but that is a fine name for a garden! and it is a place i would take joy to be seeing." "up upon my back, jurgen, and i will take you thither," says the centaur, and heaved to his feet. then said the centaur, when the pawnbroker hesitated: "because, as you must understand, there is no other way. for this garden does not exist, and never did exist, in what men humorously called real life; so that of course only imaginary creatures such as i can enter it." "that sounds very reasonable," jurgen estimated: "but as it happens, i am looking for my wife, whom i suspect to have been carried off by a devil, poor fellow!" and jurgen began to explain to the centaur what had befallen. the centaur laughed. "it may be for that reason i am here. there is, in any event, only one remedy in this matter. above all devils--and above all gods, they tell me, but certainly above all centaurs--is the power of koshchei the deathless, who made things as they are." "it is not always wholesome," jurgen submitted, "to speak of koshchei. it seems especially undesirable in a dark place like this." "none the less, i suspect it is to him you must go for justice." "i would prefer not doing that," said jurgen, with unaffected candor. "you have my sympathy: but there is no question of preference where koshchei is concerned. do you think, for example, that i am frowzing in this underground place by my own choice? and knew your name by accident?" jurgen was frightened, a little. "well, well! but it is usually the deuce and all, this doing of the manly thing. how, then, can i come to koshchei?" "roundabout," says the centaur. "there is never any other way." "and is the road to this garden roundabout?" "oh, very much so, inasmuch as it circumvents both destiny and common-sense." "needs must, then," says jurgen: "at all events, i am willing to taste any drink once." "you will be chilled, though, traveling as you are. for you and i are going a queer way, in search of justice, over the grave of a dream and through the malice of time. so you had best put on this shirt above your other clothing." "indeed it is a fine snug shining garment, with curious figures on it. i accept such raiment gladly. and whom shall i be thanking for his kindness, now?" "my name," said the centaur, "is nessus." "well, then, friend nessus, i am at your service." and in a trice jurgen was on the centaur's back, and the two of them had somehow come out of the cave, and were crossing amneran heath. so they passed into a wooded place, where the light of sunset yet lingered, rather unaccountably. now the centaur went westward. and now about the pawnbroker's shoulders and upon his breast and over his lean arms glittered like a rainbow the many-colored shirt of nessus. for a while they went through the woods, which were composed of big trees standing a goodish distance from one another, with the centaur's gilded hoofs rustling and sinking in a thick carpet of dead leaves, all gray and brown, in level stretches that were unbroken by any undergrowth. and then they came to a white roadway that extended due west, and so were done with the woods. now happened an incredible thing in which jurgen would never have believed had he not seen it with his own eyes: for now the centaur went so fast that he gained a little by a little upon the sun, thus causing it to rise in the west a little by a little; and these two sped westward in the glory of a departed sunset. the sun fell full in jurgen's face as he rode straight toward the west, so that he blinked and closed his eyes, and looked first toward this side, then the other. thus it was that the country about him, and the persons they were passing, were seen by him in quick bright flashes, like pictures suddenly transmuted into other pictures; and all his memories of this shining highway were, in consequence, always confused and incoherent. he wondered that there seemed to be so many young women along the road to the garden. here was a slim girl in white teasing a great brown and yellow dog that leaped about her clumsily; here a girl sat in the branches of a twisted and gnarled tree, and back of her was a broad muddied river, copper-colored in the sun; and here shone the fair head of a tall girl on horseback, who seemed to wait for someone: in fine, the girls along the way were numberless, and jurgen thought he recollected one or two of them. but the centaur went so swiftly that jurgen could not be sure. 3. the garden between dawn and sunrise thus it was that jurgen and the centaur came to the garden between dawn and sunrise, entering this place in a fashion which it is not convenient to record. but as they passed over the bridge three fled before them, screaming. and when the life had been trampled out of the small furry bodies which these three had misused, there was none to oppose the centaur's entry into the garden between dawn and sunrise. this was a wonderful garden: yet nothing therein was strange. instead, it seemed that everything hereabouts was heart-breakingly familiar and very dear to jurgen. for he had come to a broad lawn which slanted northward to a well-remembered brook: and multitudinous maples and locust-trees stood here and there, irregularly, and were being played with very lazily by an irresolute west wind, so that foliage seemed to toss and ripple everywhere like green spray: but autumn was at hand, for the locust-trees were dropping a danaë's shower of small round yellow leaves. around the garden was an unforgotten circle of blue hills. and this was a place of lucent twilight, unlit by either sun or stars, and with no shadows anywhere in the diffused faint radiancy that revealed this garden, which is not visible to any man except in the brief interval between dawn and sunrise. "why, but it is count emmerick's garden at storisende," says jurgen, "where i used to be having such fine times when i was a lad." "i will wager," said nessus, "that you did not use to walk alone in this garden." "well, no; there was a girl." "just so," assented nessus. "it is a local by-law: and here are those who comply with it." for now had come toward them, walking together in the dawn, a handsome boy and girl. and the girl was incredibly beautiful, because everybody in the garden saw her with the vision of the boy who was with her. "i am rudolph," said this boy, "and she is anne." "and are you happy here?" asked jurgen. "oh, yes, sir, we are tolerably happy: but anne's father is very rich, and my mother is poor, so that we cannot be quite happy until i have gone into foreign lands and come back with a great many lakhs of rupees and pieces of eight." "and what will you do with all this money, rudolph?" "my duty, sir, as i see it. but i inherit defective eyesight." "god speed to you, rudolph!" said jurgen, "for many others are in your plight." then came to jurgen and the centaur another boy with the small blue-eyed person in whom he took delight. and this fat and indolent looking boy informed them that he and the girl who was with him were walking in the glaze of the red mustard jar, which jurgen thought was gibberish: and the fat boy said that he and the girl had decided never to grow any older, which jurgen said was excellent good sense if only they could manage it. "oh, i can manage that," said this fat boy, reflectively, "if only i do not find the managing of it uncomfortable." jurgen for a moment regarded him, and then gravely shook hands. "i feel for you," said jurgen, "for i perceive that you, too, are a monstrous clever fellow: so life will get the best of you." "but is not cleverness the main thing, sir?" "time will show you, my lad," says jurgen, a little sorrowfully. "and god speed to you, for many others are in your plight." and a host of boys and girls did jurgen see in the garden. and all the faces that jurgen saw were young and glad and very lovely and quite heart-breakingly confident, as young persons beyond numbering came toward jurgen and passed him there, in the first glow of dawn: so they all went exulting in the glory of their youth, and foreknowing life to be a puny antagonist from whom one might take very easily anything which one desired. and all passed in couples--"as though they came from the ark," said jurgen. but the centaur said they followed a precedent which was far older than the ark. "for in this garden," said the centaur, "each man that ever lived has sojourned for a little while, with no company save his illusions. i must tell you again that in this garden are encountered none but imaginary creatures. and stalwart persons take their hour of recreation here, and go hence unaccompanied, to become aldermen and respected merchants and bishops, and to be admired as captains upon prancing horses, or even as kings upon tall thrones; each in his station thinking not at all of the garden ever any more. but now and then come timid persons, jurgen, who fear to leave this garden without an escort: so these must need go hence with one or another imaginary creature, to guide them about alleys and by-paths, because imaginary creatures find little nourishment in the public highways, and shun them. thus must these timid persons skulk about obscurely with their diffident and skittish guides, and they do not ever venture willingly into the thronged places where men get horses and build thrones." "and what becomes of these timid persons, centaur?" "why, sometimes they spoil paper, jurgen, and sometimes they spoil human lives." "then are these accursed persons," jurgen considered. "you should know best," replied the centaur. "oh, very probably," said jurgen. "meanwhile here is one who walks alone in this garden, and i wonder to see the local by-laws thus violated." now nessus looked at jurgen for a while without speaking: and in the eyes of the centaur was so much of comprehension and compassion that it troubled jurgen. for somehow it made jurgen fidget and consider this an unpleasantly personal way of looking at anybody. "yes, certainly," said the centaur, "this woman walks alone. but there is no help for her loneliness, since the lad who loved this woman is dead." "nessus, i am willing to be reasonably sorry about it. still, is there any need of pulling quite such a portentously long face? after all, a great many other persons have died, off and on: and for anything i can say to the contrary, this particular young fellow may have been no especial loss to anybody." again the centaur said, "you should know best." 4. the dorothy who did not understand for now had come to jurgen and the centaur a gold-haired woman, clothed all in white, and walking alone. she was tall, and lovely and tender to regard: and hers was not the red and white comeliness of many ladies that were famed for beauty, but rather it had the even glow of ivory. her nose was large and high in the bridge, her flexible mouth was not of the smallest: and yet whatever other persons might have said, to jurgen this woman's countenance was in all things perfect. perhaps this was because he never saw her as she was. for certainly the color of her eyes stayed a matter never revealed to him: gray, blue or green, there was no saying: they varied as does the sea; but always these eyes were lovely and friendly and perturbing. jurgen remembered that: for jurgen saw this was count emmerick's second sister, dorothy la désirée, whom jurgen very long ago (a many years before he met dame lisa and set up in business as a pawnbroker) had hymned in innumerable verses as heart's desire. "and this is the only woman whom i ever loved," jurgen remembered, upon a sudden. for people cannot always be thinking of these matters. so he saluted her, with such deference as is due to a countess from a tradesman, and yet with unforgotten tremors waking in his staid body. but the strangest was yet to be seen, for he noted now that this was not a handsome woman in middle life but a young girl. "i do not understand," he said, aloud: "for you are dorothy. and yet it seems to me that you are not the countess dorothy who is heitman michael's wife." and the girl tossed her fair head, with that careless lovely gesture which the countess had forgotten. "heitman michael is well enough, for a nobleman, and my brother is at me day and night to marry the man: and certainly heitman michael's wife will go in satin and diamonds at half the courts of christendom, with many lackeys to attend her. but i am not to be thus purchased." "so you told a boy that i remember, very long ago. yet you married heitman michael, for all that, and in the teeth of a number of other fine declarations." "oh, no, not i," said this dorothy, wondering. "i never married anybody. and heitman michael has never married anybody, either, old as he is. for he is twenty-eight, and looks every day of it! but who are you, friend, that have such curious notions about me?" "that question i will answer, just as though it were put reasonably. for surely you perceive i am jurgen." "i never knew but one jurgen. and he is a young man, barely come of age--" then as she paused in speech, whatever was the matter upon which this girl now meditated, her cheeks were tenderly colored by the thought of it, and in her knowledge of this thing her eyes took infinite joy. and jurgen understood. he had come back somehow to the dorothy whom he had loved: but departed, and past overtaking by the fleet hoofs of centaurs, was the boy who had once loved this dorothy, and who had rhymed of her as his heart's desire: and in the garden there was of this boy no trace. instead, the girl was talking to a staid and paunchy pawnbroker, of forty-and-something. so jurgen shrugged, and looked toward the centaur: but nessus had discreetly wandered away from them, in search of four-leafed clovers. now the east had grown brighter, and its crimson began to be colored with gold. "yes, i have heard of this other jurgen," says the pawnbroker. "oh, madame dorothy, but it was he that loved you!" "no more than i loved him. through a whole summer have i loved jurgen." and the knowledge that this girl spoke a wondrous truth was now to jurgen a joy that was keen as pain. and he stood motionless for a while, scowling and biting his lips. "i wonder how long the poor devil loved you! he also loved for a whole summer, it may be. and yet again, it may be that he loved you all his life. for twenty years and for more than twenty years i have debated the matter: and i am as well informed as when i started." "but, friend, you talk in riddles." "is not that customary when age talks with youth? for i am an old fellow, in my forties: and you, as i know now, are near eighteen,--or rather, four months short of being eighteen, for it is august. nay, more, it is the august of a year i had not looked ever to see again; and again dom manuel reigns over us, that man of iron whom i saw die so horribly. all this seems very improbable." then jurgen meditated for a while. he shrugged. "well, and what could anybody expect me to do about it? somehow it has befallen that i, who am but the shadow of what i was, now walk among shadows, and we converse with the thin intonations of dead persons. for, madame dorothy, you who are not yet eighteen, in this same garden there was once a boy who loved a girl, with such love as it puzzles me to think of now. i believe that she loved him. yes, certainly it is a cordial to the tired and battered heart which nowadays pumps blood for me, to think that for a little while, for a whole summer, these two were as brave and comely and clean a pair of sweethearts as the world has known." thus jurgen spoke. but his thought was that this was a girl whose equal for loveliness and delight was not to be found between two oceans. long and long ago that doubtfulness of himself which was closer to him than his skin had fretted jurgen into believing the dorothy he had loved was but a piece of his imaginings. but certainly this girl was real. and sweet she was, and innocent she was, and light of heart and feet, beyond the reach of any man's inventiveness. no, jurgen had not invented her; and it strangely contented him to know as much. "tell me your story, sir," says she, "for i love all romances." "ah, my dear child, but i cannot tell you very well of just what happened. as i look back, there is a blinding glory of green woods and lawns and moonlit nights and dance music and unreasonable laughter. i remember her hair and eyes, and the curving and the feel of her red mouth, and once when i was bolder than ordinary--but that is hardly worth raking up at this late day. well, i see these things in memory as plainly as i now seem to see your face: but i can recollect hardly anything she said. perhaps, now i think of it, she was not very intelligent, and said nothing worth remembering. but the boy loved her, and was happy, because her lips and heart were his, and he, as the saying is, had plucked a diamond from the world's ring. true, she was a count's daughter and the sister of a count: but in those days the boy quite firmly intended to become a duke or an emperor or something of that sort, so the transient discrepancy did not worry them." "i know. why, jurgen is going to be a duke, too," says she, very proudly, "though he did think, a great while ago, before he knew me, of being a cardinal, on account of the robes. but cardinals are not allowed to marry, you see--and i am forgetting your story, too! what happened then?" "they parted in september--with what vows it hardly matters now--and the boy went into gâtinais, to win his spurs under the old vidame de soyecourt. and presently--oh, a good while before christmas!--came the news that dorothy la désirée had married rich heitman michael." "but that is what i am called! and as you know, there is a heitman michael who is always plaguing me. is that not strange! for you tell me all this happened a great while ago." "indeed, the story is very old, and old it was when methuselah was teething. there is no older and more common story anywhere. as the sequel, it would be heroic to tell you this boy's life was ruined. but i do not think it was. instead, he had learned all of a sudden that which at twenty-one is heady knowledge. that was the hour which taught him sorrow and rage, and sneering, too, for a redemption. oh, it was armor that hour brought him, and a humor to use it, because no woman now could hurt him very seriously. no, never any more!" "ah, the poor boy!" she said, divinely tender, and smiling as a goddess smiles, not quite in mirth. "well, women, as he knew by experience now, were the pleasantest of playfellows. so he began to play. rampaging through the world he went in the pride of his youth and in the armor of his hurt. and songs he made for the pleasure of kings, and sword-play he made for the pleasure of men, and a whispering he made for the pleasure of women, in places where renown was, and where he trod boldly, giving pleasure to everybody, in those fine days. but the whispering, and all that followed the whispering, was his best game, and the game he played for the longest while, with many brightly colored playmates who took the game more seriously than he did. and their faith in the game's importance, and in him and his high-sounding nonsense, he very often found amusing: and in their other chattels too he took his natural pleasure. then, when he had played sufficiently, he held a consultation with divers waning appetites; and he married the handsome daughter of an estimable pawnbroker in a fair line of business. and he lived with his wife very much as two people customarily live together. so, all in all, i would not say his life was ruined." "why, then, it was," said dorothy. she stirred uneasily, with an impatient sigh; and you saw that she was vaguely puzzled. "oh, but somehow i think you are a very horrible old man: and you seem doubly horrible in that glittering queer garment you are wearing." "no woman ever praised a woman's handiwork, and each of you is particularly severe upon her own. but you are interrupting the saga." "i do not see"--and those large bright eyes of which the color was so indeterminable and so dear to jurgen, seemed even larger now--"but i do not see how there could well be any more." "still, human hearts survive the benediction of the priest, as you may perceive any day. this man, at least, inherited his father-in-law's business, and found it, quite as he had anticipated, the fittest of vocations for a cashiered poet. and so, i suppose, he was content. ah, yes; but after a while heitman michael returned from foreign parts, along with his lackeys, and plate, and chest upon chest of merchandise, and his fine horses, and his wife. and he who had been her lover could see her now, after so many years, whenever he liked. she was a handsome stranger. that was all. she was rather stupid. she was nothing remarkable, one way or another. this respectable pawnbroker saw that quite plainly: day by day he writhed under the knowledge. because, as i must tell you, he could not retain composure in her presence, even now. no, he was never able to do that." the girl somewhat condensed her brows over this information. "you mean that he still loved her. why, but of course!" "my child," says jurgen, now with a reproving forefinger, "you are an incurable romanticist. the man disliked her and despised her. at any event, he assured himself that he did. well, even so, this handsome stupid stranger held his eyes, and muddled his thoughts, and put errors into his accounts: and when he touched her hand he did not sleep that night as he was used to sleep. thus he saw her, day after day. and they whispered that this handsome and stupid stranger had a liking for young men who aided her artfully to deceive her husband: but she never showed any such favor to the respectable pawnbroker. for youth had gone out of him, and it seemed that nothing in particular happened. well, that was his saga. about her i do not know. and i shall never know! but certainly she got the name of deceiving heitman michael with two young men, or with five young men it might be, but never with a respectable pawnbroker." "i think that is an exceedingly cynical and stupid story," observed the girl. "and so i shall be off to look for jurgen. for he makes love very amusingly," says dorothy, with the sweetest, loveliest meditative smile that ever was lost to heaven. and a madness came upon jurgen, there in the garden between dawn and sunrise, and a disbelief in such injustice as now seemed incredible. "no, heart's desire," he cried, "i will not let you go. for you are dear and pure and faithful, and all my evil dream, wherein you were a wanton and be-fooled me, was not true. surely, mine was a dream that can never be true so long as there is any justice upon earth. why, there is no imaginable god who would permit a boy to be robbed of that which in my evil dream was taken from me!" "and still i cannot understand your talking, about this dream of yours--!" "why, it seemed to me i had lost the most of myself; and there was left only a brain which played with ideas, and a body that went delicately down pleasant ways. and i could not believe as my fellows believed, nor could i love them, nor could i detect anything in aught they said or did save their exceeding folly: for i had lost their cordial common faith in the importance of what use they made of half-hours and months and years; and because a jill-flirt had opened my eyes so that they saw too much, i had lost faith in the importance of my own actions, too. there was a little time of which the passing might be made endurable; beyond gaped unpredictable darkness: and that was all there was of certainty anywhere. now tell me, heart's desire, but was not that a foolish dream? for these things never happened. why, it would not be fair if these things ever happened!" and the girl's eyes were wide and puzzled and a little frightened. "i do not understand what you are saying: and there is that about you which troubles me unspeakably. for you call me by the name which none but jurgen used, and it seems to me that you are jurgen; and yet you are not jurgen." "but i am truly jurgen. and look you, i have done what never any man has done before! for i have won back to that first love whom every man must lose, no matter whom he marries. i have come back again, passing very swiftly over the grave of a dream and through the malice of time, to my heart's desire! and how strange it seems that i did not know this thing was inevitable!" "still, friend, i do not understand you." "why, but i yawned and fretted in preparation for some great and beautiful adventure which was to befall me by and by, and dazedly i toiled forward. whereas behind me all the while was the garden between dawn and sunrise, and therein you awaited me! now assuredly, the life of every man is a quaintly builded tale, in which the right and proper ending comes first. thereafter time runs forward, not as schoolmen fable in a straight line, but in a vast closed curve, returning to the place of its starting. and it is by a dim foreknowledge of this, by some faint prescience of justice and reparation being given them by and by, that men have heart to live. for i know now that i have always known this thing. what else was living good for unless it brought me back to you?" but the girl shook her small glittering head, very sadly. "i do not understand you, and i fear you. for you talk foolishness and in your face i see the face of jurgen as one might see the face of a dead man drowned in muddy water." "yet am i truly jurgen, and, as it seems to me, for the first time since we were parted. for i am strong and admirable--even i, who sneered and played so long, because i thought myself a thing of no worth at all. that which has been since you and i were young together is as a mist that passes: and i am strong and admirable, and all my being is one vast hunger for you, my dearest, and i will not let you go, for you, and you alone, are my heart's desire." now the girl was looking at him very steadily, with a small puzzled frown, and with her vivid young soft lips a little parted. and all her tender loveliness was glorified by the light of a sky that had turned to dusty palpitating gold. "ah, but you say that you are strong and admirable: and i can only marvel at such talking. for i see that which all men see." and then dorothy showed him the little mirror which was attached to the long chain of turquoise matrix about her neck: and jurgen studied the frightened foolish aged face that he found in the mirror. thus drearily did sanity return to jurgen: and his flare of passion died, and the fever and storm and the impetuous whirl of things was ended, and the man was very weary. and in the silence he heard the piping cry of a bird that seemed to seek for what it could not find. "well, i am answered," said the pawnbroker: "and yet i know that this is not the final answer. dearer than any hope of heaven was that moment when awed surmises first awoke as to the new strange loveliness which i had seen in the face of dorothy. it was then i noted the new faint flush suffusing her face from chin to brow so often as my eyes encountered and found new lights in the shining eyes which were no longer entirely frank in meeting mine. well, let that be, for i do not love heitman michael's wife. "it is a grief to remember how we followed love, and found his service lovely. it is bitter to recall the sweetness of those vows which proclaimed her mine eternally,--vows that were broken in their making by prolonged and unforgotten kisses. we used to laugh at heitman michael then; we used to laugh at everything. thus for a while, for a whole summer, we were as brave and comely and clean a pair of sweethearts as the world has known. but let that be, for i do not love heitman michael's wife. "our love was fair but short-lived. there is none that may revive him since the small feet of dorothy trod out this small love's life. yet when this life of ours too is over--this parsimonious life which can allow us no more love for anybody,--must we not win back, somehow, to that faith we vowed against eternity? and be content again, in some fair-colored realm? assuredly i think this thing will happen. well, but let that be, for i do not love heitman michael's wife." "why, this is excellent hearing," observed dorothy, "because i see that you are converting your sorrow into the raw stuff of verses. so i shall be off to look for jurgen, since he makes love quite otherwise and far more amusingly." and again, whatever was the matter upon which this girl now meditated, her cheeks were tenderly colored by the thought of it, and in her knowledge of this thing her eyes took infinite joy. thus it was for a moment only: for she left jurgen now, with the friendliest light waving of her hand; and so passed from him, not thinking of this old fellow any longer, as he could see, even in the instant she turned from him. and she went toward the dawn, in search of that young jurgen whom she, who was perfect in all things, had loved, though only for a little while, not undeservedly. 5. requirements of bread and butter "nessus," says jurgen, "and am i so changed? for that dorothy whom i loved in youth did not know me." "good and evil keep very exact accounts," replied the centaur, "and the face of every man is their ledger. meanwhile the sun rises, it is already another workday: and when the shadows of those two who come to take possession fall full upon the garden, i warn you, there will be astounding changes brought about by the requirements of bread and butter. you have not time to revive old memories by chatting with the others to whom you babbled aforetime in this garden." "ah, centaur, in the garden between dawn and sunrise there was never any other save dorothy la désirée." the centaur shrugged. "it may be you forget; it is certain that you underestimate the local population. some of the transient visitors you have seen, and in addition hereabouts dwell the year round all manner of imaginary creatures. the fairies live just southward, and the gnomes too. to your right is the realm of the valkyries: the amazons and the cynocephali are their allies: all three of these nations are continually at loggerheads with their neighbors, the baba-yagas, whom morfei cooks for, and whose monarch is oh, a person very dangerous to name. northward dwell the lepracauns and the men of hunger, whose king is clobhair. my people, who are ruled by chiron, live even further to the north. the sphinx pastures on yonder mountain; and now the chimæra is old and generally derided, they say that cerberus visits the sphinx at twilight, although i was never the person to disseminate scandal--" "centaur," said jurgen, "and what is dorothy doing here?" "why, all the women that any man has ever loved live here," replied the centaur, "for very obvious reasons." "that is a hard saying, friend." nessus tapped with his forefinger upon the back of jurgen's hand. "worm's-meat! this is the destined food, do what you will, of small white worms. this by and by will be a struggling pale corruption, like seething milk. that too is a hard saying, jurgen. but it is a true saying." "and was that dorothy whom i loved in youth an imaginary creature?" "my poor jurgen, you who were once a poet! she was your masterpiece. for there was only a shallow, stupid and airy, high-nosed and light-haired miss, with no remarkable good looks,--and consider what your ingenuity made from such poor material! you should be proud of yourself." "no, centaur, i cannot very well be proud of my folly: yet i do not regret it. i have been befooled by a bright shadow of my own raising, you tell me, and i concede it to be probable. no less, i served a lovely shadow; and my heart will keep the memory of that loveliness until life ends, in a world where other men follow pantingly after shadows which are not even pretty." "there is something in that, jurgen: there is also something in an old tale we used to tell in thessaly, about a fox and certain grapes." "well, but look you, nessus, there is an emperor that reigns now in constantinople and occasionally does business with me. yes, and i could tell you tales of by what shifts he came to the throne--" "men's hands are by ordinary soiled in climbing," quoth the centaur. "and 'jurgen,' this emperor says to me, not many months ago, as he sat in his palace, crowned and dreary and trying to cheat me out of my fair profit on some emeralds,--'jurgen, i cannot sleep of nights, because of that fool alexius, who comes into my room with staring eyes and the bowstring still about his neck. and my varangians must be in league with that silly ghost, because i constantly order them to keep alexius out of my bedchamber, and they do not obey me, jurgen. to be king of the east is not to the purpose, jurgen, when one must submit to such vexations.' yes, it was cæsar pharamond himself said this to me: and i deduce the shadow of a crown has led him into an ugly pickle, for all that he is the mightiest monarch in the world. and i would not change with cæsar pharamond, not i who am a respectable pawnbroker, with my home in fee and my bit of tilled land. well, this is a queer world, to be sure: and this garden is visited by no stranger things than pop into a man's mind sometimes, without his knowing how." "ah, but you must understand that the garden is speedily to be remodeled. yonder you may observe the two whose requirements are to rid the place of all fantastic unremunerative notions; and who will develop the natural resources of this garden according to generally approved methods." and from afar jurgen could see two figures coming out of the east, so tall that their heads rose above the encircling hills and glistened in the rays of a sun which was not yet visible. one was a white pasty-looking giant, with a crusty expression: he walked with the aid of a cane. the other was of a pale yellow color: his face was oily, and he rode on a vast cow that was called ædhumla. "make way there, brother, with your staff of life," says the yellow giant, "for there is much to do hereabouts." "ay, brother, this place must be altered a deal before it meets with our requirements," the other grumbled. "may i be toasted if i know where to begin!" then as the giants turned dull and harsh faces toward the garden, the sun came above the circle of blue hills, so that the mingled shadows of these two giants fell across the garden. for an instant jurgen saw the place oppressed by that attenuated mile-long shadow, as in heraldry you may see a black bar painted sheer across some brightly emblazoned shield. then the radiancy of everything twitched and vanished, as a bubble bursts. and jurgen was standing in the midst of a field, very neatly plowed, but with nothing as yet growing in it. and the centaur was with him still, it seemed, for there were the creature's hoofs, but all the gold had been washed or rubbed away from them in traveling with jurgen. "see, nessus!" jurgen cried, "the garden is made desolate. oh, nessus, was it fair that so much loveliness should be thus wasted!" "nay," said the centaur, "nay!" long and wailingly he whinneyed, "nay!" and when jurgen raised his eyes he saw that his companion was not a centaur, but only a strayed riding-horse. "were you the animal, then," says jurgen, "and was it a quite ordinary animal, that conveyed me to the garden between dawn and sunrise?" and jurgen laughed disconsolately. "at all events, you have clothed me in a curious fine shirt. and, now i look, your bridle is marked with a coronet. so i will return you to the castle at bellegarde, and it may be that heitman michael will reward me." then jurgen mounted this horse and rode away from the plowed field wherein nothing grew as yet. as they left the furrows they came to a signboard with writing on it, in a peculiar red and yellow lettering. jurgen paused to decipher this. "read me!" was written on the signboard: "read me, and judge if you understand! so you stopped in your journey because i called, scenting something unusual, something droll. thus, although i am nothing, and even less, there is no one that sees me but lingers here. stranger, i am a law of the universe. stranger, render the law what is due the law!" jurgen felt cheated. "a very foolish signboard, indeed! for how can it be 'a law of the universe', when there is no meaning to it!" says jurgen. "why, for any law to be meaningless would not be fair." 6. showing that sereda is feminine then, having snapped his fingers at that foolish signboard, jurgen would have turned easterly, toward bellegarde: but his horse resisted. the pawnbroker decided to accept this as an omen. "forward, then!" he said, "in the name of koshchei." and thereafter jurgen permitted the horse to choose its own way. thus jurgen came through a forest, wherein he saw many things not salutary to notice, to a great stone house like a prison, and he sought shelter there. but he could find nobody about the place, until he came to a large hall, newly swept. this was a depressing apartment, in its chill neat emptiness, for it was unfurnished save for a bare deal table, upon which lay a yardstick and a pair of scales. above this table hung a wicker cage, containing a blue bird, and another wicker cage containing three white pigeons. and in this hall a woman, no longer young, dressed all in blue, and wearing a white towel by way of head-dress was assorting curiously colored cloths. she had very bright eyes, with wrinkled lids; and now as she looked up at jurgen her shrunk jaws quivered. "ah," says she, "i have a visitor. good day to you, in your glittering shirt. it is a garment i seem to recognize." "good day, grandmother! i am looking for my wife, whom i suspect to have been carried off by a devil, poor fellow! now, having lost my way, i have come to pass the night under your roof." "very good: but few come seeking mother sereda of their own accord." then jurgen knew with whom he talked: and inwardly he was perturbed, for all the léshy are unreliable in their dealings. so when he spoke it was very civilly. "and what do you do here, grandmother?" "i bleach. in time i shall bleach that garment you are wearing. for i take the color out of all things. thus you see these stuffs here, as they are now. clotho spun the glowing threads, and lachesis wove them, as you observe, in curious patterns, very marvelous to see: but when i am done with these stuffs there will be no more color or beauty or strangeness anywhere apparent than in so many dishclouts." "now i perceive," says jurgen, "that your power and dominion is more great than any other power which is in the world." he made a song of this, in praise of the léshy and their days, but more especially in praise of the might of mother sereda and of the ruins that have fallen on wednesday. to chetverg and utornik and subbota he gave their due. pyatinka and nedelka also did jurgen commend for such demolishments as have enregistered their names in the calendar of saints, no less. ah, but there was none like mother sereda: hers was the centre of that power which is the léshy's. the others did but nibble at temporal things, like furtive mice: she devastated, like a sandstorm, so that there were many dustheaps where mother sereda had passed, but nothing else. and so on, and so on. the song was no masterpiece, and would not be bettered by repetition. but it was all untrammeled eulogy, and the old woman beat time to it with her lean hands: and her shrunk jaws quivered, and she nodded her white-wrapped head this way and that way, with a rolling motion, and on her thin lips was a very proud and foolish smile. "that is a good song," says she; "oh, yes, an excellent song! but you report nothing of my sister pandelis who controls the day of the moon." "monday!" says jurgen: "yes, i neglected monday, perhaps because she is the oldest of you, but in part because of the exigencies of my rhyme scheme. we must let pandelis go unhymned. how can i remember everything when i consider the might of sereda?" "why, but," says mother sereda, "pandelis may not like it, and she may take holiday from her washing some day to have a word with you. however, i repeat, that is an excellent song. and in return for your praise of me, i will tell you that, if your wife has been carried off by a devil, your affair is one which koshchei alone can remedy. assuredly, i think it is to him you must go for justice." "but how may i come to him, grandmother?" "oh, as to that, it does not matter at all which road you follow. all highways, as the saying is, lead roundabout to koshchei. the one thing needful is not to stand still. this much i will tell you also for your song's sake, because that was an excellent song, and nobody ever made a song in praise of me before to-day." now jurgen wondered to see what a simple old creature was this mother sereda, who sat before him shaking and grinning and frail as a dead leaf, with her head wrapped in a common kitchen-towel, and whose power was so enormous. "to think of it," jurgen reflected, "that the world i inhabit is ordered by beings who are not one-tenth so clever as i am! i have often suspected as much, and it is decidedly unfair. now let me see if i cannot make something out of being such a monstrous clever fellow." jurgen said aloud: "i do not wonder that no practising poet ever presumed to make a song of you. you are too majestical. you frighten these rhymesters, who feel themselves to be unworthy of so great a theme. so it remained for you to be appreciated by a pawnbroker, since it is we who handle and observe the treasures of this world after you have handled them." "do you think so?" says she, more pleased than ever. "now, may be that was the way of it. but i wonder that you who are so fine a poet should ever have become a pawnbroker." "well, and indeed, mother sereda, your wonder seems to me another wonder: for i can think of no profession better suited to a retired poet. why, there is the variety of company! for high and low and even the genteel are pressed sometimes for money: then the plowman slouches into my shop, and the duke sends for me privately. so the people i know, and the bits of their lives i pop into, give me a deal to romance about." "ah, yes, indeed," says mother sereda, wisely, "that well may be the case. but i do not hold with romance, myself." "moreover, sitting in my shop, i wait there quiet-like while tribute comes to me from the ends of earth: everything which men and women have valued anywhere comes sooner or later to me: and jewels and fine knickknacks that were the pride of queens they bring me, and wedding rings, and the baby's cradle with his little tooth marks on the rim of it, and silver coffin-handles, or it may be an old frying-pan, they bring me, but all comes to jurgen. so that just to sit there in my dark shop quiet-like, and wonder about the history of my belongings and how they were made mine, is poetry, and is the deep and high and ancient thinking of a god who is dozing among what time has left of a dead world, if you understand me, mother sereda." "i understand: oho, i understand that which pertains to gods, for a sufficient reason." "and then another thing, you do not need any turn for business: people are glad to get whatever you choose to offer, for they would not come otherwise. so you get the shining and rough-edged coins that you can feel the proud king's head on, with his laurel-wreath like millet seed under your fingers; and you get the flat and greenish coins that are smeared with the titles and the chins and hooked noses of emperors whom nobody remembers or cares about any longer: all just by waiting there quiet-like, and making a favor of it to let customers give you their belongings for a third of what they are worth. and that is easy labor, even for a poet." "i understand: i understand all labor." "and people treat you a deal more civilly than any real need is, because they are ashamed of trafficking with you at all: i dispute if a poet could get such civility shown him in any other profession. and finally, there is the long idleness between business interviews, with nothing to do save sit there quiet-like and think about the queerness of things in general: and that is always rare employment for a poet, even without the tatters of so many lives and homes heaped up about him like spillikins. so that i would say in all, mother sereda, there is certainly no profession better suited to an old poet than the profession of pawnbroking." "certainly, there may be something in what you tell me," observes mother sereda. "i know what the little gods are, and i know what work is, but i do not think about these other matters, nor about anything else. i bleach." "ah, and a great deal more i could be saying, too, godmother, but for the fear of wearying you. nor would i have run on at all about my private affairs were it not that we two are so close related. and kith makes kind, as people say." "but how can you and i be kin?" "why, heyday, and was i not born upon a wednesday? that makes you my godmother, does it not?" "i do not know, dearie, i am sure. nobody ever cared to claim kin with mother sereda before this," says she, pathetically. "there can be no doubt, though, on the point, no possible doubt. sabellius states it plainly. artemidorus minor, i grant you, holds the question debatable, but his reasons for doing so are tolerably notorious. besides, what does all his flimsy sophistry avail against nicanor's fine chapter on this very subject? crushing, i consider it. his logic is final and irrefutable. what can anyone say against sævius nicanor?--ah, what indeed?" demanded jurgen. and he wondered if there might not have been perchance some such persons somewhere, after all. their names, in any event, sounded very plausible to jurgen. "ah, dearie, i was never one for learning. it may be as you say." "you say 'it may be', godmother. that embarrasses me, rather, because i was about to ask for my christening gift, which in the press of other matters you overlooked some forty years back. you will readily conceive that your negligence, however unintentional, might possibly give rise to unkindly criticism: and so i felt i ought to mention it, in common fairness to you." "as for that, dearie, ask what you will within the limits of my power. for mine are all the sapphires and turquoises and whatever else in this dusty world is blue; and mine likewise are all the wednesdays that have ever been or ever will be: and any one of these will i freely give you in return for your fine speeches and your tender heart." "ah, but, godmother, would it be quite just for you to accord me so much more than is granted to other persons?" "why, no: but what have i to do with justice? i bleach. come now, then, do you make a choice! for i can assure you that my sapphires are of the first water, and that many of my oncoming wednesdays will be well worth seeing." "no, godmother, i never greatly cared for jewelry: and the future is but dressing and undressing, and shaving, and eating, and computing percentage, and so on; the future does not interest me now. so i shall modestly content myself with a second-hand wednesday, with one that you have used and have no further need of: and it will be a wednesday in the august of such and such a year." mother sereda agreed to this. "but there are certain rules to be observed," says she, "for one must have system." as she spoke, she undid the towel about her head, and she took a blue comb from her white hair: and she showed jurgen what was engraved on the comb. it frightened jurgen, a little: but he nodded assent. "first, though," says mother sereda, "here is the blue bird. would you not rather have that, dearie, than your wednesday? most people would." "ah, but, godmother," he replied, "i am jurgen. no, it is not the blue bird i desire." so mother sereda took from the wall the wicker cage containing the three white pigeons: and going before him, with small hunched shoulders, and shuffling her feet along the flagstones, she led the way into a courtyard, where, sure enough, they found a tethered he-goat. of a dark blue color this beast was, and his eyes were wiser than the eyes of a beast. then jurgen set about that which mother sereda said was necessary. 7. of compromises on a wednesday so it was that, riding upon a horse whose bridle was marked with a coronet, the pawnbroker returned to a place, and to a moment, which he remembered. it was rather queer to be a fine young fellow again, and to foresee all that was to happen for the next twenty years. as it chanced, the first person he encountered was his mother azra, whom coth had loved very greatly but not long. and jurgen talked with azra of what clothes he would be likely to need in gâtinais, and of how often he would write to her. she disparaged the new shirt he was wearing, as was to be expected, since azra had always preferred to select her son's clothing rather than trust to jurgen's taste. his new horse she admitted to be a handsome animal; and only hoped he had not stolen it from anybody who would get him into trouble. for azra, it must be recorded, had never any confidence in her son; and was the only woman, jurgen felt, who really understood him. and now as his beautiful young mother impartially petted and snapped at him, poor jurgen thought of that very real dissension and severance which in the oncoming years was to arise between them; and of how she would die without his knowing of her death for two whole months; and of how his life thereafter would be changed, somehow, and the world would become an unstable place in which you could no longer put cordial faith. and he foreknew all the remorse he was to shrug away, after the squandering of so much pride and love. but these things were not yet: and besides, these things were inevitable. "and yet that these things should be inevitable is decidedly not fair," said jurgen. so it was with all the persons he encountered. the people whom he loved when at his best as a fine young fellow were so very soon, and through petty causes, to become nothing to him, and he himself was to be converted into a commonplace tradesman. and living seemed to jurgen a wasteful and inequitable process. then jurgen left the home of his youth, and rode toward bellegarde, and tethered his horse upon the heath, and went into the castle. thus jurgen came to dorothy. she was lovely and dear, and yet, by some odd turn, not quite so lovely and dear as the dorothy he had seen in the garden between dawn and sunrise. and dorothy, like everybody else, praised jurgen's wonderful new shirt. "it is designed for such festivals," said jurgen, modestly--"a little notion of my own. a bit extreme, some persons might consider it, but there is no pleasing everybody. and i like a trifle of color." for there was a masque that night at the castle of bellegarde: and wildly droll and sad it was to jurgen to remember what was to befall so many of the participants. jurgen had not forgotten this wednesday, this ancient wednesday upon which messire de montors had brought the confraternity of st. médard from brunbelois, to enact a masque of the birth of hercules, as the vagabonds were now doing, to hilarious applause. jurgen remembered it was the day before bellegarde discovered that count emmerick's guest, the vicomte de puysange, was in reality the notorious outlaw, perion de la forêt. well, yonder the yet undetected impostor was talking very earnestly with dame melicent: and jurgen knew all that was in store for this pair of lovers. meanwhile, as jurgen reflected, the real vicomte de puysange was at this moment lying in a delirium, yonder at benoit's: to-morrow the true vicomte would be recognized, and within the year the vicomte would have married félise de soyecourt, and later jurgen would meet her, in the orchard; and jurgen knew what was to happen then also. and messire de montors was watching dame melicent, sidewise, while he joked with little ettarre, who was this night permitted to stay up later than usual, in honor of the masque: and jurgen knew that this young bishop was to become pope of rome, no less; and that the child he joked with was to become the woman for possession of whom guiron des rocques and the surly-looking small boy yonder, maugis d'aigremont, would contend with each other until the country hereabouts had been devastated, and the castle wherein jurgen now was had been besieged, and this part of it burned. and wildly droll and sad it was to jurgen thus to remember all that was going to happen to these persons, and to all the other persons who were frolicking in the shadow of their doom and laughing at this trivial masque. for here--with so much of ruin and failure impending, and with sorrow prepared so soon to smite a many of these revellers in ways foreknown to jurgen; and with death resistlessly approaching so soon to make an end of almost all this company in some unlovely fashion that jurgen foreknew exactly,--here laughter seemed unreasonable and ghastly. why, but reinault yonder, who laughed so loud, with his cropped head flung back: would reinault be laughing in quite this manner if he knew the round strong throat he thus exposed was going to be cut like the throat of a calf, while three burgundians held him? jurgen knew this thing was to befall reinault vinsauf before october was out. so he looked at reinault's throat, and shudderingly drew in his breath between set teeth. "and he is worth a score of me, this boy!" thought jurgen: "and it is i who am going to live to be an old fellow, with my bit of land in fee, years after dirt clogs those bright generous eyes, and years after this fine big-hearted boy is wasted! and i shall forget all about him, too. marion l'edol, that very pretty girl behind him, is to become a blotched and toothless haunter of alleys, a leering plucker at men's sleeves! and blue-eyed colin here, with his baby mouth, is to be hanged for that matter of coin-clipping--let me recall, now,--yes, within six years of to-night! well, but in a way, these people are blessed in lacking foresight. for they laugh, and i cannot laugh, and to me their laughter is more terrible than weeping. yes, they may be very wise in not glooming over what is inevitable; and certainly i cannot go so far as to say they are wrong: but still, at the same time--! and assuredly, living seems to me in everything a wasteful and inequitable process." thus jurgen, while the others passed a very pleasant evening. and presently, when the masque was over, dorothy and jurgen went out upon the terrace, to the east of bellegarde, and so came to an unforgotten world of moonlight. they sat upon a bench of carved stone near the balustrade which overlooked the highway: and the boy and the girl gazed wistfully beyond the highway, over luminous valleys and tree-tops. just so they had sat there, as jurgen perfectly remembered, when mother sereda first used this wednesday. "my heart's desire," says jurgen, "i am sad to-night. for i am thinking of what life will do to us, and what offal the years will make of you and me." "my own sweetheart," says she, "and do we not know very well what is to happen?" and dorothy began to talk of all the splendid things that jurgen was to do, and of the happy life which was to be theirs together. "it is horrible," he said: "for we are more fine than we shall ever be hereafter. we have a splendor for which the world has no employment. it will be wasted. and such wastage is not fair." "but presently you will be so and so," says she: and fondly predicts all manner of noble exploits which, as jurgen remembered, had once seemed very plausible to him also. now he had clearer knowledge as to the capacities of the boy of whom he had thought so well. "no, heart's desire: no, i shall be quite otherwise." "--and to think how proud i shall be of you! 'but then i always knew it', i shall tell everybody, very condescendingly--" "no, heart's desire: for you will not think of me at all." "ah, sweetheart! and can you really believe that i shall ever care a snap of my fingers for anybody but you?" then jurgen laughed a little; for heitman michael came now across the lonely terrace, in search of madame dorothy: and jurgen foreknew this was the man to whom within two months of this evening dorothy was to give her love and all the beauty that was hers, and with whom she was to share the ruinous years which lay ahead. but the girl did not know this, and dorothy gave a little shrugging gesture. "i have promised to dance with him, and so i must. but the old fellow is a great plague." for heitman michael was nearing thirty, and this to dorothy and jurgen was an age that bordered upon senility. "now, by heaven," said jurgen, "wherever heitman michael does his next dancing it will not be hereabouts." jurgen had decided what he must do. and then heitman michael saluted them civilly. "but i fear i must rob you of this fair lady, master jurgen," says he. jurgen remembered that the man had said precisely this a score of years ago; and that jurgen had mumbled polite regrets, and had stood aside while heitman michael bore off dorothy to dance with him. and this dance had been the beginning of intimacy between heitman michael and dorothy. "heitman," says jurgen, "the bereavement which you threaten is very happily spared me, since, as it happens, the next dance is to be mine." "we can but leave it to the lady," says heitman michael, laughing. "not i," says jurgen. "for i know too well what would come of that. i intend to leave my destiny to no one." "your conduct, master jurgen, is somewhat strange," observed heitman michael. "ah, but i will show you a thing yet stranger. for, look you, there seem to be three of us here on this terrace. yet i can assure you there are four." "read me the riddle, my boy, and have done." "the fourth of us, heitman, is a goddess that wears a speckled garment and has black wings. she can boast of no temples, and no priests cry to her anywhere, because she is the only deity whom no prayers can move or any sacrifices placate. i allude, sir, to the eldest daughter of nox and erebus." "you speak of death, i take it." "your apprehension, heitman, is nimble. even so, it is not quick enough, i fear, to forerun the whims of goddesses. indeed, what person could have foreseen that this implacable lady would have taken such a strong fancy for your company." "ah, my young bantam," replies heitman michael, "it is quite true that she and i are acquainted. i may even boast of having despatched one or two stout warriors to serve her underground. now, as i divine your meaning, you plan that i should decrease her obligation by sending her a whippersnapper." "my notion, heitman, is that since this dark goddess is about to leave us, she should not, in common gallantry, be permitted to go hence unaccompanied. i propose, therefore, that we forthwith decide who is to be her escort." now heitman michael had drawn his sword. "you are insane. but you extend an invitation which i have never yet refused." "heitman," cries jurgen, in honest gratitude and admiration, "i bear you no ill-will. but it is highly necessary you die to-night, in order that my soul may not perish too many years before my body." with that he too whipped out his sword. so they fought. now jurgen was a very acceptable swordsman, but from the start he found in heitman michael his master. jurgen had never reckoned upon that, and he considered it annoying. if heitman michael perforated jurgen the future would be altered, certainly, but not quite as jurgen had decided it ought to be remodeled. so this unlooked-for complication seemed preposterous, and jurgen began to be irritated by the suspicion that he was getting himself killed for nothing at all. meanwhile his unruffled tall antagonist seemed but to play with jurgen, so that jurgen was steadily forced back toward the balustrade. and presently jurgen's sword was twisted from his hand, and sent flashing over the balustrade, into the public highway. "so now, master jurgen," says heitman michael, "that is the end of your nonsense. why, no, there is not any occasion to posture like a statue. i do not intend to kill you. why the devil's name, should i? to do so would only get me an ill name with your parents: and besides it is infinitely more pleasant to dance with this lady, just as i first intended." and he turned gaily toward madame dorothy. but jurgen found this outcome of affairs insufferable. this man was stronger than he, this man was of the sort that takes and uses gallantly all the world's prizes which mere poets can but respectfully admire. all was to do again: heitman michael, in his own hateful phrase, would act just as he had first intended, and jurgen would be brushed aside by the man's brute strength. this man would take away dorothy, and leave the life of jurgen to become a business which jurgen remembered with distaste. it was unfair. so jurgen snatched out his dagger, and drove it deep into the undefended back of heitman michael. three times young jurgen stabbed and hacked the burly soldier, just underneath the left ribs. even in his fury jurgen remembered to strike on the left side. it was all very quickly done. heitman michael's arms jerked upward, and in the moonlight his fingers spread and clutched. he made curious gurgling noises. then the strength went from his knees, so that he toppled backward. his head fell upon jurgen's shoulder, resting there for an instant fraternally; and as jurgen shuddered away from the abhorred contact, the body of heitman michael collapsed. now he lay staring upward, dead at the feet of his murderer. he was horrible looking, but he was quite dead. "what will become of you?" dorothy whispered, after a while. "oh, jurgen, it was foully done, that which you did was infamous! what will become of you, my dear?" "i will take my doom," says jurgen, "and without whimpering, so that i get justice. but i shall certainly insist upon justice." then jurgen raised his face to the bright heavens. "the man was stronger than i and wanted what i wanted. so i have compromised with necessity, in the only way i could make sure of getting that which was requisite to me. i cry for justice to the power that gave him strength and gave me weakness, and gave to each of us his desires. that which i have done, i have done. now judge!" then jurgen tugged and shoved the heavy body of heitman michael, until it lay well out of sight, under the bench upon which jurgen and dorothy had been sitting. "rest there, brave sir, until they find you. come to me now, my heart's desire. good, that is excellent. here i sit with my true love, upon the body of my enemy. justice is satisfied, and all is quite as it should be. for you must understand that i have fallen heir to a fine steed, whose bridle is marked with a coronet,--prophetically, i take it,--and upon this steed you will ride pillion with me to lisuarte. there we will find a priest to marry us. we will go together into gâtinais. meanwhile, there is a bit of neglected business to be attended to." and he drew the girl close to him. for jurgen was afraid of nothing now. and jurgen thought: "oh, that i could detain the moment! that i could make some fitting verses to preserve this moment in my own memory! could i but get into words the odor and the thick softness of this girl's hair as my hands, that are a-quiver in every nerve of them, caress her hair; and get into enduring words the glitter and the cloudy shadowings of her hair in this be-drenching moonlight! for i shall forget all this beauty, or at best i shall remember this moment very dimly." "you have done very wrong--" says dorothy. says jurgen, to himself: "already the moment passes this miserably happy moment wherein once more life shudders and stands heart-stricken at the height of bliss! it passes, and i know even as i lift this girl's soft face to mine, and mark what faith and submissiveness and expectancy is in her face, that whatever the future holds for us, and whatever of happiness we two may know hereafter, we shall find no instant happier than this, which passes from us irretrievably while i am thinking about it, poor fool, in place of rising to the issue." "--and heaven only knows what will become of you jurgen--" says jurgen, still to himself: "yes, something must remain to me of all this rapture, though it be only guilt and sorrow: something i mean to wrest from this high moment which was once wasted fruitlessly. now i am wiser: for i know there is not any memory with less satisfaction in it than the memory of some temptation we resisted. so i will not waste the one real passion i have known, nor leave unfed the one desire which ever caused me for a heart-beat to forget to think about jurgen's welfare. and thus, whatever happens, i shall not always regret that i did not avail myself of this girl's love before it was taken from me." so jurgen made such advances as seemed good to him. and he noted, with amusing memories of how much afraid he had once been of shocking his dorothy's notions of decorum, that she did not repulse him very vigorously. "here, over a dead body! oh, jurgen, this is horrible! now, jurgen, remember that somebody may come any minute! and i thought i could trust you! ah, and is this all the respect you have for me!" this much she said in duty. meanwhile the eyes of dorothy were dilated and very tender. "faith, i take no chances, this second time. and so whatever happens, i shall not always regret that which i left undone." now upon his lips was laughter, and his arms were about the submissive girl. and in his heart was an unnamable depression and a loneliness, because it seemed to him that this was not the dorothy whom he had seen in the garden between dawn and sunrise. for in my arms now there is just a very pretty girl who is not over-careful in her dealings with young men, thought jurgen, as their lips met. well, all life is a compromise; and a pretty girl is something tangible, at any rate. so he laughed, triumphantly, and prepared for the sequel. but as jurgen laughed triumphantly, with his arm beneath the head of dorothy, and with the tender face of dorothy passive beneath his lips, and with unreasonable wistfulness in his heart, the castle bell tolled midnight. what followed was curious: for as wednesday passed, the face of dorothy altered, her flesh roughened under his touch, and her cheeks fell away, and fine lines came about her eyes, and she became the countess dorothy whom jurgen remembered as heitman michael's wife. there was no doubt about it, in that be-drenching moonlight: and she was leering at him, and he was touching her everywhere, this horrible lascivious woman, who was certainly quite old enough to know better than to permit such liberties. and her breath was sour and nauseous. jurgen drew away from her, with a shiver of loathing, and he closed his eyes, to shut away that sensual face. "no," he said; "it would not be fair to what we owe to others. in fact, it would be a very heinous sin. we should weigh such considerations occasionally, madame." then jurgen left his temptress, with simple dignity. "i go to search for my dear wife, madame, in a frame of mind which i would strongly advise you to adopt toward your husband." and he went straightway down the terraces of bellegarde, and turned southward to where his horse was tethered upon amneran heath: and jurgen was feeling very virtuous. 8. old toys and a new shadow jurgen had behaved with conspicuous nobility, jurgen reflected: but he had committed himself. "i go in search of my dear wife," he had stated, in the exaltation of virtuous sentiments. and now jurgen found himself alone in a world of moonlight just where he had last seen his wife. "well, well," he said, "now that my wednesday is done with, and i am again a reputable pawnbroker, let us remember the advisability of sometimes doing the manly thing! it was into this cave that lisa went. so into this cave go i, for the second time, rather than home to my unsympathetic relatives-in-law. or at least, i think i am going--" "ay," said a squeaking voice, "this is the time. a ab hur hus!" "high time!" "oh, more than time!" "look, the man in the oak!" "oho, the fire-drake!" thus many voices screeched and wailed confusedly. but jurgen, staring about him, could see nobody: and all the tiny voices seemed to come from far overhead, where nothing was visible save the clouds which of a sudden were gathering; for a wind was rising, and already the moon was overcast. now for a while that noise high in the air became like a wrangling of sparrows, wherein no words were distinguishable. then said a small shrill voice distinctly: "note now, sweethearts, how high we pass over the wind-vexed heath, where the gallows' burden creaks and groans swaying to and fro in the night! now the rain breaks loose as a hawk from the fowler, and grave queen holda draws her tresses over the moon's bright shield. now the bed is made, and the water drawn, and we the bride's maids seek for the lass who will be bride to sclaug." said another: "oh, search for a maid with golden hair, who is perfect, tender and pure, and fit for a king who is old as love, with no trace of love in him. even now our grinning dusty master wakes from sleep, and his yellow fingers shake to think of her flower-soft lips who comes to-night to his lank embrace and warms the ribs that our eyes have seen. who will be bride to sclaug?" and a third said: "the wedding-gown we have brought with us, we that a-questing ride; and a maid will go hence on phorgemon in cleopatra's shroud. hah. will o'the wisp will marry the couple--" "no, no! let brachyotus!" "no, be it kitt with the candle-stick!" "eman hetan, a fight, a fight!" "oho, tom tumbler, 'ware of stadlin!" "hast thou the marmaritin, tib?" "a ab hur hus!" "come, bembo, come away!" so they all fell to screeching and whistling and wrangling high over jurgen's head, and jurgen was not pleased with his surroundings. "for these are the witches of amneran about some deviltry or another in which i prefer to take no part. i now regret that i flung away a cross in this neighborhood so very recently, and trust the action was understood. if my wife had not made a point of it, and had not positively insisted upon it, i would never have thought of doing such a thing. i intended no reflection upon anybody. even so, i consider this heath to be unwholesome. and upon the whole, i prefer to seek whatever i may encounter in this cave." so in went jurgen, for the second time. and the tale tells that all was dark there, and jurgen could see no one. but the cave stretched straight forward, and downward, and at the far end was a glow of light. jurgen went on and on, and so came to the place where he had found the centaur. this part of the cave was now vacant. but behind where nessus had lain in wait for jurgen was an opening in the cave's wall, and through this opening streamed the light. jurgen stooped and crawled through the orifice. he stood erect. he caught his breath sharply. here at his feet was, of all things, a tomb carved with the recumbent effigy of a woman. now this part of the cave was lighted by lamps upon tall iron stands, so that everything was clearly visible, even to jurgen, whose eyesight had of late years failed him. this was certainly a low flat tombstone such as jurgen had seen in many churches: but the tinted effigy thereupon was curious, somehow jurgen looked more closely. he touched the thing. then he recoiled, because there is no mistaking the feel of dead flesh. the effigy was not colored stone: it was the body of a dead woman. more unaccountable still, it was the body of félise de puysange, whom jurgen had loved very long ago in gâtinais, a great many years before he set up in business as a pawnbroker. very strange it was to jurgen again to see her face. he had often wondered what had become of this large brown woman; had wondered if he were really the first man for whom she had put a deceit upon her husband; and had wondered what sort of person madame félise de puysange had been in reality. "two months it was that we played at intimacy, was it not, félise? you comprehend, my dear, i really remember very little about you. but i recall quite clearly the door left just a-jar, and how as i opened it gently i would see first of all the lamp upon your dressing-table, turned down almost to extinction, and the glowing dust upon its glass shade. is it not strange that our exceeding wickedness should have resulted in nothing save the memory of dust upon a lamp chimney? yet you were very handsome, félise. i dare say i would have liked you if i had ever known you. but when you told me of the child you had lost, and showed me his baby picture, i took a dislike to you. it seemed to me you were betraying that child by dealing over-generously with me: and always between us afterward was his little ghost. yet i did not at all mind the deceits you put upon your husband. it is true i knew your husband rather intimately--. well, and they tell me the good vicomte was vastly pleased by the son you bore him some months after you and i had parted. so there was no great harm done, after all--" then jurgen saw there was another woman's body lying like an effigy upon another low flat tomb, and beyond that another, and then still others. and jurgen whistled. "what, all of them!" he said. "am i to be confronted with every pound of tender flesh i have embraced? yes, here is graine, and rosamond, and marcouève, and elinor. this girl, though, i do not remember at all. and this one is, i think, the little jewess i purchased from hassan bey in sidon, but how can one be sure? still, this is certainly judith, and this is myrina. i have half a mind to look again for that mole, but i suppose it would be indecorous. lord, how one's women do add up! there must be several scores of them in all. it is the sort of spectacle that turns a man to serious thinking. well, but it is a great comfort to reflect that i dealt fairly with every one of them. several of them treated me most unjustly, too. but that is past and done with: and i bear no malice toward such fickle and short-sighted creatures as could not be contented with one lover, and he the jurgen that was!" thereafter, jurgen, standing among his dead, spread out his arms in an embracing gesture. "hail to you, ladies, and farewell! for you and i have done with love. well, love is very pleasant to observe as he advances, overthrowing all ancient memories with laughter. and yet for each gay lover who concedes the lordship of love, and wears intrepidly love's liveries, the end of all is death. love's sowing is more agreeable than love's harvest: or, let us put it, he allures us into byways leading nowhither, among blossoms which fall before the first rough wind: so at the last, with much excitement and breath and valuable time quite wasted, we find that the end of all is death. then would it have been more shrewd, dear ladies, to have avoided love? to the contrary, we were unspeakably wise to indulge the high-hearted insanity that love induced; since love alone can lend young people rapture, however transiently, in a world wherein the result of every human endeavor is transient, and the end of all is death." then jurgen courteously bowed to his dead loves, and left them, and went forward as the cave stretched. but now the light was behind him, so that jurgen's shadow, as he came to a sharp turn in the cave, loomed suddenly upon the cave wall, confronting him. this shadow was clear-cut and unarguable. jurgen regarded it intently. he turned this way, then the other; he looked behind him, raised one hand, shook his head tentatively; then he twisted his head sideways with his chin well lifted, and squinted so as to get a profile view of this shadow. whatever jurgen did the shadow repeated, which was natural enough. the odd part was that it in nothing resembled the shadow which ought to attend any man, and this was an uncomfortable discovery to make in loneliness deep under ground. "i do not exactly like this," said jurgen. "upon my word, i do not like this at all. it does not seem fair. it is perfectly preposterous. well"--and here he shrugged,--"well, and what could anybody expect me to do about it? ah, what indeed! so i shall treat the incident with dignified contempt, and continue my exploration of this cave." 9. the orthodox rescue of guenevere now the tale tells how the cave narrowed and again turned sharply, so that jurgen came as through a corridor into quite another sort of underground chamber. yet this also was a discomfortable place. here suspended from the roof of the vault was a kettle of quivering red flames. these lighted a very old and villainous looking man in full armor, girded with a sword, and crowned royally: he sat erect upon a throne, motionless, with staring eyes that saw nothing. back of him jurgen noted many warriors seated in rows, and all staring at jurgen with wide-open eyes that saw nothing. the red flaming of the kettle was reflected in all these eyes, and to observe this was not pleasant. jurgen waited non-committally. nothing happened. then jurgen saw that at this unengaging monarch's feet were three chests. the lids had been ripped from two of them, and these were filled with silver coins. upon the middle chest, immediately before the king, sat a woman, with her face resting against the knees of the glaring, withered, motionless, old rascal. "and this is a young woman. obviously! observe the glint of that thick coil of hair! the rich curve of the neck! oh, clearly, a tidbit fit to fight for, against any moderate odds!" so ran the thoughts of jurgen. bold as a dragon now, he stepped forward and lifted the girl's head. her eyes were closed. she was, even so, the most beautiful creature jurgen had ever imagined. "she does not breathe. and yet, unless memory fails me, this is certainly a living woman in my arms. evidently this is a sleep induced by necromancy. well, it is not for nothing i have read so many fairy tales. there are orthodoxies to be observed in the awakening of every enchanted princess. and lisa, wherever she may be, poor dear! is nowhere in this neighborhood, because i hear nobody talking. so i may consider myself at liberty to do the traditional thing by this princess. indeed, it is the only fair thing for me to do, and justice demands it." in consequence, jurgen kissed the girl. her lips parted and softened, and they assumed a not unpleasant sort of submissive ardor. her eyes, enormous when seen thus closely, had languorously opened, had viewed him without wonder, and then the lids had fallen, about half-way, just as, jurgen remembered, the eyelids of a woman ought to do when she is being kissed properly. she clung a little, and now she shivered a little, but not with cold: jurgen perfectly remembered that ecstatic shudder convulsing a woman's body: everything, in fine, was quite as it should be. so jurgen put an end to the kiss, which, as you may surmise, was a tolerably lengthy affair. his heart was pounding as though determined to burst from his body, and he could feel the blood tingling at his finger-tips. he wondered what in the world had come over him, who was too old for such emotions. yet, truly, this was the loveliest girl that jurgen had ever imagined. fair was she to look on, with her shining gray eyes and small smiling lips, a fairer person might no man boast of having seen. and she regarded jurgen graciously, with her cheeks flushed by that red flickering overhead, and she was very lovely to observe. she was clothed in a robe of flame-colored silk, and about her neck was a collar of red gold. when she spoke her voice was music. "i knew that you would come," the girl said, happily. "i am very glad that i came," observed jurgen. "but time presses." "time sets an admirable example, my dear princess--" "oh, messire, but do you not perceive that you have brought life into this horrible place! you have given of this life to me, in the most direct and speedy fashion. but life is very contagious. already it is spreading by infection." and jurgen regarded the old king, as the girl indicated. the withered ruffian stayed motionless: but from his nostrils came slow augmenting jets of vapor, as though he were beginning to breathe in a chill place. this was odd, because the cave was not cold. "and all the others too are snorting smoke," says jurgen. "upon my word i think this is a delightful place to be leaving." first, though, he unfastened the king's sword-belt, and girded himself therewith, sword, dagger and all. "now i have arms befitting my fine shirt," says jurgen. then the girl showed him a sort of passage way, by which they ascended forty-nine steps roughly hewn in stone, and so came to daylight. at the top of the stairway was an iron trapdoor, and this door at the girl's instruction jurgen lowered. there was no way of fastening the door from without. "but thragnar is not to be stopped by bolts or padlocks," the girl said. "instead, we must straightway mark this door with a cross, since that is a symbol which thragnar cannot pass." jurgen's hand had gone instinctively to his throat. now he shrugged. "my dear young lady, i no longer carry the cross. i must fight thragnar with other weapons." "two sticks will serve, laid crosswise--" jurgen submitted that nothing would be easier than to lift the trapdoor, and thus dislodge the sticks. "they will tumble apart without anyone having to touch them, and then what becomes of your crucifix?" "why, how quickly you think of everything!" she said, admiringly. "here is a strip from my sleeve, then. we will tie the twigs together." jurgen did this, and laid upon the trapdoor a recognizable crucifix. "still, when anyone raises the trapdoor whatever lies upon it will fall off. without disparaging the potency of your charm, i cannot but observe that in this case it is peculiarly difficult to handle. magician or no, i would put heartier faith in a stout padlock." so the girl tore another strip, from the hem of her gown, and then another from her right sleeve, and with these they fastened their cross to the surface of the trapdoor, in such a fashion that the twigs could not be dislodged from beneath. they mounted the fine steed whose bridle was marked with a coronet, the girl riding pillion, and they turned westward, since the girl said this was best. for, as she now told jurgen, she was guenevere, the daughter of gogyrvan, king of glathion and the red islands. so jurgen told her he was the duke of logreus, because he felt it was not appropriate for a pawnbroker to be rescuing princesses: and he swore, too, that he would restore her safely to her father, whatever thragnar might attempt. and all the story of her nefarious capture and imprisonment by king thragnar did dame guenevere relate to jurgen, as they rode together through the pleasant may morning. she considered the troll king could not well molest them. "for now you have his charmed sword, caliburn, the only weapon with which thragnar can be slain. besides, the sign of the cross he cannot pass. he beholds and trembles." "my dear princess, he has but to push up the trapdoor from beneath, and the cross, being tied to the trapdoor, is promptly moved out of his way. failing this expedient, he can always come out of the cave by the other opening, through which i entered. if this thragnar has any intelligence at all and a reasonable amount of tenacity, he will presently be at hand." "even so, he can do no harm unless we accept a present from him. the difficulty is that he will come in disguise." "why, then, we will accept gifts from nobody." "there is, moreover, a sign by which you may distinguish thragnar. for if you deny what he says, he will promptly concede you are in the right. this was the curse put upon him by miramon lluagor, for a detection and a hindrance." "by that unhuman trait," says jurgen, "thragnar ought to be very easy to distinguish." 10. pitiful disguises of thragnar next, the tale tells that as jurgen and the princess were nearing gihon, a man came riding toward them, full armed in black, and having a red serpent with an apple in its mouth painted upon his shield. "sir knight," says he, speaking hollowly from the closed helmet, "you must yield to me that lady." "i think," says jurgen, civilly, "that you are mistaken." so they fought, and presently, since caliburn was a resistless weapon, and he who wore the scabbard of caliburn could not be wounded, jurgen prevailed; and gave the strange knight so heavy a buffet that the knight fell senseless. "do you think," says jurgen, about to unlace his antagonist's helmet, "that this is thragnar?" "there is no possible way of telling," replied dame guenevere: "if it is the troll king he should have offered you gifts, and when you contradicted him he should have admitted you were right. instead, he proffered nothing, and to contradiction he answered nothing, so that proves nothing." "but silence is a proverbial form of assent. at all events, we will have a look at him." "but that too will prove nothing, since thragnar goes about his mischiefs so disguised by enchantments as invariably to resemble somebody else, and not himself at all." "such dishonest habits introduce an element of uncertainty, i grant you," says jurgen. "still, one can rarely err by keeping on the safe side. this person is, in any event, a very ill-bred fellow, with probably immoral intentions. yes, caution is the main thing, and in justice to ourselves we will keep on the safe side." so without unloosing the helmet, he struck off the strange knight's head, and left him thus. the princess was now mounted on the horse of their deceased assailant. "assuredly," says jurgen then, "a magic sword is a fine thing, and a very necessary equipment, too, for a knight errant of my age." "but you talk as though you were an old man, messire de logreus!" "come now," thinks jurgen, "this is a princess of rare discrimination. what, after all, is forty-and-something when one is well-preserved? this uncommonly intelligent girl reminds me a little of marcouève, whom i loved in artein: besides, she does not look at me as women look at an elderly man. i like this princess, in fact, i adore this princess. i wonder now what would she say if i told her as much?" but jurgen did not tempt chance that time, for just then they encountered a boy who had frizzed hair and painted cheeks. he walked mincingly, in a curious garb of black bespangled with gold lozenges, and he carried a gilded dung fork. * * * * * then jurgen and the princess came to a black and silver pavilion standing by the roadside. at the door of the pavilion was an apple-tree in blossom: from a branch of this tree was suspended a black hunting-horn, silver-mounted. a woman waited there alone. before her was a chess-board, with the ebony and silver pieces set ready for a game, and upon the table to her left hand glittered flagons and goblets of silver. eagerly this woman rose and came toward the travellers. "oh, my dear jurgen," says she, "but how fine you look in that new shirt you are wearing! but there was never a man had better taste in dress, as i have always said: and it is long i have waited for you in this pavilion, which belongs to a black gentleman who seems to be a great friend of yours. and he went into crim tartary this morning, with some missionaries, by the worst piece of luck, for i know how sorry he will be to miss you, dear. now, but i am forgetting that you must be very tired and thirsty, my darling, after your travels. so do you and the young lady have a sip of this, and then we will be telling one another of our adventures." for this woman had the appearance of jurgen's wife, dame lisa, and of none other. jurgen regarded her with two minds. "you certainly seem to be lisa. but it is a long while since i saw lisa in such an amiable mood." "you must know," says she, still smiling, "that i have learned to appreciate you since we were separated." "the fiend who stole you from me may possibly have brought about that wonder. none the less, you have met me riding at adventure with a young woman. and you have assaulted neither of us, you have not even raised your voice. no, quite decidedly, here is a miracle beyond the power of any fiend." "ah, but i have been doing a great deal of thinking, jurgen dear, as to our difficulties in the past. and it seems to me that you were almost always in the right." guenevere nudged jurgen. "did you note that? this is certainly thragnar in disguise." "i am beginning to think that at all events it is not lisa." then jurgen magisterially cleared his throat. "lisa, if you indeed be lisa, you must understand i am through with you. the plain truth is that you tire me. you talk and talk: no woman breathing equals you at mere volume and continuity of speech: but you say nothing that i have not heard seven hundred and eighty times if not oftener." "you are perfectly right, my dear," says dame lisa, piteously. "but then i never pretended to be as clever as you." "spare me your beguilements, if you please. and besides, i am in love with this princess. now spare me your recriminations, also, for you have no real right to complain. if you had stayed the person whom i promised the priest to love, i would have continued to think the world of you. but you did nothing of the sort. from a cuddlesome and merry girl, who thought whatever i did was done to perfection, you elected to develop into an uncommonly plain and short-tempered old woman." and jurgen paused. "eh?" said he, "and did you not do this?" dame lisa answered sadly: "my dear, you are perfectly right, from your way of thinking. however, i could not very well help getting older." "but, oh, dear me!" says jurgen, "this is astonishingly inadequate impersonation, as any married man would see at once. well, i made no contract to love any such plain and short-tempered person. i repudiate the claims of any such person, as manifestly unfair. and i pledge undying affection to this high and noble princess guenevere, who is the fairest lady that i have ever seen." "you are right," wailed dame lisa, "and i was entirely to blame. it was because i loved you, and wanted you to get on in the world and be a credit to my father's line of business, that i nagged you so. but you will never understand the feelings of a wife, nor will you understand that even now i desire your happiness above all else. here is our wedding-ring, then, jurgen. i give you back your freedom. and i pray that this princess may make you very happy, my dear. for surely you deserve a princess if ever any man did." jurgen shook his head. "it is astounding that a demon so much talked about should be so poor an impersonator. it raises the staggering supposition that the majority of married women must go to heaven. as for your ring, i am not accepting gifts this morning, from anyone. but you understand, i trust, that i am hopelessly enamored of the princess on account of her beauty." "oh, and i cannot blame you, my dear. she is the loveliest person i have ever seen." "hah, thragnar!" says jurgen, "i have you now. a woman might, just possibly, have granted her own homeliness: but no woman that ever breathed would have conceded the princess had a ray of good looks." so with caliburn he smote, and struck off the head of this thing which foolishly pretended to be dame lisa. "well done! oh, bravely done!" cried guenevere. "now the enchantment is dissolved, and thragnar is slain by my clever champion." "i could wish there were some surer sign of that," said jurgen. "i would have preferred that the pavilion and the decapitated troll king had vanished with a peal of thunder and an earthquake and such other phenomena as are customary. instead, nothing is changed except that the woman who was talking to me a moment since now lies at my feet in a very untidy condition. you conceive, madame, i used to tease her about that twisted little-finger, in the days before we began to squabble: and it annoys me that thragnar should not have omitted even lisa's crooked little-finger on her left hand. yes, such painstaking carefulness worries me. for you conceive also, madame, it would be more or less awkward if i had made an error, and if the appearance were in reality what it seemed to be, because i was pretty trying sometimes. at all events, i have done that which seemed equitable, and i have found no comfort in the doing of it, and i do not like this place." 11. appearance of the duke of logreus so jurgen brushed from the table the chessmen that were set there in readiness for a game, and he emptied the silver flagons upon the ground. his reasons for not meddling with the horn he explained to the princess: she shivered, and said that, such being the case, he was certainly very sensible. then they mounted, and departed from the black and silver pavilion. they came thus without further adventure to gogyrvan gawr's city of cameliard. now there was shouting and the bells all rang when the people knew their princess was returned to them: the houses were hung with painted cloths and banners, and trumpets sounded, as guenevere and jurgen came to the king in his hall of judgment. and this gogyrvan, that was king of glathion and lord of enisgarth and camwy and sargyll, came down from his wide throne, and he embraced first guenevere, then jurgen. "and demand of me what you will, duke of logreus," said gogyrvan, when he had heard the champion's name, "and it is yours for the asking. for you have restored to me the best loved daughter that ever was the pride of a high king." "sir," replied jurgen, reasonably, "a service rendered so gladly should be its own reward. so i am asking that you do in turn restore to me the princess guenevere, in honorable marriage, do you understand, because i am a poor lorn widower, i am tolerably certain, but i am quite certain i love your daughter with my whole heart." thus jurgen, whose periods were confused by emotion. "i do not see what the condition of your heart has to do with any such unreasonable request. and you have no good sense to be asking this thing of me when here are the servants of arthur, that is now king of the britons, come to ask for my daughter as his wife. that you are duke of logreus you tell me, and i concede a duke is all very well: but i expect you in return to concede a king takes precedence, with any man whose daughter is marriageable. but to-morrow or the next day it may be, you and i will talk over your reward more privately. meanwhile it is very queer and very frightened you are looking, to be the champion who conquered thragnar." for jurgen was staring at the great mirror behind the king's throne. in this mirror jurgen saw the back of gogyrvan's crowned head, and beyond this, jurgen saw a queer and frightened looking young fellow, with sleek black hair, and an impudent nose, and wide-open bright brown eyes which were staring hard at jurgen: and the lad's very red and very heavy lips were parted, so that you saw what fine strong teeth he had: and he wore a glittering shirt with curious figures on it "i was thinking," says jurgen, and he saw the lad in the mirror was speaking too, "i was thinking that is a remarkable mirror you have there." "it is like any other mirror," replies the king, "in that it shows things as they are. but if you fancy it as your reward, why, take it and welcome." "and are you still talking of rewards!" cries jurgen. "why, if that mirror shows things as they are, i have come out of my borrowed wednesday still twenty-one. oh, but it was the clever fellow i was, to flatter mother sereda so cunningly, and to fool her into such generosity! and i wonder that you who are only a king, with bleared eyes under your crown, and with a drooping belly under all your royal robes, should be talking of rewarding a fine young fellow of twenty-one, for there is nothing you have which i need be wanting now." "then you will not be plaguing me any more with your nonsense about my daughter: and that is excellent news." "but i have no requirement to be asking your good graces now," said jurgen, "nor the good will of any man alive that has a handsome daughter or a handsome wife. for now i have the aid of a lad that was very recently made duke of logreus: and with his countenance i can look out for myself, and i can get justice done me everywhere, in all the bedchambers of the world." and jurgen snapped his fingers, and was about to turn away from the king. there was much sunlight in the hall, so that jurgen in this half-turn confronted his shadow as it lay plain upon the flagstones. and jurgen looked at it very intently. "of course," said jurgen presently, "i only meant in a manner of speaking, sir: and was paraphrasing the splendid if hackneyed passage from sornatius, with which you are doubtless familiar, in which he goes on to say, so much more beautifully than i could possibly express without quoting him word for word, that all this was spoken jestingly, and without the least intention of offending anybody, oh, anybody whatever, i can assure you, sir." "very well," said gogyrvan gawr: and he smiled, for no reason that was apparent to jurgen, who was still watching his shadow sidewise. "to-morrow, i repeat, i must talk with you more privately. to-day i am giving a banquet such as was never known in these parts, because my daughter is restored to me, and because my daughter is going to be queen over all the britons." so said gogyrvan, that was king of glathion and lord of enisgarth and camwy and sargyll: and this was done. and everywhere at the banquet jurgen heard talk of this king arthur who was to marry dame guenevere, and of the prophecy which merlin ambrosius had made as to the young monarch. for merlin had predicted: "he shall afford succor, and shall tread upon the necks of his enemies: the isles of the ocean shall be subdued by him, and he shall possess the forests of gaul: the house of romulus shall fear his rage, and his acts shall be food for the narrators." "why, then," says jurgen, to himself, "this monarch reminds me in all things of david of israel, who was so splendid and famous, and so greedy, in the ancient ages. for to these forests and islands and necks and other possessions, this arthur pendragon must be adding my one ewe lamb; and i lack a nathan to convert him to repentance. now, but this, to be sure, is a very unfair thing." then jurgen looked again into a mirror: and presently the eyes of the lad he found therein began to twinkle. "have at you, david!" said jurgen, valorously; "since after all, i see no reason to despair." 12. excursus of yolande's undoing now jurgen, self-appointed duke of logreus, abode at the court of king gogyrvan. the month of may passed quickly and pleasantly: but the monstrous shadow which followed jurgen did not pass. still, no one noticed it: that was the main thing. for himself, he was not afraid of shadows, and the queerness of this one was not enough to distract his thoughts from guenevere, nor from his love-making with guenevere. for these were quiet times in glathion, now that the war with rience of northgalis was satisfactorily ended: and love-making was now everywhere in vogue. by way of diversion, gentlemen hunted and fished and rode a-hawking and amicably slashed and battered one another in tournaments: but their really serious pursuit was lovemaking, after the manner of chivalrous persons, who knew that the king's trumpets would presently be summoning them into less softly furnished fields of action, from one or another of which they would return feet foremost on a bier. so jurgen sighed and warbled and made eyes with many excellent fighting-men: and the princess listened with many other ladies whose hearts were not of flint. and gogyrvan meditated. now it was the kingly custom of gogyrvan when his dinner was spread at noontide, not to go to meat until all such as demanded justice from him had been furnished with a champion to redress the wrong. one day as the gaunt old king sat thus in his main hall, upon a seat of green rushes covered with yellow satin, and with a cushion of yellow satin under his elbow, and with his barons ranged about him according to their degrees, a damsel came with a very heart-rending tale of the oppression that was on her. gogyrvan blinked at her, and nodded. "you are the handsomest woman i have seen in a long while," says he, irrelevantly. "you are a woman i have waited for. duke jurgen of logreus will undertake this adventure." there being no help for it, jurgen rode off with this dame yolande, not very well pleased: but as they rode he jested with her. and so, with much laughter by the way, yolande conducted him to the green castle, of which she had been dispossessed by graemagog, a most formidable giant. "now prepare to meet your death, sir knight!" cried graemagog, laughing horribly, and brandishing his club; "for all knights who come hither i have sworn to slay." "well, if truth-telling were a sin you would be a very virtuous giant," says jurgen, and he flourished thragnar's sword, resistless caliburn. then they fought, and jurgen killed graemagog. thus was the green castle restored to dame yolande, and the maidens who attended her aforetime were duly released from the cellarage. they were now maidens by courtesy only, but so tender is the heart of women that they all wept over graemagog. yolande was very grateful, and proffered every manner of reward. "but, no, i will take none of these fine jewels, nor money, nor lands either," says jurgen. "for logreus, i must tell you, is a fairly well-to-do duchy, and the killing of giants is by way of being my favorite pastime. he is well paid that is well satisfied. yet if you must reward me for such a little service, do you swear to do what you can to get me the love of my lady, and that will suffice." yolande, without any particular enthusiasm, consented to attempt this: and indeed yolande, at jurgen's request, made oath upon the four evangelists that she would do everything within her power to aid him. "very well," said jurgen, "you have sworn, and it is you whom i love." surprise now made her lovely. yolande was frankly delighted at the thought of marrying the young duke of logreus, and offered to send for a priest at once. "my dear," says jurgen, "there is no need to bother a priest about our private affairs." she took his meaning, and sighed. "now i regret," said she, "that i made so solemn an oath. your trick was unfair." "oh, not at all," said jurgen: "and presently you will not regret it. for indeed the game is well worth the candle." "how is that shown, messire de logreus?" "why, by candle-light," says jurgen,--"naturally." "in that event, we will talk no further of it until this evening." so that evening yolande sent for him. she was, as gogyrvan had said, a remarkably handsome woman, sleek and sumptuous and crowned with a wealth of copper-colored hair. to-night she was at her best in a tunic of shimmering blue, with a surcote of gold embroidery, and with gold embroidered pendent sleeves that touched the floor. thus she was when jurgen came to her. "now," says yolande, frowning, "you may as well come out straightforwardly with what you were hinting at this morning." but first jurgen looked about the apartment, and it was lighted by a tall gilt stand whereon burned candles. he counted these, and he whistled. "seven candles! upon my word, sweetheart, you do me great honor, for this is a veritable illumination. to think of it, now, that you should honor me, as people do saints, with seven candles! well, i am only mortal, but none the less i am jurgen, and i shall endeavor to repay this sevenfold courtesy without discount." "oh, messire de logreus," cried dame yolande, "but what incomprehensible nonsense you talk! you misinterpret matters, for i can assure you i had nothing of that sort in mind. besides, i do not know what you are talking about." "indeed, i must warn you that my actions often speak more unmistakably than my words. it is what learned persons term an idiosyncrasy." "--and i certainly do not see how any of the saints can be concerned in this. if you had said the four evangelists now--! for we were talking of the four evangelists, you remember, this morning--oh, but how stupid it is of you, messire de logreus, to stand there grinning and looking at me in a way that makes me blush!" "well, that is easily remedied," said jurgen, as he blew out the candles, "since women do not blush in the dark." "what do you plan, messire de logreus?" "ah, do not be alarmed!" said jurgen. "i shall deal fairly with you." and in fact yolande confessed afterward that, considering everything, messire de logreus was very generous. jurgen confessed nothing: and as the room was profoundly dark nobody else can speak with authority as to what happened there. it suffices that the duke of logreus and the lady of the green castle parted later on the most friendly terms. "you have undone me, with your games and your candles and your scrupulous returning of courtesies," said yolande, and yawned, for she was sleepy; "but i fear that i do not hate you as much as i ought to." "no woman ever does," says jurgen, "at this hour." he called for breakfast, then kissed yolande--for this, as jurgen had said, was their hour of parting,--and he rode away from the green castle in high spirits. "why, what a thing it is again to be a fine young fellow!" said jurgen. "well, even though her big brown eyes protrude too much--something like a lobster's--she is a splendid woman, that dame yolande: and it is a comfort to reflect i have seen justice was done her." then he rode back to cameliard, singing with delight in the thought that he was riding toward the princess guenevere, whom he loved with his whole heart. 13. philosophy of gogyrvan gawr at cameliard the young duke of logreus spent most of his time in the company of guenevere, whose father made no objection overtly. gogyrvan had his promised talk with jurgen. "i lament that dame yolande dealt over-thriftily with you," the king said, first of all: "for i estimated you two would be as spark and tinder, kindling between you an amorous conflagration to burn up all this nonsense about my daughter." "thrift, sir," said jurgen, discreetly, "is a proverbial virtue, and fires may not consume true love." "that is the truth," gogyrvan admitted, "whoever says it." and he sighed. then for a while he sat in nodding meditation. tonight the old king wore a disreputably rusty gown of black stuff, with fur about the neck and sleeves of it, and his scant white hair was covered by a very shabby black cap. so he huddled over a small fire in a large stone fireplace carved with shields; beside him was white wine and red, which stayed untasted while gogyrvan meditated upon things that fretted him. "now, then!" says gogyrvan gawr: "this marriage with the high king of the britons must go forward, of course. that was settled last year, when arthur and his devil-mongers, the lady of the lake and merlin ambrosius, were at some pains to rescue me at carohaise. i estimate that arthur's ambassadors, probably the devil-mongers themselves, will come for my daughter before june is out. meanwhile, you two have youth and love for playthings, and it is spring." "what is the season of the year to me," groaned jurgen, "when i reflect that within a week or so the lady of my heart will be borne away from me forever? how can i be happy, when all the while i know the long years of misery and vain regret are near at hand?" "you are saying that," observed the king, "in part because you drank too much last night, and in part because you think it is expected of you. for in point of fact, you are as happy as anyone is permitted to be in this world, through the simple reason that you are young. misery, as you employ the word, i consider to be a poetical trophe: but i can assure you that the moment you are no longer young the years of vain regret will begin, either way." "that is true," said jurgen, heartily. "how do you know? now then, put it i were insane enough to marry my daughter to a mere duke, you would grow damnably tired of her: i can assure you of that also, for in disposition guenevere is her sainted mother all over again. she is nice looking, of course, because in that she takes after my side of the family: but, between ourselves, she is not particularly intelligent, and she will always be making eyes at some man or another. to-day it appears to be your turn to serve as her target, in a fine glittering shirt of which the like was never seen in glathion. i deplore, but even so i cannot deny, your rights as the champion who rescued her: and i must bid you make the most of that turn." "meanwhile, it occurs to me, sir, that it is unusual to betroth your daughter to one man, and permit her to go freely with another." "if you insist upon it," said gogyrvan gawr, "i can of course lock up the pair of you, in separate dungeons, until the wedding day. meanwhile, it occurs to me you should be the last commentator to grumble." "why, i tell you plainly, sir, that critical persons would say you are taking very small care of your daughter's honor." "to that there are several answers," replied the king. "one is that i remember my late wife as tenderly as possible, and i reflect i have only her word for it as to guenevere's being my daughter. another is that, though my daughter is a quiet and well-conducted young woman, i never heard king thragnar was anything of this sort." "oh, sir," said jurgen, horrified, "whatever are you hinting!" "all sorts of things, however, happen in caves, things which it is wiser to ignore in sunlight. so i ignore: i ask no questions: my business is to marry my daughter acceptably, and that only. such discoveries as may be made by her husband afterward are his affair, not mine. this much i might tell you, messire de logreus, by way of answer. but the real answer is to bid you consider this: that a woman's honor is concerned with one thing only, and it is a thing with which the honor of a man is not concerned at all." "but now you talk in riddles, king, and i wonder what it is you would have me do." gogyrvan grinned. "obviously, i advise you to give thanks you were born a man, because that sturdier sex has so much less need to bother over breakage." "what sort of breakage, sir?" says jurgen. gogyrvan told him. duke jurgen for the second time looked properly horrified. "your aphorisms, king, are abominable, and of a sort unlikely to quiet my misery. however, we were speaking of your daughter, and it is she who must be considered rather than i." "now i perceive that you take my meaning perfectly. yes, in all matters which concern my daughter i would have you lie like a gentleman." "well, i am afraid, sir," said jurgen, after a pause, "that you are a person of somewhat degraded ideals." "ah, but you are young. youth can afford ideals, being vigorous enough to stand the hard knocks they earn their possessor. but i am an old fellow cursed with a tender heart and tolerably keen eyes. that combination, messire de logreus, is one which very often forces me to jeer out of season, simply because i know myself to be upon the verge of far more untimely tears." thus gogyrvan replied. he was silent for a while, and he contemplated the fire. then he waved a shriveled hand toward the window, and gogyrvan began to speak, meditatively: "messire de logreus, it is night in my city of cameliard. and somewhere one of those roofs harbors a girl whom we will call lynette. she has a lover--we will say he is called sagramor. the names do not matter. tonight, as i speak with you, lynette lies motionless in the carved wide bed that formerly was her mother's. she is thinking of sagramor. the room is dark save where moonlight silvers the diamond-shaped panes of ancient windows. in every corner of the room mysterious quivering suggestions lurk." "ah, sire," says jurgen, "you also are a poet!" "do not interrupt me, then! lynette, i repeat, is thinking of sagramor. again they sit near the lake, under an apple-tree older than rome. the knotted branches of the tree are upraised as in benediction: and petals--petals, fluttering, drifting, turning,--interminable white petals fall silently in the stillness. neither speaks: for there is no need. silently he brushes a petal from the blackness of her hair, and silently he kisses her. the lake is dusky and hard-seeming as jade. two lonely stars hang low in the green sky. it is droll that the chest of a man is hairy, oh, very droll! and a bird is singing, a silvery needle of sound moves fitfully in the stillness. surely high heaven is thus quietly colored and thus strangely lovely. so at least thinks little lynette, lying motionless like a little mouse, in the carved wide bed wherein lynette was born." "a very moving touch, that," jurgen interpolated. "now, there is another sort of singing: for now the pot-house closes, big shutters bang, feet shuffle, a drunken man hiccoughs in his singing. it is a love-song he is murdering. he sheds inexplicable tears as he lurches nearer and nearer to lynette's window, and his heart is all magnanimity, for sagramor is celebrating his latest conquest. do you not think that this or something very like this is happening to-night in my city of cameliard, messire de logreus?". "it happens momently," said jurgen, "everywhere. for thus is every woman for a little while, and thus is every man for all time." "that being a dreadful truth," continued gogyrvan, "you may take it as one of the many reasons why i jeer out of season in order to stave off far more untimely tears. for this thing happens: in my city it happens, and in my castle it happens. king or no, i am powerless to prevent its happening. so i can but shrug and hearten my old blood with a fresh bottle. no less, i regard the young woman, who is quite possibly my daughter, with considerable affection: and it would be salutary for you to remember that circumstance, messire de logreus, if ever you are tempted to be candid." jurgen was horrified. "but with the princess, sir, it is unthinkable that i should not deal fairly." king gogyrvan continued to look at jurgen. gogyrvan gawr said nothing, and not a muscle of him moved. "although of course," said jurgen, "i would, in simple justice to her, not ever consider volunteering any information likely to cause pain." "again i perceive," said gogyrvan, "that you understand me. yet i did not speak of my daughter only, but of everybody." "how then, sir, would you have me deal with everybody?" "why, i can but repeat my words," says gogyrvan, very patiently: "i would have you lie like a gentleman. and now be off with you, for i am going to sleep. i shall not be wide awake again until my daughter is safely married. and that is absolutely all i can do for you." "do you think this is reputable conduct, king?" "oh, no!" says gogyrvan, surprised. "it is what we call philanthropy." 14. preliminary tactics of duke jurgen so jurgen abode at court, and was tolerably content for a little while. he loved a princess, the fairest and most perfect of mortal women; and loved her (a circumstance to which he frequently recurred) as never any other man had loved in the world's history: and very shortly he was to stand by and see her married to another. here was a situation to delight the chivalrous court of glathion, for every requirement of romance was exactly fulfilled. now the appearance of guenevere, whom jurgen loved with an entire heart, was this:--she was of middling height, with a figure not yet wholly the figure of a woman. she had fine and very thick hair, and the color of it was the yellow of corn floss. when guenevere undid her hair it was a marvel to jurgen to note how snugly this hair descended about the small head and slender throat, and then broadened boldly and clothed her with a loose soft foam of pallid gold. for jurgen delighted in her hair; and with increasing intimacy, loved to draw great strands of it back of his head, crossing them there, and pressing soft handfuls of her perfumed hair against his cheeks as he kissed the princess. the head of guenevere, be it repeated, was small: you wondered at the proud free tossing movements of that little head which had to sustain the weight of so much hair. the face of guenevere was colored tenderly and softly: it made the faces of other women seem the work of a sign-painter, just splotched in anyhow. gray eyes had guenevere, veiled by incredibly long black lashes that curved incredibly. her brows arched rather high above her eyes: that was almost a fault. her nose was delicate and saucy: her chin was impudence made flesh: and her mouth was a tiny and irresistible temptation. "and so on, and so on! but indeed there is no sense at all in describing this lovely girl as though i were taking an inventory of my shopwindow," said jurgen. "analogues are all very well, and they have the unanswerable sanction of custom: none the less, when i proclaim that my adored mistress's hair reminds me of gold i am quite consciously lying. it looks like yellow hair, and nothing else: nor would i willingly venture within ten feet of any woman whose head sprouted with wires, of whatever metal. and to protest that her eyes are as gray and fathomless as the sea is very well also, and the sort of thing which seems expected of me: but imagine how horrific would be puddles of water slopping about in a lady's eye-sockets! if we poets could actually behold the monsters we rhyme of, we would scream and run. still, i rather like this sirvente." for he was making a sirvente in praise of guenevere. it was the pleasant custom of gogyrvan's court that every gentleman must compose verses in honor of the lady of whom he was hopelessly enamored; as well as that in these verses he should address the lady (as one whose name was too sacred to mention) otherwise than did her sponsors. so duke jurgen of logreus duly rhapsodized of his phyllida. "i borrow for my dear love the appellation of that noted but by much inferior lady who was beloved by ariphus of belsize," he explained. "you will remember poliger suspects she was a princess of the house of scleroveus: and you of course recall pisander's masterly summing-up of the probabilities, in his _heraclea_." "oh, yes," they said. and the courtiers of gogyrvan gawr, like mother sereda, were greatly impressed by young duke jurgen's erudition. for jurgen was duke of logreus nowadays, with his glittering shirt and the coronet upon his bridle to show for it. awkwardly this proved to be an earl's coronet, but incongruities are not always inexplicable. "it was earl giarmuid's horse. you have doubtless heard of giarmuid: but to ask that is insulting." "oh, not at all. it is humor. we perfectly understand your humor, duke jurgen." "and a very pretty fighter i found this famous giarmuid as i traveled westward. and since he killed my steed in the heat of our conversation, i was compelled to take over his horse, after i had given this poor giarmuid proper interment. oh, yes, a very pretty fighter, and i had heard much talk of him in logreus. he was lord of ore and persaunt, you remember, though of course the estate came by his mother's side." "oh, yes," they said. "you must not think that we of glathion are quite shut out from the great world. we have heard of all these affairs. and we have also heard fine things of your duchy of logreus, messire." "doubtless," said jurgen; and turned again to his singing. "lo, for i pray to thee, resistless love," he descanted, "that thou to-day make cry unto my love, to phyllida whom i, poor logreus, love so tenderly, not to deny me love! asked why, say thou my drink and food is love, in days wherein i think and brood on love, and truly find naught good in aught save love, since phyllida hath taught me how to love." here jurgen groaned with nicely modulated ardor; and he continued: "if she avow such constant hate of love as would ignore my great and constant love, plead thou no more! with listless lore of love woo death resistlessly, resistless love, in place of her that saith such scorn of love as lends to death the lure and grace i love." thus jurgen sang melodiously of his phyllida, and meant thereby (as everybody knew) the princess guenevere. since custom compelled him to deal in analogues, he dealt wholesale. gems and metals, the blossoms of the field and garden, fires and wounds and sunrises and perfumes, an armory of lethal weapons, ice and a concourse of mythological deities were his starting-point. then the seas and heavens were dredged of phenomena to be mentioned with disparagement, in comparison with one or another feature of duke jurgen's phyllida. zoology and history, and generally the remembered contents of his pawnshop, were overhauled and made to furnish targets for depreciation: whereas in dealing with the famous ladies loved by earlier poets, duke jurgen was positively insulting, allowing hardly a rag of merit. still, he was careful to be just: and he allowed that these poor creatures might figure advantageously enough in eyes which had never beheld his phyllida. and to all this information the lady whom he hymned attended willingly. "she is a princess," reflected jurgen. "she is quite beautiful. she is young, and whatever her father's opinion, she is reasonably intelligent, as women go. nobody could ask more. why, then, am i not out of my head about her? already she permits a kiss or two when nobody is around, and presently she will permit more. and she thinks i am quite the cleverest person living. come, jurgen, man! is there no heart in this spry young body you have regained? come, let us have a little honest rapture and excitement over this promising situation!" but somehow jurgen could not manage it. he was interested in what, he knew, was going to happen. yes, undoubtedly he looked forward to more intimate converse with this beautiful young princess, but it was rather as one anticipates partaking of a favorite dessert. jurgen felt that a liaison arranged for in this spirit was neither one thing or the other. "if only i could feel like a cold-blooded villain, now, i would at worst be classifiable. but i intend the girl no harm, i am honestly fond of her. i shall talk my best, broaden her ideas, and give her, i flatter myself, considerable pleasure: vulgar prejudices apart, i shall leave her no whit the worse. why, the dear little thing, not for the ransom of seven emperors would i do her any hurt! and in these matters discretion is everything, simply everything. no, quite decidedly, i am not a cold-blooded villain; and i shall deal fairly with the princess." thus jurgen was disappointed by his own emotions, as he turned them from side to side, and prodded them, and shifted to a fresh viewpoint, only to find it no more favorable than the one relinquished: but he veiled the inadequacy of his emotions with very moving fervors. the tale does not record his conversations with guenevere: for jurgen now discoursed plain idiocy, as one purveys sweetmeats to a child in fond astonishment at the pet's appetite. and leisurely jurgen advanced: there was no hurry, with weeks wherein to accomplish everything: meanwhile this routine work had a familiar pleasantness. for the amateur co-ordinates matters, knowing that one thing axiomatically leads to another. there is no harm at all in respectful allusions to a love that comprehends its hopelessness: it was merely a fact which jurgen mentioned, and was about to pass on; only guenevere, in modesty, was forced to disparage her own attractions, as an inadequate cause for so much misery. common courtesy demanded that jurgen enter upon a rebuttal. to emphasize one point in this, the orator was forced to take the hand of his audience: but strangers did that every day, with nobody objecting; moreover, the hand was here, not so much seized as displayed by its detainer, as evidence of what he contended. how else was he to prove the princess of glathion had the loveliest hand in the world? it was not a matter he could request guenevere to accept on hearsay: and jurgen wanted to deal fairly with her. well, but before relinquishing the loveliest hand in the world a connoisseur will naturally kiss each fingertip: this is merely a tribute to perfection, and has no personal application. besides, a kiss, wherever deposited, as jurgen pointed out, is, when you think of it, but a ceremonial, of no intrinsic wrongfulness. the girl demurring against this apothegm--as custom again exacted,--was, still in common fairness, convinced of her error. so now, says jurgen presently, you see for yourself. is anything changed between us? do we not sit here, just as we were before? why, to be sure! a kiss is now attestedly a quite innocuous performance, with nothing very fearful about it one way or the other. it even has its pleasant side. thus there is no need to make a pother over kisses or over an arm about you, when it is more comfortable sitting so: how can one reasonably deny to a sincere friend what is accorded to a cousin or an old cloak? it would be nonsense, as jurgen demonstrated with a very apt citation from napsacus. then, sitting so, in the heat of conversation a speaker naturally gesticulates: and a deal of his eloquence is dependent upon his hands. when anyone is talking it is discourteous to interrupt, whereas to lay hold of a gentleman's hand outright, as jurgen parenthesized, is a little forward. no, he really did not think it would be quite proper for guenevere to hold his hand. let us preserve decorum, even in trifles. "ah, but you know that you are doing wrong!" "i doing wrong! i, who am simply sitting here and talking my poor best in an effort to entertain you! come now, princess, but tell me what you mean!" "you should know very well what i mean." "but i protest to you i have not the least notion. how can i possibly know what you mean when you refuse to tell me what you mean?" and since the princess declined to put into words just what she meant, things stayed as they were, for the while. thus did jurgen co-ordinate matters, knowing that one thing axiomatically leads to another. and in short, affairs sped very much as jurgen had anticipated. now, by ordinary, jurgen talked with guenevere in dimly lighted places. he preferred this, because then he was not bothered by that unaccountable shadow whose presence in sunlight put him out. nobody ever seemed to notice this preposterous shadow; it was patent, indeed, that nobody could see it save jurgen: none the less, the thing worried him. so even from the first he remembered guenevere as a soft voice and a delectable perfume in twilight, as a beauty not clearly visioned. and gogyrvan's people worried him. the hook-nosed tall old king had been by jurgen dismissed from thought, as an enigma not important enough to be worth the trouble of solving. gogyrvan at once seemed to be schooling himself to patience under some private annoyance and to be revolving in his mind some private jest; he was queer, and probably abominable: but to grant the old rascal his due, he was not meddlesome. the people about gogyrvan, though, were perplexing. these men who considered that all you possessed was loaned you to devote to the service of your god, your king and every woman who crossed your path, could hardly be behaving rationally. to talk of serving god sounded as sonorously and as inspiritingly as a drum: yes, and a drum had nothing but air in it. the priests said so-and-so: but did anybody believe the gallant bishop of merion, for example, was always to be depended upon? "i would like the opinion of prince evrawc's wife as to that," said jurgen, with a grin. for it was well-known that all affairs between this dame alundyne and the bishop were so discreetly managed as to afford no reason for any scandal whatever. as for serving the king, there in plain view was gogyrvan gawr, for anyone who so elected, to regard and grow enthusiastic over: gogyrvan might be shrewd enough, but to jurgen he suggested very little of the lord's anointed. to the contrary, he reminded you of jurgen's brother-in-law, the grocer, without being graced by the tradesman's friendly interest in customers. gogyrvan gawr was a person whom jurgen simply could not imagine any intelligent deity selecting as steward. and finally, when it came to serving women, what sort of service did women most cordially appreciate? jurgen had his answer pat enough, but it was an answer not suitable for utterance in a mixed company. "no one of my honest opinions, in fact, is adapted to further my popularity in glathion, because i am a monstrous clever fellow who does justice to things as they are. therefore i must remember always, in justice to myself, that i very probably hold traffic with madmen. yet rome was a fine town, and it was geese who saved it. these people may be right; and certainly i cannot go so far as to say they are wrong: but still, at the same time--! yes, that is how i feel about it." thus did jurgen abide at the chivalrous court of glathion, and conform to all its customs. in the matter of love-songs nobody protested more movingly that the lady whom he loved (quite hopelessly, of course), embodied all divine perfections: and when it came to knightly service, the possession of caliburn made the despatching of thieves and giants and dragons seem hardly sportsmanlike. still, jurgen fought a little, now and then, in order to conform to the customs of glathion: and the duke of logreus was widely praised as a very promising young knight. and all the while he fretted because he could just dimly perceive that ideal which was served in glathion, and the beauty of this ideal, but could not possibly believe in it. here was, again, a loveliness perceived in twilight, a beauty not clearly visioned. "yet am not i a monstrous clever fellow," he would console himself, "to take them all in so completely? it is a joke to which, i think, i do full justice." so jurgen abode among these persons to whom life was a high-hearted journeying homeward. god the father awaited you there, ready to punish at need, but eager to forgive, after the manner of all fathers: that one became a little soiled in traveling, and sometimes blundered into the wrong lane, was a matter which fathers understood: meanwhile here was an ever-present reminder of his perfection incarnated in woman, the finest and the noblest of his creations. thus was every woman a symbol to be honored magnanimously and reverently. so said they all. "why, but to be sure!" assented jurgen. and in support of his position he very edifyingly quoted ophelion, and fabianus papirius, and sextius niger to boot. 15. of compromises in glathion the tale records that it was not a great while before, in simple justice to guenevere, duke jurgen had afforded her the advantage of frank conversation in actual privacy. for conventions have to be regarded, of course. thus the time of a princess is not her own, and at any hour of day all sorts of people are apt to request an audience just when some most improving conversation is progressing famously: but the hall of judgment stood vacant and unguarded at night. "but i would never consider doing such a thing," said guenevere: "and whatever must you think of me, to make such a proposal!" "that too, my dearest, is a matter which i can only explain in private." "and if i were to report your insolence to my father--" "you would annoy him exceedingly: and from such griefs it is our duty to shield the aged." "and besides, i am afraid." "oh, my dearest," says jurgen, and his voice quavered, because his love and his sorrow seemed very great to him: "but, oh, my dearest, can it be that you have not faith in me! for with all my body and soul i love you, as i have loved you ever since i first raised your face between my hands, and understood that i had never before known beauty. indeed, i love you as, i think, no man has ever loved any woman that lived in the long time that is gone, for my love is worship, and no less. the touch of your hand sets me to trembling, dear; and the look of your gray eyes makes me forget there is anything of pain or grief or evil anywhere: for you are the loveliest thing god ever made, with joy in the new skill that had come to his fingers. and you have not faith in me!" then the princess gave a little sobbing laugh of content and repentance, and she clasped the hand of her grief-stricken lover. "forgive me, jurgen, for i cannot bear to see you so unhappy!" "ah, and what is my grief to you!" he asks of her, bitterly. "much, oh, very much, my dear!" she whispered. so in the upshot jurgen was never to forget that moment wherein he waited behind the door, and through the crack between the half-open door and the door-frame saw guenevere approach irresolutely, a wavering white blur in the dark corridor. she came to talk with him where they would not be bothered with interruptions: but she came delightfully perfumed, in her night-shift, and in nothing else. jurgen wondered at the way of these women even as his arms went about her in the gloom. he remembered always the feel of that warm and slender and yielding body, naked under the thin fabric of the shift, as his arms first went about her: of all their moments together that last breathless minute before either of them had spoken stayed in his memory as the most perfect. and yet what followed was pleasant enough, for now it was to the wide and softly cushioned throne of a king, no less, that guenevere and jurgen resorted, so as to talk where they would not be bothered with interruptions. the throne of gogyrvan was perfectly dark, under its canopy, in the unlighted hall, and in the dark nobody can see what happens. thereafter these two contrived to talk together nightly upon the throne of glathion: but what remained in jurgen's memory was that last moment behind the door, and the six tall windows upon the east side of the hall, those windows which were of commingled blue and silver, but were all an opulent glitter, throughout that time in the night when the moon was clear of the tree-tops and had not yet risen high enough to be shut off by the eaves. for that was all which jurgen really saw in the hall of judgment. there would be a brief period wherein upon the floor beneath each window would show a narrow quadrangle of moonlight: but the windows were set in a wall so deep that this soon passed. on the west side were six windows also, but about these was a porch; so no light ever came from the west. thus in the dark they would laugh and talk with lowered voices. jurgen came to these encounters well primed with wine, and in consequence, as he quite comprehended, talked like an angel, without confining himself exclusively to celestial topics. he was often delighted by his own brilliance, and it seemed to him a pity there was no one handy to take it down: so much of his talking was necessarily just a little over the head of any girl, however beautiful and adorable. and guenevere, he found, talked infinitely better at night. it was not altogether the wine which made him think that, either: the girl displayed a side she veiled in the day time. a girl, far less a princess, is not supposed to know more than agrees with a man's notion of maidenly ignorance, she contended. "nobody ever told me anything about so many interesting matters. why, i remember--" and guenevere narrated a quaintly pathetic little story, here irrelevant, of what had befallen her some three or four years earlier. "my mother was living then: but she had never said a word about such things, and frightened as i was, i did not go to her." jurgen asked questions. "why, yes. there was nothing else to do. i cannot talk freely with my maids and ladies even now. i cannot question them, that is: of course i can listen as they talk among themselves. for me to do more would be unbecoming in a princess. and i wonder quietly about so many things!" she educed instances. "after that i used to notice the animals and the poultry. so i worked out problems for myself, after a fashion. but nobody ever told me anything directly." "yet i dare say that thragnar--well, the troll king, being very wise, must have made zoology much clearer." "thragnar was a skilled enchanter," says a demure voice in the dark; "and through the potency of his abominable arts, i can remember nothing whatever about thragnar." jurgen laughed, ruefully. still, he was tolerably sure about thragnar now. so they talked: and jurgen marvelled, as millions of men had done aforetime, and have done since, at the girl's eagerness, now that barriers were down, to discuss in considerable detail all such matters as etiquette had previously compelled them to ignore. about her ladies in waiting, for example, she afforded him some very curious data: and concerning men in general she asked innumerable questions that jurgen found delicious. such innocence combined--upon the whole--with a certain moral obtuseness, seemed inconceivable. for to jurgen it now appeared that guenevere was behaving with not quite the decorum which might fairly be expected of a princess. contrition, at least, one might have looked for, over this hole and corner business: whereas it worried him to note that guenevere was coming to accept affairs almost as a matter of course. certainly she did not seem to think at all of any wickedness anywhere: the utmost she suggested was the necessity of being very careful. and while she never contradicted him in these private conversations, and submitted in everything to his judgment, her motive now appeared to be hardly more than a wish to please him. it was almost as though she were humoring him in his foolishness. and all this within six weeks! reflected jurgen: and he nibbled his finger-nails, with a mental side-glance toward the opinions of king gogyrvan gawr. but in daylight the princess remained unchanged. in daylight jurgen adored her, but with no feeling of intimacy. very rarely did occasion serve for them to be actually alone in the day time. once or twice, though, he kissed her in open sunlight: and then her eyes were melting but wary, and the whole affair was rather flat. she did not repulse him: but she stayed a princess, appreciative of her station, and seemed not at all the invisible person who talked with him at night in the hall of judgment. presently, by common consent, they began to avoid each other by daylight. indeed, the time of the princess was now pre-occupied: for now had come into glathion a ship with saffron colored sails, and having for its figure-head a dragon that was painted with thirty colors. such was the ship which brought messire merlin ambrosius and dame anaïtis, the lady of the lake, with a great retinue, to fetch young guenevere to london, where she was to be married to king arthur. first there was a week of feasting and tourneys and high mirth of every kind. now the trumpets blared, and upon a scaffolding that was gay with pennons and smart tapestries king gogyrvan sat nodding and blinking in his brightest raiment, to judge who did the best: and into the field came joyously a press of dukes and earls and barons and many famous knights, to contend for honor and a trumpery chaplet of pearls. jurgen shrugged, and honored custom. the duke of logreus acquitted himself with credit in the opening tournament, unhorsing sir dodinas le sauvage, earl roth of meliot, sir epinogris, and sir hector de maris: then earl damas of listenise smote like a whirlwind, and jurgen slid contentedly down the tail of his fine horse. his part in the tournament was ended, and he was heartily glad of it. he preferred to contemplate rather than share in such festivities: and he now followed his bent with a most exquisite misery, because he considered that never had any other poet occupied a situation more picturesque. by day he was the duke of logreus, which in itself was a notable advance upon pawnbroking: after nightfall he discounted the peculiar privileges of a king. it was the secrecy, the deluding of everybody, which he especially enjoyed: and in the thought of what a monstrous clever fellow was jurgen, he almost lost sight of the fact that he was miserable over the impending marriage of the lady he loved. once or twice he caught the tail-end of a glance from gogyrvan's bright old eye. jurgen by this time abhorred gogyrvan, as a person of abominably unjust dealings. "to take no better care of his own daughter," jurgen considered, "is infamous. the man is neglecting his duties as a father, and to do that is not fair." 16. divers imbroglios of king smoit now it befell that for three nights in succession the princess guenevere was unable to converse with jurgen in the hall of judgment. so upon one of these disengaged evenings duke jurgen held a carouse with aribert and urien, two of gogyrvan's barons, who had just returned from pengwaed-gir, and had queer tales to narrate of the trooping fairies who garrison that place. all three were seasoned topers, so jurgen went to bed prepared for anything. later he sat up in bed, and found it was much as he had suspected. the room was haunted, and at the foot of his couch were two ghosts: one an impudent-looking leering phantom, in a suit of old-fashioned armor, and the other a beautiful pale lady, in the customary flowing white draperies. "good-morning to you both," says jurgen, "and sorry am i that i cannot truthfully observe i am glad to see you. though you are welcome enough if you can manage to haunt the room quietly." then, seeing that both phantoms looked puzzled, jurgen proceeded to explain. "last year, when i was traveling upon business in westphalia, it was my grief to spend a night in the haunted castle of neuedesberg, for i could not get any sleep at all in that place. there was a ghost in charge who persisted in rattling very large iron chains and in groaning dismally throughout the night. then toward morning he took the form of a monstrous cat, and climbed upon the foot of my bed: and there he squatted yowling until daybreak. and as i am ignorant of german, i was not able to convey to him any idea of my disapproval of his conduct. now i trust that as compatriots, or as i might say with more exactness, as former compatriots, you will appreciate that such behavior is out of all reason." "messire," says the male ghost, and he oozed to his full height, "you are guilty of impertinence in harboring such a suspicion. i can only hope it proceeds from ignorance." "for i am sure," put in the lady, "that i always disliked cats, and we never had them about the castle." "and you must pardon my frankness, messire," continued the male ghost, "but you cannot have moved widely in noble company if you are indeed unable to distinguish between members of the feline species and of the reigning family of glathion." "well, i have seen dowager queens who justified some such confusion," observed jurgen. "still, i entreat the forgiveness of both of you, for i had no idea that i was addressing royalty." "i was king smoit," explained the male phantom, "and this was my ninth wife, queen sylvia tereu." jurgen bowed as gracefully, he flattered himself, as was possible in his circumstances. it is not easy to bow gracefully while sitting erect in bed. "often and over again have i heard of you, king smoit," says jurgen. "you were the grandfather of gogyrvan gawr, and you murdered your ninth wife, and your eighth wife, and your fifth wife, and your third wife too: and you went under the title of the black king, for you were reputed the wickedest monarch that ever reigned in glathion and the red islands." it seemed to jurgen that king smoit evinced embarrassment, but it is hard to be quite certain when a ghost is blushing. "perhaps i was spoken of in some such terms," says smoit, "for the neighbors were censorious gossips, and i was not lucky in my marriages. and i regret, i bitterly regret, to confess that, in a moment of extreme yet not quite unprovoked excitement, i assassinated the lady whom you now behold." "and i am sure, through no fault of mine," says sylvia tereu. "certainly, my dear, you resisted with all your might. i only wish that you had been a larger and a brawnier woman. but you, messire, can now perceive, i suppose, the folly of expecting a high king of glathion, and the queen that he took delight in, to sit upon your bed and howl?" so then, upon reflection, jurgen admitted he had never had that experience; nor, he handsomely added, could he recall any similar incident among his friends. "the notion is certainly preposterous," went on king smoit, and very grimly he smiled. "we are drawn hither by quite other intentions. in fact, we wish to ask of you, as a member of the family, your assistance in a delicate affair." "i would be delighted," jurgen stated, "to aid you in any possible way. but why do you call me a member of the family?" "now, to deal frankly," says smoit, with a grin, "i am not claiming any alliance with the duke of logreus--" "sometimes," says jurgen, "one prefers to travel incognito. as a king, you ought to understand that." --"my interest is rather in the grandson of steinvor. now you will remember your grandmother steinvor as, i do not doubt, a charming old lady. but i remember steinvor, the wife of ludwig, as one of the loveliest girls that a king's eyes ever lighted on." "oh, sir," says jurgen, horrified, "and what is this you are telling me!" "merely that i had always an affectionate nature," replied king smoit, "and that i was a fine upstanding young king in those days. and one of the results of my being these things was your father, whom men called coth the son of ludwig. but i can assure you ludwig had done nothing to deserve it." "well, well!" said jurgen: "all this is very scandalous: and very upsetting, too, it is to have a brand-new grandfather foisted upon you at this hour of the morning. still, it happened a great while ago: and if ludwig did not fret over it, i see no reason why i should do so. and besides, king smoit, it may be that you are not telling me the truth." "if you doubt my confession, messire my grandson, you have only to look into the next mirror. it is precisely on this account that we have ventured to dispel your slumbers. for to me you bear a striking resemblance. you have the family face." now jurgen considered the lineaments of king smoit of glathion. "really," said jurgen, "of course it is very flattering to be told that your appearance is regal. i do not at all know what to say in reply to the implied compliment, without seeming uncivil. i would never for a moment question that you were much admired in your day, sir, and no doubt very justly so. none the less--well, my nose, now, from such glimpses of it as mirrors have hitherto afforded, does not appear to be a snub-nose." "ah, but appearances are proverbially deceitful," observed king smoit. "and about the left hand corner," protested queen sylvia tereu, "i detect a distinct resemblance." "now i may seem unduly obtuse," said jurgen, "for i am a little obtuse. it is a habit with me, a very bad habit formed in early infancy, and i have never been able to break myself of it. and so i have not any notion at what you two are aiming." replied the ghost of king smoit: "i will explain. just sixty-three years ago to-night i murdered my ninth wife in circumstances of peculiar brutality, as you with rather questionable taste have mentioned." then jurgen was somewhat abashed, and felt that it did not become him, who had so recently cut off the head of his own wife, to assume the airs of a precisian. "of course," says jurgen, more broad-mindedly, "these little family differences are always apt to occur in married life." "so be it! though, by the so-and-sos of ursula's eleven thousand traveling companions, there was a time wherein i would not have brooked such criticism. ah, well, that time is overpast, and i am a bloodless thing that the wind sweeps at the wind's will through lands in which but yesterday king smoit was dreaded. so i let that which has been be." "well, that seems reasonable," said jurgen, "and to be a trifle rhetorical is the privilege of grandfathers. therefore i entreat you, sir, to continue." "two years afterward i followed the emperor locrine in his expedition against the suevetii, an evil and luxurious people who worship gozarin peculiarly, by means of little boats. i must tell you, grandson, that was a goodly raid, conducted by a band of tidy fighters in a land of wealth and of fine women. but alack, as the saying is, in our return from osnach my loved general locrine was captured by that arch-fiend duke corineus of cornwall: and i, among many others who had followed the emperor, paid for our merry larcenies and throat-cuttings a very bitter price. corineus was not at all broadminded, not what you would call a man of the world. so it was in a noisome dungeon that i was incarcerated,--i, smoit of glathion, who conquered enisgarth and sargyll in open battle and fearlessly married the heiress of camwy! but i spare you the unpleasant details. it suffices to say that i was dissatisfied with my quarters. yet fain to leave them as i became, there was but one way. it involved the slaying of my gaoler, a step which was, i confess, to me distasteful. i was getting on in life, and had grown tired of killing people. yet, to mature deliberation, the life of a graceless varlet, void of all gentleness and with no bowels of compassion, and deaf to suggestions of bribery, appeared of no overwhelming importance." "i can readily imagine, grandfather, that you were not deeply interested in either the nature or the anatomy of your gaoler. so you did what was unavoidable." "yes, i treacherously slew him, and escaped in an impenetrable disguise to glathion, where not long afterward i died. my dying just then was most annoying, for i was on the point of being married, and she was a remarkably attractive girl,--king tyrnog's daughter, from craintnor way. she would have been my thirteenth wife. and not a week before the ceremony i tripped and fell down my own castle steps, and broke my neck. it was a humiliating end for one who had been a warrior of considerable repute. upon my word, it made me think there might be something, after all, in those old superstitions about thirteen being an unlucky number. but what was i saying?--oh, yes! it is also unlucky to be careless about one's murders. you will readily understand that for one or two such affairs i am condemned yearly to haunt the scene of my crime on its anniversary: such an arrangement is fair enough, and i make no complaint, though of course it does rather break into the evening. but it happened that i treacherously slew my gaoler with a large cobble-stone on the fifteenth of june. now the unfortunate part, the really awkward feature, was that this was to an hour the anniversary of the death of my ninth wife." "and you murdering insignificant strangers on such a day!" said queen sylvia. "you climbing out of jail windows figged out as a lady abbess, on an anniversary you ought to have kept on your knees in unavailing repentance! but you were a hard man, smoit, and it was little loving courtesy you showed your wife at a time when she might reasonably look to be remembered, and that is a fact." "my dear, i admit it was heedless of me. i could not possibly say more. at any rate, grandson, i discovered after my decease that such heedlessness entailed my haunting on every fifteenth of june at three in the morning two separate places." "well, but that was justice," says jurgen. "it may have been justice," smoit admitted: "but my point is that it happened to be impossible. however, i was aided by my great-great-grandfather penpingon vreichvras ap mylwald glasanief. he too had the family face; and in every way resembled me so closely that he impersonated me to everyone's entire satisfaction; and with my wife's assistance re-enacted my disastrous crime upon the scene of its occurrence, june after june." "indeed," said queen sylvia, "he handled his sword infinitely better than you, my dear. it was a thrilling pleasure to be murdered by penpingon vreichvras ap mylwald glasanief, and i shall always regret him." "for you must understand, grandson, that the term of king penpingon vreichvras ap mylwald glasanief's stay in purgatory has now run out, and he has recently gone to heaven. that was pleasant for him, i dare say, so i do not complain. still, it leaves me with no one to take my place. angels, as you will readily understand, are not permitted to perpetrate murders, even in the way of kindness. it might be thought to establish a dangerous precedent." "all this," said jurgen, "seems regrettable, but not strikingly explicit. i have a heart and a half to serve you, sir, with not seven-eighths of a notion as to what you want of me. come, put a name to it!" "you have, as i have said, the family face. you are, in fact, the living counterpart of smoit of glathion. so i beseech you, messire my grandson, for this one night to impersonate my ghost, and with the assistance of queen sylvia tereu to see that at three o'clock the white turret is haunted to everyone's satisfaction. otherwise," said smoit, gloomily, "the consequences will be deplorable." "but i have had no experience at haunting," jurgen confessed. "it is a pursuit in which i do not pretend to competence: and i do not even know just how one goes about it." "that matter is simple, although mysterious preliminaries will be, of course, necessitated, in order to convert a living person into a ghost--" "the usual preliminaries, sir, are out of the question: and i must positively decline to be stabbed or poisoned or anything of that kind, even to humor my grandfather." both smoit and sylvia protested that any such radical step would be superfluous, since jurgen's ghostship was to be transient. in fact, all jurgen would have to do would be to drain the embossed goblet which sylvia tereu held out to him, with druidical invocations. and for a moment jurgen hesitated. the whole business seemed rather improbable. still, the ties of kin are strong, and it is not often one gets the chance to aid, however slightly, one's long-dead grandfather: besides, the potion smelt very invitingly. "well," says jurgen, "i am willing to taste any drink once." then jurgen drank. the flavor was excellent. yet the drink seemed not to affect jurgen, at first. then he began to feel a trifle light-headed. next he looked downward, and was surprised to notice there was nobody in his bed. closer investigation revealed the shadowy outline of a human figure, through which the bedclothing had collapsed. this, he decided, was all that was left of jurgen. and it gave him a queer sensation. jurgen jumped like a startled horse, and so violently that he flew out of bed, and found himself floating imponderably about the room. now jurgen recognized the feeling perfectly. he had often had it in his sleep, in dreams wherein he would bend his legs at the knees so that his feet came up behind him, and he would pass through the air without any effort. then it seemed ridiculously simple, and he would wonder why he never thought of it before. and then he would reflect: "this is an excellent way of getting around. i will come to breakfast this way in the morning, and show lisa how simple it is. how it will astonish her, to be sure, and how clever she will think me!" and then jurgen would wake up, and find that somehow he had forgotten the trick of it. but just now this manner of locomotion was undeniably easy. so jurgen floated around his bed once or twice, then to the ceiling, for practice. through inexperience, he miscalculated the necessary force, and popped through into the room above, where he found himself hovering immediately over the bishop of merion. his eminence was not alone, but as both occupants of the apartment were asleep, jurgen witnessed nothing unepiscopal. now jurgen rejoined his grandfather, and girded on charmed caliburn, and demanded what must next be done. "the assassination will take place in the white turret, as usual. queen sylvia will instruct you in the details. you can invent most of the affair, however, as the lady of the lake, who occupies this room to-night, is very probably unacquainted with our terrible history." then king smoit observed that it was high time he kept his appointment in cornwall, and he melted into air, with an easy confidence that bespoke long practise: and jurgen followed queen sylvia tereu. 17. about a cock that crowed too soon next the tale tells of how jurgen and the ghost of queen sylvia tereu came into the white turret. the lady of the lake was in bed: she slept unaccompanied, as jurgen noted with approval, for he wished to intrude upon no more tête-à-têtes. and dame anaïtis did not at first awake. now this was a gloomy and high-paneled apartment, with exactly the traditional amount of moonlight streaming through two windows. any ghost, even an apprentice, could have acquitted himself with credit in such surroundings, and jurgen thought he did extremely well. he was atavistically brutal, and to improvise the accompanying dialogue he did not find difficult. so everything went smoothly, and with such spirit that anaïtis was presently wakened by queen sylvia's very moving wails for mercy, and sat erect in bed, as though a little startled. then the lady of the lake leaned back among the pillows, and witnessed the remainder of the terrible scene with remarkable self-possession. so it was that the tragedy swelled to its appalling climax, and subsided handsomely. with the aid of caliburn, jurgen had murdered his temporary wife. he had dragged her insensate body across the floor, by the hair of her head, and had carefully remembered first to put her comb in his pocket, as queen sylvia had requested, so that it would not be lost. he had given vent to several fiendish "ha-ha's" and all the old high imprecations he remembered: and in short, everything had gone splendidly when he left the white turret with a sense of self-approval and queen sylvia tereu. the two of them paused in the winding stairway; and in the darkness, after he had restored her comb, the queen was telling jurgen how sorry she was to part with him. "for it is back to the cold grave i must be going now, messire jurgen, and to the tall flames of purgatory: and it may be that i shall not ever see you any more." "i shall regret the circumstance, madame," says jurgen, "for you are the loveliest person i have ever seen." the queen was pleased. "that is a delightfully boyish speech, and one can see it comes from the heart. i only wish that i could meet with such unsophisticated persons in my present abode. instead, i am herded with battered sinners who have no heart, who are not frank and outspoken about anything, and i detest their affectations." "ah, then you are not happy with your husband, sylvia? i suspected as much." "i see very little of smoit. it is true he has eight other wives all resident in the same flame, and cannot well show any partiality. two of his queens, though, went straight to heaven: and his eighth wife, gudrun, we are compelled to fear, must have been an unrepentant sinner, for she has never reached purgatory. but i always distrusted gudrun, myself: otherwise i would never have suggested to smoit that he have her strangled in order to make me his queen. you see, i thought it a fine thing to be a queen, in those days, jurgen, when i was an artless slip of a girl. and smoit was all honey and perfume and velvet, in those days, jurgen, and little did i suspect the cruel fate that was to befall me." "indeed, it is a sad thing, sylvia, to be murdered by the hand which, so to speak, is sworn to keep an eye on your welfare, and which rightfully should serve you on its knees." "it was not that i minded. smoit killed me in a fit of jealousy, and jealousy is in its blundering way a compliment. no, a worse thing than that befell me, jurgen, and embittered all my life in the flesh." and sylvia began to weep. "and what was that thing, sylvia?" queen sylvia whispered the terrible truth. "my husband did not understand me." "now, by heaven," says jurgen, "when a woman tells me that, even though the woman be dead, i know what it is she expects of me." so jurgen put his arm about the ghost of queen sylvia tereu, and comforted her. then, finding her quite willing to be comforted, jurgen sat for a while upon the dark steps, with one arm still about queen sylvia. the effect of the potion had evidently worn off, because jurgen found himself to be composed no longer of cool imponderable vapor, but of the warmest and hardest sort of flesh everywhere. but probably the effect of the wine which jurgen had drunk earlier in the evening had not worn off: for now jurgen began to talk wildishly in the dark, about the necessity of his, in some way, avenging the injury inflicted upon his nominal grandfather, ludwig, and jurgen drew his sword, charmed caliburn. "for, as you perceive," said jurgen, "i carry such weapons as are sufficient for all ordinary encounters. and am i not to use them, to requite king smoit for the injustice he did poor ludwig? why, certainly i must. it is my duty." "ah, but smoit by this is back in purgatory," queen sylvia protested, "and to draw your sword against a woman is cowardly." "the avenging sword of jurgen, my charming sylvia, is the terror of envious men, but it is the comfort of all pretty women." "it is undoubtedly a very large sword," said she: "oh, a magnificent sword, as i can perceive even in the dark. but smoit, i repeat, is not here to measure weapons with you." "now your arguments irritate me, whereas an honest woman would see to it that all the legacies of her dead husband were duly satisfied--" "oh, oh! and what do you mean--?" "well, but certainly a grandson is--at one remove, i grant you,--a sort of legacy." "there is something in what you advance--" "there is a great deal in what i advance, i can assure you. it is the most natural and most penetrating kind of logic; and i wish merely to discharge a duty--" "but you upset me, with that big sword of yours, you make me nervous, and i cannot argue so long as you are flourishing it about. come now, put up your sword! oh, what is anybody to do with you! here is the sheath for your sword," says she. at this point they were interrupted. "duke of logreus," says the voice of dame anaïtis, "do you not think it would be better to retire, before such antics at the door of my bedroom give rise to a scandal?" for anaïtis had half-opened the door of her bedroom, and with a lamp in her hand, was peering out into the narrow stairway. jurgen was a little embarrassed, for his apparent intimacy with a lady who had been dead for sixty-three years would be, he felt, a matter difficult to explain. so jurgen rose to his feet, and hastily put up the weapon he had exhibited to queen sylvia, and decided to pass airily over the whole affair. and outside, a cock crowed, for it was now dawn. "i bid you a good morning, dame anaïtis," said jurgen. "but the stairways hereabouts are confusing, and i must have lost my way. i was going for a stroll. this is my distant relative queen sylvia tereu, who kindly offered to accompany me. we were going out to gather mushrooms and to watch the sunrise, you conceive." "messire de logreus, i think you had far better go back to bed." "to the contrary, madame, it is my manifest duty to serve as queen sylvia's escort--" "for all that, messire, i do not see any queen sylvia." jurgen looked about him. and certainly his grandfather's ninth wife was no longer visible. "yes, she has vanished. but that was to be expected at cockcrow. still, that cock crew just at the wrong moment," said jurgen, ruefully. "it was not fair." and dame anaïtis said: "gogyrvan's cellar is well stocked: and you sat late with urien and aribert: and doubtless they also were lucky enough to discover a queen or two in gogyrvan's cellar. no less, i think you are still a little drunk." "now answer me this, dame anaïtis: were you not visited by two ghosts to-night?" "why, that is as it may be," she replied: "but the white turret is notoriously haunted, and it is few quiet nights i have passed there, for gogyrvan's people were a bad lot." "upon my word," wonders jurgen, "what manner of person is this dame anaïtis, who remains unstirred by such a brutal murder as i have committed, and makes no more of ghosts than i would of moths? i have heard she is an enchantress, i am sure she is a fine figure of a woman: and in short, here is a matter which would repay looking into, were not young guenevere the mistress of my heart." aloud he said: "perhaps then i am drunk, madame. none the less, i still think the cock crew just at the wrong moment." "some day you must explain the meaning of that," says she. "meanwhile i am going back to bed, and i again advise you to do the same." then the door closed, the bolt fell, and jurgen went away, still in considerable excitement. "this dame anaïtis is an interesting personality," he reflected, "and it would be a pleasure, now, to demonstrate to her my grievance against the cock, did occasion serve. well, things less likely than that have happened. then, too, she came upon me when my sword was out, and in consequence knows i wield a respectable weapon. she may feel the need of a good swordsman some day, this handsome lady of the lake who has no husband. so let us cultivate patience. meanwhile, it appears that i am of royal blood. well, i fancy there is something in the scandal, for i detect in me a deal in common with this king smoit. twelve wives, though! no, that is too many. i would limit no man's liaisons, but twelve wives in lawful matrimony bespeaks an optimism unknown to me. no, i do not think i am drunk: but it is unquestionable that i am not walking very straight. certainly, too, we did drink a great deal. so i had best go quietly back to bed, and say nothing more about to-night's doings." as much he did. and this was the first time that jurgen, who had been a pawnbroker, held any discourse with dame anaïtis, whom men called the lady of the lake. 18. why merlin talked in twilight it was two days later that jurgen was sent for by merlin ambrosius. the duke of logreus came to the magician in twilight, for the windows of this room were covered with sheets which shut out the full radiance of day. everything in the room was thus visible in a diffused and tempered light that cast no shadows. in his hand merlin held a small mirror, about three inches square, from which he raised his dark eyes puzzlingly. "i have been talking to my fellow ambassador, dame anaïtis: and i have been wondering, messire de logreus, if you have ever reared white pigeons." jurgen looked at the little mirror. "there was a woman of the léshy who not long ago showed me an employment to which one might put the blood of white pigeons. she too used such a mirror. i saw what followed, but i must tell you candidly that i understood nothing of the ins and outs of the affair." merlin nodded. "i suspected something of the sort. so i elected to talk with you in a room wherein, as you perceive, there are no shadows." "now, upon my word," says jurgen, "but here at last is somebody who can see my attendant! why is it, pray, that no one else can do so?" "it was my own shadow which drew my notice to your follower. for i, too, have had a shadow given me. it was the gift of my father, of whom you have probably heard." it was jurgen's turn to nod. everybody knew who had begotten merlin ambrosius, and sensible persons preferred not to talk of the matter. then merlin went on to speak of the traffic between merlin and merlin's shadow. "thus and thus," says merlin, "i humor my shadow. and thus and thus my shadow serves me. there is give-and-take, such as is requisite everywhere." "i understand," says jurgen: "but has no other person ever perceived this shadow of yours?" "once only, when for a while my shadow deserted me," merlin replied. "it was on a sunday my shadow left me, so that i walked unattended in naked sunlight: for my shadow was embracing the church-steeple, where church-goers knelt beneath him. the church-goers were obscurely troubled without suspecting why, for they looked only at each other. the priest and i alone saw him quite clearly,--the priest because this thing was evil, and i because this thing was mine." "well, now i wonder what did the priest say to your bold shadow?" "'but you must go away!'--and the priest spoke without any fear. why is it they seem always without fear, those dull and calm-eyed priests? 'such conduct is unseemly. for this is high god's house, and far-off peoples are admonished by its steadfast spire, pointing always heavenward, that the place is holy,' said the priest. and my shadow answered, 'but i only know that steeples are of phallic origin.' and my shadow wept, wept ludicrously, clinging to the steeple where church-goers knelt beneath him." "now, and indeed that must have been disconcerting, messire merlin. still, as you got your shadow back again, there was no great harm done. but why is it that such attendants follow some men while other men are permitted to live in decent solitude? it does not seem quite fair." "perhaps i could explain it to you, friend, but certainly i shall not. you know too much as it is. for you appear in that bright garment of yours to have come from a land and a time which even i, who am a skilled magician, can only cloudily foresee, and cannot understand at all. what puzzles me, however"--and merlin's fore-finger shot out. "how many feet had the first wearer of your shirt? and were you ever an old man?" says he. "well, four, and i was getting on," says jurgen. "and i did not guess! but certainly that is it,--an old poet loaned at once a young man's body and the centaur's shirt. adères has loosed a new jest into the world, for her own reasons--" "but you have things backwards. it was sereda whom i cajoled so nicely." "names that are given by men amount to very little in a case like this. the shadow which follows you i recognize--and revere--as the gift of adères, a dreadful mother of small gods. no doubt she has a host of other names. and you cajoled her, you consider! i would not willingly walk in the shirt of any person who considers that. but she will enlighten you, my friend, at her appointed time." "well, so that she deals justly--" jurgen said, and shrugged. now merlin put aside the mirror. "meanwhile it was another matter entirely that dame anaïtis and i discussed, and about which i wished to be speaking with you. gogyrvan is sending to king arthur, along with gogyrvan's daughter, that round table which uther pendragon gave gogyrvan, and a hundred knights to fill the sieges of this table. gogyrvan, who, with due respect, possesses a deplorable sense of humor, has numbered you among these knights. now it is rumored the princess is given to conversing a great deal with you in private, and arthur has never approved of garrulity. so i warn you that for you to come with us to london would not be convenient." "i hardly think so, either," said jurgen, with appropriate melancholy; "for me to pursue the affair any further would only result in marring what otherwise will always be a perfect memory of divers very pleasant conversations." "old poet, you are well advised," said merlin,--"especially now that the little princess whom we know is about to enter queenhood and become a symbol. i am sorry for her, for she will be worshipped as a revelation of heaven's splendor, and being flesh and blood, she will not like it. and it is to no effect i have forewarned king arthur, for that must happen which will always happen so long as wisdom is impotent against human stupidity. so wisdom can but make the best of it, and be content to face the facts of a great mystery." thereupon, merlin arose, and lifted the tapestry behind him, so that jurgen could see what hitherto this tapestry had screened. * * * * * "you have embarrassed me horribly," said jurgen, "and i can feel that i am still blushing, about the ankles. well, i was wrong: so let us say no more concerning it." "i wished to show you," merlin returned, "that i know what i am talking about. however, my present purpose is to put guenevere out of your head: for in your heart i think she never was, old poet, who go so modestly in the centaur's shirt. come, tell me now! and does the thought of her approaching marriage really disturb you?" "i am the unhappiest man that breathes," said jurgen, with unction. "all night i lie awake in my tumbled bed, and think of the miserable day which is past, and of what is to happen in that equally miserable day whose dawn i watch with a sick heart. and i cry aloud, in the immortal words of apollonius myronides--" "of whom?" says merlin. "i allude to the author of the _myrosis_," jurgen explained,--"whom so many persons rashly identify with apollonius herophileius." "oh, yes, of course! your quotation is very apt. why, then your condition is sad but not incurable. for i am about to give you this token, with which, if you are bold enough, you will do thus and thus." "but indeed this is a somewhat strange token, and the arms and legs, and even the head, of this little man are remarkably alike! well, and you tell me thus and thus. but how does it happen, messire merlin, that you have never used this token in the fashion you suggest to me?" "because i was afraid. you forget i am only a magician, whose conjuring raises nothing more formidable than devils. but this is a bit of the old magic that is no longer understood, and i prefer not to meddle with it. you, to the contrary, are a poet, and the old magic was always favorable to poets." "well, i will think about it," says jurgen, "if this will really put dame guenevere out of my head." "be assured it will do that," said merlin. "for with reason does the _dirghâgama_ declare, 'the brightness of the glowworm cannot be compared to that of a lamp.'" "a very pleasant little work, the _dirghâgama_," said jurgen, tolerantly--"though superficial, of course." then merlin ambrosius gave jurgen the token, and some advice. so that night jurgen told guenevere he would not go in her train to london. he told her candidly that merlin was suspicious of their intercourse. "and therefore, in order to protect you and to protect your fame, my dearest dear," said jurgen, "it is necessary that i sacrifice myself and everything i prize in life. i shall suffer very much: but my consolation will be that i have dealt fairly with you whom i love with an entire heart, and shall have preserved you through my misery." but guenevere did not appear to notice how noble this was of jurgen. instead, she wept very softly, in a heartbroken way that jurgen found unbearable. "for no man, whether emperor or peasant," says the princess, "has ever been loved more dearly or faithfully or more wholly without any reserve or forethought than you, my dearest, have been loved by me. all that i had i have given you. all that i had you have taken, consuming it. so now you leave me with not anything more to give you, not even any anger or contempt, now that you turn me adrift, for there is nothing in me anywhere save love of you, who are unworthy." "but i die many deaths," said jurgen, "when you speak thus to me." and in point of fact, he did feel rather uncomfortable. "i speak the truth, though. you have had all: and so you are a little weary, and perhaps a little afraid of what may happen if you do not break off with me." "now you misjudge me, darling--" "no, i do not misjudge you, jurgen. instead, for the first time i judge both of us. you i forgive, because i love you, but myself i do not forgive, and i cannot ever forgive, for having been a spendthrift fool." and jurgen found such talking uncomfortable and tedious and very unfair to him. "for there is nothing i can do to help matters," says jurgen. "why, what could anybody possibly expect me to do about it? and so why not be happy while we may? it is not as though we had any time to waste." for this was the last night but one before the day that was set for guenevere's departure. 19. the brown man with queer feet early in the following morning jurgen left cameliard, traveling toward carohaise, and went into the druid forest there, and followed merlin's instructions. "not that i for a moment believe in such nonsense," said jurgen: "but it will be amusing to see what comes of this business, and it is unjust to deny even nonsense a fair trial." so he presently observed a sun-browned brawny fellow, who sat upon the bank of a stream, dabbling his feet in the water, and making music with a pipe constructed of seven reeds of irregular lengths. to him jurgen displayed, in such a manner as merlin had prescribed, the token which merlin had given. the man made a peculiar sign, and rose. jurgen saw that this man's feet were unusual. jurgen bowed low, and he said, as merlin had bidden: "now praise be to thee, thou lord of the two truths! i have come to thee, o most wise, that i may learn thy secret. i would know thee, and would know the forty-two mighty ones who dwell with thee in the hall of the two truths, and who are nourished by evil-doers, and who partake of wicked blood each day of the reckoning before wennofree. i would know thee for what thou art." the brown man answered: "i am everything that was and that is to be. never has any mortal been able to discover what i am." then this brown man conducted jurgen to an open glen, at the heart of the forest. "merlin dared not come himself, because," observed the brown man, "merlin is wise. but you are a poet. so you will presently forget that which you are about to see, or at worst you will tell pleasant lies about it, particularly to yourself." "i do not know about that," says jurgen, "but i am willing to taste any drink once. what are you about to show me?" the brown man answered: "all." so it was near evening when they came out of the glen. it was dark now, for a storm had risen. the brown man was smiling, and jurgen was in a flutter. "it is not true," jurgen protested. "what you have shown me is a pack of nonsense. it is the degraded lunacy of a so-called realist. it is sorcery and pure childishness and abominable blasphemy. it is, in a word, something i do not choose to believe. you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" "even so, you do believe me, jurgen." "i believe that you are an honest man and that i am your cousin: so there are two more lies for you." the brown man said, still smiling: "yes, you are certainly a poet, you who have borrowed the apparel of my cousin. for you come out of my glen, and from my candor, as sane as when you entered. that is not saying much, to be sure, in praise of a poet's sanity at any time. but merlin would have died, and merlin would have died without regret, if merlin had seen what you have seen, because merlin receives facts reasonably." "facts! sanity! and reason!" jurgen raged: "why, but what nonsense you are talking! were there a bit of truth in your silly puppetry this world of time and space and consciousness would be a bubble, a bubble which contained the sun and moon and the high stars, and still was but a bubble in fermenting swill! i must go cleanse my mind of all this foulness. you would have me believe that men, that all men who have ever lived or shall ever live hereafter, that even i am of no importance! why, there would be no justice in any such arrangement, no justice anywhere!" "that vexed you, did it not? it vexes me at times, even me, who under koshchei's will alone am changeless." "i do not know about your variability: but i stick to my opinion about your veracity," says jurgen, for all that he was upon the verge of hysteria. "yes, if lies could choke people that shaggy throat would certainly be sore." then the brown man stamped his foot, and the striking of his foot upon the moss made a new noise such as jurgen had never heard: for the noise seemed to come multitudinously from every side, at first as though each leaf in the forest were tinily cachinnating; and then this noise was swelled by the mirth of larger creatures, and echoes played with this noise, until there was a reverberation everywhere like that of thunder. the earth moved under their feet very much as a beast twitches its skin under the annoyance of flies. another queer thing jurgen noticed, and it was that the trees about the glen had writhed and arched their trunks, and so had bended, much as candles bend in very hot weather, to lay their topmost foliage at the feet of the brown man. and the brown man's appearance was changed as he stood there, terrible in a continuous brown glare from the low-hanging clouds, and with the forest making obeisance, and with shivering and laughter everywhere. "make answer, you who chatter about justice! how if i slew you now," says the brown man,--"i being what i am?" "slay me, then!" says jurgen, with shut eyes, for he did not at all like the appearance of things. "yes, you can kill me if you choose, but it is beyond your power to make me believe that there is no justice anywhere, and that i am unimportant. for i would have you know i am a monstrous clever fellow. as for you, you are either a delusion or a god or a degraded realist. but whatever you are, you have lied to me, and i know that you have lied, and i will not believe in the insignificance of jurgen." chillingly came the whisper of the brown man: "poor fool! o shuddering, stiff-necked fool! and have you not just seen that which you may not ever quite forget?" "none the less, i think there is something in me which will endure. i am fettered by cowardice, i am enfeebled by disastrous memories; and i am maimed by old follies. still, i seem to detect in myself something which is permanent and rather fine. underneath everything, and in spite of everything, i really do seem to detect that something. what rôle that something is to enact after the death of my body, and upon what stage, i cannot guess. when fortune knocks i shall open the door. meanwhile i tell you candidly, you brown man, there is something in jurgen far too admirable for any intelligent arbiter ever to fling into the dustheap. i am, if nothing else, a monstrous clever fellow: and i think i shall endure, somehow. yes, cap in hand goes through the land, as the saying is, and i believe i can contrive some trick to cheat oblivion when the need arises," says jurgen, trembling, and gulping, and with his eyes shut tight, but even so, with his mind quite made up about it. "of course you may be right; and certainly i cannot go so far as to say you are wrong: but still, at the same time--" "now but before a fool's opinion of himself," the brown man cried, "the gods are powerless. oh, yes, and envious, too!" and when jurgen very cautiously opened his eyes the brown man had left him physically unharmed. but the state of jurgen's nervous system was deplorable. 20. efficacy of prayer jurgen went in a tremble to the cathedral of the sacred thorn in cameliard. all night jurgen prayed there, not in repentance, but in terror. for his dead he prayed, that they should not have been blotted out in nothingness, for the dead among his kindred whom he had loved in boyhood, and for these only. about the men and women whom he had known since then he did not seem to care, or not at least so vitally. but he put up a sort of prayer for dame lisa--"wherever my dear wife may be, and, o god, grant that i may come to her at last, and be forgiven!" he wailed, and wondered if he really meant it. he had forgotten about guenevere. and nobody knows what were that night the thoughts of the young princess, nor if she offered any prayers, in the deserted hall of judgment. in the morning a sprinkling of persons came to early mass. jurgen attended with fervor, and started doorward with the others. just before him a merchant stopped to get a pebble from his shoe, and the merchant's wife went forward to the holy-water font. "madame, permit me," said a handsome young esquire, and offered her holy water. "at eleven," said the merchant's wife, in low tones. "he will be out all day." "my dear," says her husband, as he rejoined her, "and who was the young gentleman?" "why, i do not know, darling. i never saw him before." "he was certainly very civil. i wish there were more like him. and a fine looking young fellow, too!" "was he? i did not notice," said the merchant's wife, indifferently. and jurgen saw and heard and regarded the departing trio ruefully. it seemed to him incredible the world should be going on just as it went before he ventured into the druid forest. he paused before a crucifix, and he knelt and looked up wistfully. "if one could only know," says jurgen, "what really happened in judea! how immensely would matters be simplified, if anyone but knew the truth about you, man upon the cross!" now the bishop of merion passed him, coming from celebration of the early mass. "my lord bishop," says jurgen, simply, "can you tell me the truth about this christ?" "why, indeed, messire de logreus," replied the bishop, "one cannot but sympathize with pilate in thinking that the truth about him is very hard to get at, even nowadays. was he melchisedek, or shem, or adam? or was he verily the logos? and in that event, what sort of a something was the logos? granted he was a god, were the arians or the sabellians in the right? had he existed always, co-substantial with the father and the holy spirit, or was he a creation of the father, a kind of israelitic zagreus? was he the husband of acharamoth, that degraded sophia, as the valentinians aver? or the son of pantherus, as say the jews? or kalakau, as contends basilidês? or was it, as the docetês taught, only a tinted cloud in the shape of a man that went from jordan to golgotha? or were the merinthians right? these are a few of the questions, messire de logreus, which naturally arise. and not all of them are to be settled out of hand." thus speaking, the gallant prelate bowed, then raised three fingers in benediction, and so quitted jurgen, who was still kneeling before the crucifix. "ah, ah!" says jurgen, to himself, "but what a variety of interesting problems are, in point of fact, suggested by religion. and what delectable exercise would the settling of these problems, once for all, afford the mind of a monstrous clever fellow! come now, it might be well for me to enter the priesthood. it may be that i have a call." but people were shouting in the street. so jurgen rose and dusted his knees. and as jurgen came out of the cathedral of the sacred thorn the cavalcade was passing that bore away dame guenevere to the arms and throne of her appointed husband. jurgen stood upon the cathedral porch, his mind in part pre-occupied by theology, but still not failing to observe how beautiful was this young princess, as she rode by on her white palfrey, green-garbed and crowned and a-glitter with jewels. she was smiling as she passed him, bowing her small tenderly-colored young countenance this way and that way, to the shouting people, and not seeing jurgen at all. thus she went to her bridal, that guenevere who was the symbol of all beauty and purity to the chivalrous people of glathion. the mob worshipped her; and they spoke as though it were an angel who passed. "our beautiful young princess!" "ah, there is none like her anywhere!" "and never a harsh word for anyone, they say--!" "oh, but she is the most admirable of ladies--!" "and so brave too, that lovely smiling child who is leaving her home forever!" "and so very, very pretty!" "--so generous!" "king arthur will be hard put to it to deserve her!" said jurgen: "now it is droll that to these truths i have but to add another truth in order to have large paving-stones flung at her! and to have myself tumultuously torn into fragments, by those unpleasantly sweaty persons who, thank heaven, are no longer jostling me!" for the cathedral porch had suddenly emptied, because as the procession passed heralds were scattering silver among the spectators. "arthur will have a very lovely queen," says a soft lazy voice. and jurgen turned and saw that beside him was dame anaïtis, whom people called the lady of the lake. "yes, he is greatly to be envied," says jurgen, politely. "but do you not ride with them to london?" "why, no," says the lady of the lake, "because my part in this bridal was done when i mixed the stirrup-cup of which the princess and young lancelot drank this morning. he is the son of king ban of benwick, that tall young fellow in blue armor. i am partial to lancelot, for i reared him, at the bottom of a lake that belongs to me, and i consider he does me credit. i also believe that madame guenevere by this time agrees with me. and so, my part being done to serve my creator, i am off for cocaigne." "and what is this cocaigne?" "it is an island wherein i rule." "i did not know you were a queen, madame." "why, indeed there are a many things unknown to you, messire de logreus, in a world where nobody gets any assuredness of knowledge about anything. for it is a world wherein all men that live have but a little while to live, and none knows his fate thereafter. so that a man possesses nothing certainly save a brief loan of his own body: and yet the body of man is capable of much curious pleasure." "i believe," said jurgen, as his thoughts shuddered away from what he had seen and heard in the druid forest, "that you speak wisdom." "then in cocaigne we are all wise: for that is our religion. but of what are you thinking, duke of logreus?" "i was thinking," says jurgen, "that your eyes are unlike the eyes of any other woman that i have ever seen." smilingly the dark woman asked him wherein they differed, and smilingly he said he did not know. they were looking at each other warily. in each glance an experienced gamester acknowledged a worthy opponent. "why, then you must come with me into cocaigne," says anaïtis, "and see if you cannot discover wherein lies that difference. for it is not a matter i would care to leave unsettled." "well, that seems only just to you," says jurgen. "yes, certainly i must deal fairly with you." then they left the cathedral of the sacred thorn, walking together. the folk who went toward london were now well out of sight and hearing, which possibly accounts for the fact that jurgen was now in no wise thinking of guenevere. so it was that guenevere rode out of jurgen's life for a while: and as she rode she talked with lancelot. 21. how anaïtis voyaged now the tale tells that jurgen and this lady of the lake came presently to the wharves of cameliard, and went aboard the ship which had brought anaïtis and merlin into glathion. this ship was now to every appearance deserted: yet all its saffron colored sails were spread, as though in readiness for the ship's departure. "the crew are scrambling, it may be, for the largesse, and fighting over gogyrvan's silver pieces," says anaïtis, "but i think they will not be long in returning. so we will sit here upon the prow, and await their leisure." "but already the vessel moves," says jurgen, "and i hear behind us the rattling of silver chains and the flapping of shifted saffron-colored sails." "they are roguish fellows," says anaïtis, smiling. "evidently, they hid from us, pretending there was nobody aboard. now they think to give us a surprise when the ship sets out to sea as though it were of itself. but we will disappoint these merry rascals, by seeming to notice nothing unusual." so jurgen sat with anaïtis in the two tall chairs that were in the prow of the vessel, under a canopy of crimson stuff embroidered with gold dragons, and just back of the ship's figurehead, which was a dragon painted with thirty colors: and the ship moved out of the harbor, and so into the open sea. thus they passed enisgarth. "and it is a queer crew that serve you, anaïtis, who are queen of cocaigne: for i can hear them talking, far back of us, and their language is all a cheeping and a twittering, as though the mice and the bats were holding conference." "why, you must understand that these are outlanders who speak a dialect of their own, and are not like any other people you have ever seen." "indeed, now, that is very probable, for i have seen none of your crew. sometimes it is as though small flickerings passed over the deck, and that is all." "it is but the heat waves rising from the deck, for the day is warmer than you would think, sitting here under this canopy. and besides, what call have you and i to be bothering over the pranks of common mariners, so long as they do their proper duty?" "i was thinking, o woman with unusual eyes, that these are hardly common mariners." "and i was thinking, duke jurgen, that i would tell you a tale of the old gods, to make the time speed more pleasantly as we sit here untroubled as a god and a goddess." now they had passed camwy: and anaïtis began to narrate the history of anistar and calmoora and of the unusual concessions they granted each other, and of how calmoora contented her five lovers: and jurgen found the tale perturbing. while anaïtis talked the sky grew dark, as though the sun were ashamed and veiled his shame with clouds: and they went forward in a gray twilight which deepened steadily over a tranquil sea. so they passed the lights of sargyll, most remote of the red islands, while anaïtis talked of procris and king minos and pasiphaë. as color went out of the air new colors entered into the sea, which now assumed the varied gleams of water that has long been stagnant. and a silence brooded over the sea, so that there was no noise anywhere except the sound of the voice of anaïtis, saying, "all men that live have but a little while to live, and none knows his fate thereafter. so that a man possesses nothing certainly save a brief loan of his own body; and yet the body of man is capable of much curious pleasure." they came thus to a low-lying naked beach, where there was no sign of habitation. anaïtis said this was the land they were seeking, and they went ashore. "even now," says jurgen, "i have seen none of the crew who brought us hither." and the beautiful dark woman shrugged, and marveled why he need perpetually be bothering over the doings of common sailors. they went forward across the beach, through sand hills, to a moor, seeing no one, and walking in a gray fog. they passed many gray fat sluggish worms and some curious gray reptiles such as jurgen had never imagined to exist, but anaïtis said these need not trouble them. "so there is no call to be fingering your charmed sword as we walk here, duke jurgen, for these great worms do not ever harm the living." "for whom, then, do they lie here in wait, in this gray fog, wherethrough the green lights flutter, and wherethrough i hear at times a thin and far-off wailing?" "what is that to you, duke jurgen, since you and i are still in the warm flesh? surely there was never a man who asked more idle questions." "yet this is an uncomfortable twilight." "to the contrary, you should rejoice that it is a fog too heavy to be penetrated by the moon." "but what have i to do with the moon?" "nothing, as yet. and that is as well for you, duke jurgen, since it is authentically reported you have derided the day which is sacred to the moon. now the moon does not love derision, as i well know, for in part i serve the moon." "eh?" says jurgen: and he began to reflect. so they came to a wall that was high and gray, and to the door which was in the wall. "you must knock two or three times," says anaïtis, "to get into cocaigne." jurgen observed the bronze knocker upon the door, and he grinned in order to hide his embarrassment. "it is a quaint fancy," said he, "and the two constituents of it appear to have been modeled from life." "they were copied very exactly from adam and eve," says anaïtis, "who were the first persons to open this gateway." "why, then," says jurgen, "there is no earthly doubt that men degenerate, since here under my hand is the proof of it." with that he knocked, and the door opened, and the two of them entered. 22. as to a veil they broke so it was that jurgen came into cocaigne, wherein is the bedchamber of time. and time, they report, came in with jurgen, since jurgen was mortal: and time, they say, rejoiced in this respite from the slow toil of dilapidating cities stone by stone, and with his eyes tired by the finicky work of etching in wrinkles, went happily into his bedchamber, and fell asleep just after sunset on this fine evening in late june: so that the weather remained fair and changeless, with no glaring sun rays anywhere, and with one large star shining alone in clear daylight. this was the star of venus mechanitis, and jurgen later derived considerable amusement from noting how this star was trundled about the dome of heaven by a largish beetle, named khepre. and the trees everywhere kept their first fresh foliage, and the birds were about their indolent evening songs, all during jurgen's stay in cocaigne, for time had gone to sleep at the pleasantest hour of the year's most pleasant season. so tells the tale. and jurgen's shadow also went in with jurgen, but in cocaigne as in glathion, nobody save jurgen seemed to notice this curious shadow which now followed jurgen everywhere. in cocaigne queen anaïtis had a palace, where domes and pinnacles beyond numbering glimmered with a soft whiteness above the top of an old twilit forest, wherein the vegetation was unlike that which is nourished by ordinary earth. there was to be seen in these woods, for instance, a sort of moss which made jurgen shudder. so anaïtis and jurgen came through narrow paths, like murmuring green caverns, into a courtyard walled and paved with yellow marble, wherein was nothing save the dimly colored statue of a god with ten heads and thirty-four arms: he was represented as very much engrossed by a woman, and with his unoccupied hands was holding yet other women. "it is jigsbyed," said anaïtis. said jurgen: "i do not criticize. nevertheless, i think this jigsbyed is carrying matters to extremes." then they passed the statue of tangaro loloquong, and afterward the statue of legba. jurgen stroked his chin, and his color heightened. "now certainly, queen anaïtis," he said, "you have unusual taste in sculpture." thence jurgen came with anaïtis into a white room, with copper plaques upon the walls, and there four girls were heating water in a brass tripod. they bathed jurgen, giving him astonishing caresses meanwhile--with the tongue, the hair, the finger-nails, and the tips of the breasts,--and they anointed him with four oils, then dressed him again in his glittering shirt. of caliburn, said anaïtis, there was no present need: so jurgen's sword was hung upon the wall. these girls brought silver bowls containing wine mixed with honey, and they brought pomegranates and eggs and barleycorn, and triangular red-colored loaves, whereon they sprinkled sweet-smelling little seeds with formal gestures. then anaïtis and jurgen broke their fast, eating together while the four girls served them. "and now," says jurgen, "and now, my dear, i would suggest that we enter into the pursuit of those curious pleasures of which you were telling me." "i am very willing," responded anaïtis, "since there is no one of these pleasures but is purchased by some diversion of man's nature. yet first, as i need hardly inform you, there is a ceremonial to be observed." "and what, pray, is this ceremonial?" "why, we call it the breaking of the veil." and queen anaïtis explained what they must do. "well," says jurgen, "i am willing to taste any drink once." so anaïtis led jurgen into a sort of chapel, adorned with very unchurchlike paintings. there were four shrines, dedicated severally to st. cosmo, to st. damianus, to st. guignole of brest, and to st. foutin de varailles. in this chapel were a hooded man, clothed in long garments that were striped with white and yellow, and two naked children, both girls. one of the children carried a censer: the other held in one hand a vividly blue pitcher half filled with water, and in her left hand a cellar of salt. first of all, the hooded man made jurgen ready. "behold the lance," said the hooded man, "which must serve you in this adventure." "i accept the adventure," jurgen replied, "because i believe the weapon to be trustworthy." said the hooded man: "so be it! but as you are, so once was i." meanwhile duke jurgen held the lance erect, shaking it with his right hand. this lance was large, and the tip of it was red with blood. "behold," said jurgen, "i am a man born of a woman incomprehensibly. now i, who am miraculous, am found worthy to perform a miracle, and to create that which i may not comprehend." anaïtis took salt and water from the child, and mingled these. "let the salt of earth enable the thin fluid to assume the virtue of the teeming sea!" then, kneeling, she touched the lance, and began to stroke it lovingly. to jurgen she said: "now may you be fervent of soul and body! may the endless serpent be your crown, and the fertile flame of the sun your strength!" said the hooded man, again: "so be it!" his voice was high and bleating, because of that which had been done to him. "that therefore which we cannot understand we also invoke," said jurgen. "by the power of the lifted lance"--and now with his left hand he took the hand of anaïtis,--"i, being a man born of a woman incomprehensibly, now seize upon that which alone i desire with my whole being. i lead you toward the east. i upraise you above the earth and all the things of earth." then jurgen raised queen anaïtis so that she sat upon the altar, and that which was there before tumbled to the ground. anaïtis placed together the tips of her thumbs and of her fingers, so that her hands made an open triangle; and waited thus. upon her head was a network of red coral, with branches radiating downward: her gauzy tunic had twenty-two openings, so as to admit all imaginable caresses, and was of two colors, being shot with black and crimson curiously mingled: her dark eyes glittered and her breath came fast. now the hooded man and the two naked girls performed their share in the ceremonial, which part it is not essential to record. but jurgen was rather shocked by it. none the less, jurgen said: "o cord that binds the circling of the stars! o cup which holds all time, all color, and all thought! o soul of space! not unto any image of thee do we attain unless thy image show in what we are about to do. therefore by every plant which scatters its seed and by the moist warm garden which receives and nourishes it, by the comminglement of bloodshed with pleasure, by the joy that mimics anguish with sighs and shudderings, and by the contentment which mimics death,--by all these do we invoke thee. o thou, continuous one, whose will these children attend, and whom i now adore in this fair-colored and soft woman's body, it is thou whom i honor, not any woman, in doing what seems good to me: and it is thou who art about to speak, and not she." then anaïtis said: "yea, for i speak with the tongue of every woman, and i shine in the eyes of every woman, when the lance is lifted. to serve me is better than all else. when you invoke me with a heart wherein is kindled the serpent flame, if but for a moment, you will understand the delights of my garden, what joy unwordable pulsates therein, and how potent is the sole desire which uses all of a man. to serve me you will then be eager to surrender whatever else is in your life: and other pleasures you will take with your left hand, not thinking of them entirely: for i am the desire which uses all of a man, and so wastes nothing. and i accept you, i yearn toward you, i who am daughter and somewhat more than daughter to the sun. i who am all pleasure, all ruin, and a drunkenness of the inmost sense, desire you." now jurgen held his lance erect before anaïtis. "o secret of all things, hidden in the being of all which lives, now that the lance is exalted i do not dread thee: for thou art in me, and i am thou. i am the flame that burns in every beating heart and in the core of the farthest star. i too am life and the giver of life, and in me too is death. wherein art thou better than i? i am alone: my will is justice: and there comes no other god where i am." said the hooded man behind jurgen: "so be it! but as you are, so once was i." the two naked children stood one at each side of anaïtis, and waited there trembling. these girls, as jurgen afterward learned, were alecto and tisiphonê, two of the eumenidês. and now jurgen shifted the red point of the lance, so that it rested in the open triangle made by the fingers of anaïtis. "i am life and the giver of life," cried jurgen. "thou that art one, that makest use of all! i who am a man born of woman, i in my station honor thee in honoring this desire which uses all of a man. make open therefore the way of creation, encourage the flaming dust which is in our hearts, and aid us in that flame's perpetuation! for is not that thy law?" anaïtis answered: "there is no law in cocaigne save, do that which seems good to you." then said the naked children: "perhaps it is the law, but certainly it is not justice. yet we are little and quite helpless. so presently we must be made as you are for now you two are no longer two, and your flesh is not shared merely with each other. for your flesh becomes our flesh, and your sins our sins: and we have no choice." jurgen lifted anaïtis from the altar, and they went into the chancel and searched for the adytum. there seemed to be no doors anywhere in the chancel: but presently jurgen found an opening screened by a pink veil. jurgen thrust with his lance and broke this veil. he heard the sound of one brief wailing cry: it was followed by soft laughter. so jurgen came into the adytum. black candles were burning in this place, and sulphur too was burning there, before a scarlet cross, of which the top was a circle, and whereon was nailed a living toad. and other curious matters jurgen likewise noticed. he laughed, and turned to anaïtis: now that the candles were behind him, she was standing in his shadow. "well, well! but you are a little old-fashioned, with all these equivocal mummeries. and i did not know that civilized persons any longer retained sufficient credulity to wring a thrill from god-baiting. still, women must be humored, bless them! and at last, i take it, we have quite fairly fulfilled the ceremonial requisite to the pursuit of curious pleasures." queen anaïtis was very beautiful, even under his bedimming shadow. triumphant too was the proud face beneath that curious coral network, and yet this woman's face was sad. "dear fool," she said, "it was not wise, when you sang of the léshy, to put an affront upon monday. but you have forgotten that. and now you laugh because that which we have done you do not understand: and equally that which i am you do not understand." "no matter what you may be, my dear, i am sure that you will presently tell me all about it. for i assume that you mean to deal fairly with me." "i shall do that which becomes me, duke jurgen--" "that is it, my dear, precisely! you intend to be true to yourself, whatever happens. the aspiration does you infinite honor, and i shall try to help you. now i have noticed that every woman is most truly herself," says jurgen, oracularly, "in the dark." then jurgen looked at her for a moment, with twinkling eyes: then anaïtis, standing in his shadow, smiled with glowing eyes: then jurgen blew out those black candles: and then it was quite dark. 23. shortcomings of prince jurgen now the happenings just recorded befell on the eve of the nativity of st. john the baptist: and thereafter jurgen abode in cocaigne, and complied with the customs of that country. in the palace of queen anaïtis, all manner of pastimes were practised without any cessation. jurgen, who considered himself to be somewhat of an authority upon such contrivances, was soon astounded by his own innocence. for anaïtis showed him whatever was being done in cocaigne, to this side and to that side, under the direction of anaïtis, whom jurgen found to be a nature myth of doubtful origin connected with the moon; and who, in consequence, ruled not merely in cocaigne but furtively swayed the tides of life everywhere the moon keeps any power over tides. it was the mission of anaïtis to divert and turn aside and deflect: in this the jealous moon abetted her because sunlight makes for straightforwardness. so anaïtis and the moon were staunch allies. these mysteries of their private relations, however, as revealed to jurgen, are not very nicely repeatable. "but you dishonored the moon, prince jurgen, denying praise to the day of the moon. or so, at least, i have heard." "i remember doing nothing of the sort. but i remember considering it unjust to devote one paltry day to the moon's majesty. for night is sacred to the moon, each night that ever was the friend of lovers,--night, the renewer and begetter of all life." "why, indeed, there is something in that argument," says anaïtis, dubiously. "'something', do you say! why, but to my way of thinking it proves the moon is precisely seven times more honorable than any of the léshy. it is merely, my dear, a question of arithmetic." "was it for that reason you did not praise pandelis and her mondays with the other léshy?" "why, to be sure," said jurgen, glibly. "i did not find it at all praiseworthy that such an insignificant léshy as pandelis should name her day after the moon: to me it seemed blasphemy." then jurgen coughed, and looked sidewise at his shadow. "had it been sereda, now, the case would have been different, and the moon might well have appreciated the delicate compliment." anaïtis appeared relieved. "i shall report your explanation. candidly, there were ill things in store for you, prince jurgen, because your language was misunderstood. but that which you now say puts quite a different complexion upon matters." jurgen laughed, not understanding the mystery, but confident he could always say whatever was required of him. "now let us see a little more of cocaigne!" cries jurgen. for jurgen was greatly interested by the pursuits of cocaigne, and for a week or ten days participated therein industriously. anaïtis, who reported the moon's honor to be satisfied, now spared no effort to divert him, and they investigated innumerable pastimes together. "for all men that live have but a little while to live," said anaïtis, "and none knows his fate thereafter. so that a man possesses nothing certainly save a brief loan of his body: and yet the body of man is capable of much curious pleasure. as thus and thus," says anaïtis. and she revealed devices to her prince consort. for jurgen found that unknowingly he had in due and proper form espoused queen anaïtis, by participating in the breaking of the veil, which is the marriage ceremony of cocaigne. his earlier relations with dame lisa had, of course, no legal standing in cocaigne, where the church is not christian and the law is, do that which seems good to you. "well, when in rome," said jurgen, "one must be romantic. but certainly this proves that nobody ever knows when he is being entrapped into respectability: and never did a fine young fellow marry a high queen with less premeditation." "ah, my dear," says anaïtis, "you were controlled by the finger of fate." "i do not altogether like that figure of speech. it makes one seem too trivial, to be controlled by a mere finger. no, it is not quite complimentary to call what prompted me a finger." "by the long arm of coincidence, then." "much more appropriate, my love," says jurgen, complacently: "it sounds more dignified, and does not wound my self esteem." now this anaïtis who was queen of cocaigne was a delicious tall dark woman, thinnish, and lovely, and very restless. from the first her new prince consort was puzzled by her fervors, and presently was fretted by them. he humbly failed to understand how anyone could be so frantic over jurgen. it seemed unreasonable. and in her more affectionate moments this nature myth positively frightened him: for transports such as these could not but rouse discomfortable reminiscences of the female spider, who ends such recreations by devouring her partner. "thus to be loved is very flattering," he would reflect, "and i again am jurgen, asking odds of none. but even so, i am mortal. she ought to remember that, in common fairness." then the jealousy of anaïtis, while equally flattering, was equally out of reason. she suspected everybody, seemed assured that every bosom cherished a mad passion for jurgen, and that not for a moment could he be trusted. well, as jurgen frankly conceded, his conduct toward stella, that ill-starred yogini of indawadi, had in point of fact displayed, when viewed from an especial and quite unconscionable point of view, an aspect which, when isolated by persons judging hastily, might, just possibly, appear to approach remotely, in one or two respects, to temporary forgetfulness of anaïtis, if indeed there were people anywhere so mentally deficient as to find such forgetfulness conceivable. but the main thing, the really important feature, which anaïtis could not be made to understand, was that she had interrupted her consort in what was, in effect, a philosophical experiment, necessarily attempted in the dark. the muntrus requisite to the sacti sodhana were always performed in darkness: everybody knew that. for the rest, this stella had asserted so-and-so; in simple equity she was entitled to a chance to prove her allegations if she could: so jurgen had proceeded to deal fairly with her. besides, why keep talking about this stella, after a vengeance so spectacular and thorough as that to which anaïtis had out of hand resorted? why keep reverting to a topic which was repugnant to jurgen and visibly upset the dearest nature myth in all legend? was it quite fair to anyone concerned? that was the sensible way in which jurgen put it. still, he became honestly fond of anaïtis. barring her eccentricities when roused to passion, she was a generous and kindly creature, although in jurgen's opinion somewhat narrow-minded. "my love," he would say to her, "you appear positively unable to keep away from virtuous persons! you are always seeking out the people who endeavor to be upright and straightforward, and you are perpetually laying plans to divert these people. ah, but why bother about them? what need have you to wear yourself out, and to devote your entire time to such proselitizing, when you might be so much more agreeably employed? you should learn, in justice to yourself as well as to others, to be tolerant of all things; and to acknowledge that in a being of man's mingled nature a strain of respectability is apt to develop every now and then, whatever you might prefer." but anaïtis had high notions as to her mission, and merely told him that he ought not to speak with levity of such matters. "i would be much happier staying at home with you and the children," she would say, "but i feel that it is my duty--" "and your duty to whom, in heaven's name?" "please do not employ such distasteful expressions, jurgen. it is my duty to the power i serve, my very manifest duty to my creator. but you have no sense of religion, i am afraid; and the reflection is often a considerable grief to me." "ah, but, my dear, you are quite certain as to who made you, and for what purpose you were made. you nature myths were created in the mythopoeic age by the perversity of old heathen nations: and you serve your creator religiously. that is quite as it should be. but i have no such authentic information as to my origin and mission in life, i appear at all events to have no natural talent for being diverted, i do not take to it wholeheartedly, and these are facts we have to face." now jurgen put his arm around her. "my dear anaïtis, you must not think it mere selfishness on my part. i was born with a something lacking that is requisite for anyone who aspires to be as thoroughly misled as most people: and you will have to love me in spite of it." "i almost wish i had never seen you as i saw you in that corridor, jurgen. for i felt drawn toward you then and there. i almost wish i had never seen you at all. i cannot help being fond of you: and yet you laugh at the things i know to be required of me, and sometimes you make me laugh, too." "but, darling, are you not just the least, littlest, tiniest, very weest trifle bigoted? for instance, i can see that you think i ought to evince more interest in your striking dances, and your strange pleasures, and your surprising caresses, and all your other elaborate diversions. and i do think they do you credit, great credit, and i admire your inventiveness no less than your industry--" "you have no sense of reverence, jurgen, you seem to have no sense at all of what is due to one's creator. i suppose you cannot help that: but you might at least remember it troubles me to hear you talk so flippantly of my religion." "but i do not talk flippantly--" "indeed you do, though. and it does not sound at all well, let me tell you." "--instead, i but point out that your creed necessitates, upon the whole, an ardor i lack. you, my pet, were created by perversity: and everyone knows it is the part of piety to worship one's creator in fashions acceptable to that creator. so, i do not criticize your religious connections, dear, and nobody admires these ceremonials of your faith more heartily than i do. i merely confess that to celebrate these rites so frequently requires a sustention of enthusiasm which is beyond me. in fine, i have not your fervent temperament, i am more sceptical. you may be right; and certainly i cannot go so far as to say you are wrong: but still, at the same time--! that is how i feel about it, my precious, and that is why i find, with constant repetition of these ceremonials, a certain lack of firmness developing in my responses: and finally, darling, that is all there is to it." "i never in my whole incarnation had such a prince consort! sometimes i think you do not care a bit about me one way or the other, jurgen." "ah, but i do care for you very much. and to prove it, come now let us try some brand-new diversion, at sight of which the skies will be blackened and the earth will shudder or something of that sort, and then i will take the children fishing, as i promised." "no, jurgen, i do not feel like diverting you just now. you take all the solemnity out of it with your jeering. besides, you are always with the children. jurgen, i believe you are fonder of the children than you are of me. and when you are not with them you are locked up in the library." "well, and was there ever such a treasury as the library of cocaigne? all the diversions that you nature myths have practised i find recorded there: and to read of your ingenious devices delights and maddens me. for it is eminently interesting to meditate upon strange pleasures, and to make verses about them is the most amiable of avocations: it is merely the pursuit of them that i would discourage, as disappointing and mussy. besides, the library is the only spot i have to myself in the palace, what with your fellow nature myths making the most of life all over the place." "it is necessary, jurgen, for one in my position to entertain more or less. and certainly i cannot close the doors against my own relatives." "such riffraff, though, my darling! such odds and ends! i cannot congratulate you upon your kindred, for i do not get on at all with these patchwork combinations, that are one-third man and the other two-thirds a vulgar fraction of bull or hawk or goat or serpent or ape or jackal or what not. priapos is the only male myth who comes here in anything like the semblance of a complete human being: and i had infinitely rather he stayed away, because even i who am jurgen cannot but be envious of him." "and why, pray?" "well, where i go reasonably equipped with caliburn, priapos carries a lance i envy--" "like all the bacchic myths he usually carries a thyrsos, and it is a showy weapon, certainly; but it is not of much use in actual conflict." "my darling! and how do you know?" "why, jurgen, how do women always know these things?--by intuition, i suppose." "you mean that you judge all affairs by feeling rather than reason? indeed, i dare say that is true of most women, and men are daily chafed and delighted, about equally, by your illogical method of putting things together. but to get back to the congenial task of criticizing your kindred, your cousin apis, for example, may be a very good sort of fellow: but, say what you will, it is ill-advised of him to be going about in public with a bull's head. it makes him needlessly conspicuous, if not actually ridiculous: and it puts me out when i try to talk to him." "now, jurgen, pray remember that you speak of a very generally respected myth, and that you are being irreverent--" "--and moreover, i take the liberty of repeating, my darling, that even though this ba of mendes is your cousin, it honestly does embarrass me to have to meet three-quarters of a goat socially--" "but, jurgen, i must as a master of course invite prolific ba to my feasts of the sacæ--" "even so, my dear, in issuing invitations a hostess may fairly presuppose that her guests will not make beasts of themselves. i often wish that this mere bit of ordinary civility were more rigorously observed by ba and hortanes and fricco and vul and baal-peor, and by all your other cousins who come to visit you in such a zoologically muddled condition. it shows a certain lack of respect for you, my darling." "oh, but it is all in the family, jurgen--" "besides, they have no conversation. they merely bellow--or twitter or bleat or low or gibber or purr, according to their respective incarnations,--about unspeakable mysteries and monstrous pleasures until i am driven to the verge of virtue by their imbecility." "if you were more practical, jurgen, you would realize that it speaks splendidly for anyone to be really interested in his vocation--" "and your female relatives are just as annoying, with their eternal whispered enigmas, and their crescent moons, and their mystic roses that change color and require continual gardening, and their pathetic belief that i have time to fool with them. and the entire pack practises symbolism until the house is positively littered with asherahs and combs and phalloses and linghams and yonis and arghas and pulleiars and talys, and i do not know what other idiotic toys that i am continually stepping on!" "which of those minxes has been making up to you?" says anaïtis, her eyes snapping. "ah, ah! now many of your female cousins are enticing enough--" "i knew it! oh, but you need not think you deluded me--!" "my darling, pray consider! be reasonable about it! your feminine guests at present are sekhmet in the form of a lioness, io incarnated as a cow, hekt as a frog, derceto as a sturgeon, and--ah, yes!--thoueris as a hippopotamus. i leave it to your sense of justice, dear anaïtis, if of ladies with such tastes in dress a lovely myth like you can reasonably be jealous." "and i know perfectly well who it is! it is that ephesian hussy, and i had several times noticed her behavior. very well, oh, very well, indeed! nevertheless, i shall have a plain word or two with her at once, and the sooner she gets out of my house the better, as i shall tell her quite frankly. and as for you, jurgen--!" "but, my dear lisa--!" "what do you call me? lisa was never an epithet of mine. why do you call me lisa?" "it was a slip of the tongue, my pet, an involuntary but not unnatural association of ideas. as for the ephesian diana, she reminds me of an animated pine-cone, with that eruption of breasts all over her, and i can assure you of your having no particular reason to be jealous of her. it was merely of the female myths in general i spoke. of course they all make eyes at me: i cannot well help that, and you should have anticipated as much when you selected such an attractive prince consort. what do these poor enamored creatures matter when to you my heart is ever faithful?" "it is not your heart i am worrying over, jurgen, for i believe you have none. yes, you have quite succeeded in worrying me to distraction, if that is any comfort to you. however, let us not talk about it. for it is now necessary, absolutely imperative, that i go into armenia to take part in the mourning for tammouz: people would not understand it at all if i stayed away from such important orgies. and i shall get no benefit whatever from the trip, much as i need the change, because, without speaking of that famous heart of yours, you are always up to some double-dealing, and i shall not know into what mischief you may be thrusting yourself." jurgen laughed, and kissed her. "be off, and attend to your religious duties, dear, by all means. and i promise you i will stay safe locked in the library till you come back." thus jurgen abode among the offspring of heathen perversity, and conformed to their customs. death ends all things for all, they contended, and life is brief: for how few years do men endure, and how quickly is the most subtle and appalling nature myth explained away by the philologists! so the wise person, and equally the foreseeing nature myth, will take his glut of pleasure while there is yet time to take anything, and will waste none of his short lien upon desire and vigor by asking questions. "oh, but by all means!" said jurgen, and he docilely crowned himself with a rose garland, and drank his wine, and kissed his anaïtis. then, when the feast of the sacæ was at full-tide, he would whisper to anaïtis, "i will be back in a moment, darling," and she would frown fondly at him as he very quietly slipped from his ivory dining couch, and went, with the merest suspicion of a reel, into the library. she knew that jurgen had no intention of coming back: and she despaired of his ever taking the position in the social life of cocaigne to which he was entitled no less by his rank as prince consort than by his personal abilities. for anaïtis did not really think that, as went natural endowments, her jurgen had much reason to envy even such a general favorite as priapos, say, from what she knew of both. so it was that jurgen honored custom. "because these beastly nature myths may be right," said jurgen; "and certainly i cannot go so far as to say they are wrong: but still, at the same time--!" for jurgen was content to dismiss no riddle with a mere "i do not know." jurgen was no more able to give up questioning the meaning of life than could a trout relinquish swimming: indeed, he lived submerged in a flood of curiosity and doubt, as his native element. that death ended all things might very well be the case: yet if the outcome proved otherwise, how much more pleasant it would be, for everyone concerned, to have aforetime established amicable relations with the overlords of his second life, by having done whatever it was they expected of him here. "yes, i feel that something is expected of me," says jurgen: "and without knowing what it is, i am tolerably sure, somehow, that it is not an indulgence in endless pleasure. besides, i do not think death is going to end all for me. if only i could be quite certain my encounter with king smoit, and with that charming little sylvia tereu, was not a dream! as it is, plain reasoning assures me i am not indispensable to the universe: but with this reasoning, somehow, does not travel my belief. no, it is only fair to my own interests to go graveward a little more openmindedly than do these nature myths, since i lack the requisite credulity to become a free-thinking materialist. to believe that we know nothing assuredly, and cannot ever know anything assuredly, is to take too much on faith." and jurgen paused to shake his sleek black head two or three times, very sagely. "no, i cannot believe in nothingness being the destined end of all: that would be too futile a climax to content a dramatist clever enough to have invented jurgen. no, it is just as i said to the brown man: i cannot believe in the annihilation of jurgen by any really thrifty overlords; so i shall see to it that jurgen does nothing which he cannot more or less plausibly excuse, in case of supernal inquiries. that is far safer." now jurgen was shaking his head again: and he sighed. "for the pleasures of cocaigne do not satisfy me. they are all well enough in their way; and i admit the truism that in seeking bed and board two heads are better than one. yes, anaïtis makes me an excellent wife. nevertheless, her diversions do not satisfy me, and gallantly to make the most of life is not enough. no, it is something else that i desire: and anaïtis does not quite understand me." 24. of compromises in cocaigne thus jurgen abode for a little over two months in cocaigne, and complied with the customs of that country. nothing altered in cocaigne: but in the world wherein jurgen was reared, he knew, it would by this time be september, with the leaves flaring gloriously, and the birds flocking southward, and the hearts of jurgen's fellows turning to not unpleasant regrets. but in cocaigne there was no regret and no variability, but only an interminable flow of curious pleasures, illumined by the wandering star of venus mechanitis. "why is it, then, that i am not content?" said jurgen. "and what thing is this which i desire? it seems to me there is some injustice being perpetrated upon jurgen, somewhere." meanwhile he lived with anaïtis the sun's daughter very much as he had lived with lisa, who was daughter to a pawnbroker. anaïtis displayed upon the whole a milder temper: in part because she could confidently look forward to several centuries more of life before being explained away by the philologists, and so had less need than dame lisa to worry over temporal matters; and in part because there was less to ruin one's disposition in two months than in ten years of jurgen's company. anaïtis nagged and sulked for a while when her prince consort slackened in the pursuit of strange delights, as he did very soon, with frank confession that his tastes were simple and that these outlandish refinements bored him. later anaïtis seemed to despair of his ever becoming proficient in curious pleasures, and she permitted jurgen to lead a comparatively normal life, with only an occasional and half-hearted remonstrance. what puzzled jurgen was that she did not seem to tire of him: and he would often wonder what this lovely myth, so skilled and potent in arts wherein he was the merest bungler, could find to care for in jurgen. for now they lived together like any other humdrum married couple, and their occasional exchange of endearments was as much a matter of course as their meals, and hardly more exciting. "poor dear, i believe it is simply because i am a monstrous clever fellow. she distrusts my cleverness, she very often disapproves of it, and yet she values it as queer, as a sort of curiosity. well, but who can deny that cleverness is truly a curiosity in cocaigne?" so anaïtis petted and pampered her prince consort, and took such open pride in his queerness as very nearly embarrassed him sometimes. she could not understand his attitude of polite amusement toward his associates and the events which befell him, and even toward his own doings and traits. whatever happened, jurgen shrugged, and, delicately avoiding actual laughter, evinced amusement. anaïtis could not understand this at all, of course, since asian myths are remarkably destitute of humor. to jurgen in private she protested that he ought to be ashamed of his levity: but none the less, she would draw him out, when among the bestial and grim nature myths, and she would glow visibly with fond pride in jurgen's queerness. "she mothers me," reflected jurgen. "upon my word, i believe that in the end this is the only way in which females are capable of loving. and she is a dear and lovely creature, of whom i am sincerely fond. what is this thing, then, that i desire? why do i feel life is not treating me quite justly?" so the summer had passed; and anaïtis travelled a great deal, being a popular myth in every land. her sense of duty was so strong that she endeavored to grace in person all the peculiar festivals held in her honor, and this, now the harvest season was at hand, left her with hardly a moment disengaged. then, too, the mission of anaïtis was to divert; and there were so many people whom she had personally to visit--so many notable ascetics who were advancing straight toward canonization, and whom her underlings were unable to divert,--that anaïtis was compelled to pass night after night in unwholesomely comfortless surroundings, in monasteries and in the cells and caves of hermits. "you are wearing yourself out, my darling," jurgen would say: "and does it not seem, after all, a game that is hardly worth the candle? i know that, for my part, before i would travel so many miles into a desert, and then climb a hundred foot pillar, just to whisper diverting notions into an anchorite's very dirty ear, i would let the gaunt rascal go to heaven. but you associate so much with saintly persons that you have contracted their incapacity for seeing the humorous side of things. well, you are a dear, even so. here is a kiss for you: and do you come back to your adoring husband as soon as you conveniently can without neglecting your duty." "they report that this stylites is very far gone in rectitude," said anaïtis, absent-mindedly, as she prepared for the journey, "but i have hopes for him." then anaïtis put purple powder on her hair, and hastily got together a few beguiling devices, and went into the thebaid. jurgen went back to the library, and the _system of worshipping a girl_, and the unique manuscripts of astyanassa and elephantis and sotadês, and the dionysiac formulae, and the chart of postures, and the _litany of the centre of delight_, and the spintrian treatises, and the _thirty-two gratifications_, and innumerable other volumes which he found instructive. the library was a vaulted chamber, having its walls painted with the twelve asan of cyrenê; the ceiling was frescoed with the arched body of a woman, whose toes rested upon the cornice of the east wall, and whose out-stretched finger-tips touched the cornice of the western wall. the clothing of this painted woman was remarkable: and to jurgen her face was not unfamiliar. "who is that?" he inquired, of anaïtis. looking a little troubled, anaïtis told him this was æsred. "well, i have heard her called otherwise: and i have seen her in quite other clothing." "you have seen æsred!" "yes, with a kitchen towel about her head, and otherwise unostentatiously appareled--but very becomingly, i can assure you!" here jurgen glanced sidewise at his shadow, and he cleared his throat. "oh, and a most charming and a most estimable old lady i found this æsred to be, i can assure you also." "i would prefer to know nothing about it," said anaïtis, hastily, "i would prefer, for both our sakes, that you say no more of æsred." jurgen shrugged. now in the library of cocaigne was garnered a record of all that the nature myths had invented in the way of pleasure. and here, with no companion save his queer shadow, and with æsred arched above and bleakly regarding him, jurgen spent most of his time, rather agreeably, in investigating and meditating upon the more curious of these recreations. the painted asan were, in all conscience, food for wonder: but over and above these dozen surprising pastimes, the books of anaïtis revealed to jurgen, without disguise or reticence, every other far-fetched frolic of heathenry. hitherto unheard-of forms of diversion were unveiled to him, and every recreation which ingenuity had been able to contrive, for the gratifying of the most subtle and the most strong-stomached tastes. no possible sort of amusement would seem to have been omitted, in running the quaint gamut of refinements upon nature which anaïtis and her cousins had at odd moments invented, to satiate their desire for some more suave or more strange or more sanguinary pleasure. yet the deeper jurgen investigated, and the longer he meditated, the more certain it seemed to him that all such employment was a peculiarly unimaginative pursuit of happiness. "i am willing to taste any drink once. so i must give diversion a fair trial. but i am afraid these are the games of mental childhood. well, that reminds me i promised the children to play with them for a while before supper." so he came out, and presently, brave in the shirt of nessus, and mimicked in every action by that incongruous shadow, prince jurgen was playing tag with the three little eumenidês, the daughters of anaïtis by her former marriage with acheron, the king of midnight. anaïtis and the dark potentate had parted by mutual consent. "acheron meant well," she would say, with a forgiving sigh, "and that in the moon's absence he occasionally diverted travellers, i do not deny. but he did not understand me." and jurgen agreed that this tragedy sometimes befell even the irreproachably diverting. the three eumenidês at this period were half-grown girls, whom their mother was carefully tutoring to drive guilty persons mad by the stings of conscience: and very quaint it was to see the young furies at practise in the schoolroom, black-robed, and waving lighted torches, and crowned each with her garland of pet serpents. they became attached to jurgen, who was always fond of children, and who had frequently regretted that dame lisa had borne him none. "it is enough to get the poor dear a name for eccentricity," he had been used to say. so jurgen now made much of his step-children: and indeed he found their innocent prattle quite as intelligent, in essentials, as the talk of the full-grown nature myths who infested the palace of anaïtis. and the four of them--jurgen, and critical alecto, and grave tisiphonê, and fairy-like little megæra,--would take long walks, and play with their dolls (though alecto was a trifle condescending toward dolls), and romp together in the eternal evening of cocaigne; and discuss what sort of dresses and trinkets mother would probably bring them when she came back from ecbatana or lesbos, and would generally enjoy themselves. rather pathetically earnest and unimaginative little lasses, jurgen found the young eumenidês: they inherited much of their mother's narrow-mindedness, if not their father's brooding and gloomy tendencies; but in them narrow-mindedness showed merely as amusing. and jurgen loved them, and would often reflect what a pity it was that these dear little girls were destined when they reached maturity, to spend the rest of their lives in haunting criminals and adulterers and parricides and, generally, such persons as must inevitably tarnish the girls' outlook upon life, and lead them to see too much of the worst side of human nature. so jurgen was content enough. but still he was not actually happy, not even among the endless pleasures of cocaigne. "and what is this thing that i desire?" he would ask himself, again and again. and still he did not know: he merely felt he was not getting justice: and a dim sense of this would trouble him even while he was playing with the eumenidês. 25. cantraps of the master philologist but now, as has been recorded, it was september, and jurgen could see that anaïtis too was worrying over something. she kept it from him as long as possible: first said it was nothing at all, then said he would know it soon enough, then wept a little over the possibility that he would probably be very glad to hear it, and eventually told him. for in becoming the consort of a nature myth connected with the moon jurgen had of course exposed himself to the danger of being converted into a solar legend by the philologists, and in that event would be compelled to leave cocaigne with the equinox, to enter into autumnal exploits elsewhere. and anaïtis was quite heart-broken over the prospect of losing jurgen. "for i have never had such a prince consort in cocaigne, so maddening, and so helpless, and so clever; and the girls are so fond of you, although they have not been able to get on at all with so many of their step-fathers! and i know that you are flippant and heartless, but you have quite spoiled me for other men. no, jurgen, there is no need to argue, for i have experimented with at least a dozen lovers lately, when i was traveling, and they bored me insufferably. they had, as you put it, dear, no conversation: and you are the only young man i have found in all these ages who could talk interestingly." "there is a reason for that, since like you, anaïtis, i am not so youthful as i appear." "i do not care a straw about appearances," wept anaïtis, "but i know that i love you, and that you must be leaving me with the equinox unless you can settle matters with the master philologist." "well, my pet," says jurgen, "the jews got into jericho by trying." he armed, and girded himself with caliburn, drank a couple of bottles of wine, put on the shirt of nessus over all, and then went to seek this thaumaturgist. anaïtis showed him the way to an unpretentious residence, where a week's washing was drying and flapping in the side yard. jurgen knocked boldly, and after an interval the door was opened by the master philologist himself. "you must pardon this informality," he said, blinking through his great spectacles, which had dust on them: "but time was by ill luck arrested hereabouts on a thursday evening, and so the maid is out indefinitely. i would suggest, therefore, that the lady wait outside upon the porch. for the neighbors to see her go in would not be respectable." "do you know what i have come for?" says jurgen, blustering, and splendid in his glittering shirt and his gleaming armor. "for i warn you i am justice." "i think you are lying, and i am sure you are making an unnecessary noise. in any event, justice is a word, and i control all words." "you will discover very soon, sir, that actions speak louder than words." "i believe that is so," said the master philologist, still blinking, "just as the jewish mob spoke louder than he whom they crucified. but the word endures." "you are a quibbler!" "you are my guest. so i advise you, in pure friendliness, not to impugn the power of my words." said jurgen, scornfully: "but is justice, then, a word?" "oh, yes, it is one of the most useful. it is the spanish _justicia_, the portuguese _justiça_, the italian _giustizia_, all from the latin _justus_. oh, yes indeed, but justice is one of my best connected words, and one of the best trained also, i can assure you." "aha, and to what degraded uses do you put this poor enslaved intimidated justice!" "there is but one intelligent use," said the master philologist, unruffled, "for anybody to make of words. i will explain it to you, if you will come in out of this treacherous draught. one never knows what a cold may lead to." then the door closed upon them, and anaïtis waited outside, in some trepidation. presently jurgen came out of that unpretentious residence, and so back to anaïtis, discomfited. jurgen flung down his magic sword, charmed caliburn. "this, anaïtis, i perceive to be an outmoded weapon. there is no weapon like words, no armor against words, and with words the master philologist has conquered me. it is not at all equitable: but the man showed me a huge book wherein were the names of everything in the world, and justice was not among them. it develops that, instead, justice is merely a common noun, vaguely denoting an ethical idea of conduct proper to the circumstances, whether of individuals or communities. it is, you observe, just a grammarian's notion." "but what has he decided about you, jurgen?" "alas, dear anaïtis, he has decided, in spite of all that i could do, to derive jurgen from _jargon_, indicating a confused chattering such as birds give forth at sunrise: thus ruthlessly does the master philologist convert me into a solar legend. so the affair is settled, and we must part, my darling." anaïtis took up the sword. "but this is valuable, since the man who wields it is the mightiest of warriors." "it is a rush, a rotten twig, a broomstraw, against the insidious weapons of the master philologist. but keep it if you like, my dear, and give it to your next prince consort. i am ashamed to have trifled with such toys," says jurgen, in fretted disgust. "and besides, the master philologist assures me i shall mount far higher through the aid of this." "but what is on that bit of parchment?" "thirty-two of the master philologist's own words that i begged of him. see, my dear, he made this cantrap for me with his own hand and ink." and jurgen read from the parchment, impressively: "'at the death of adrian the fifth, pedro juliani, who should be named john the twentieth, was through an error in the reckoning elevated to the papal chair as john the twenty-first.'" said anaïtis, blankly: "and is that all?" "why, yes: and surely thirty-two whole words should be enough for the most exacting." "but is it magic? are you certain it is authentic magic?" "i have learned that there is always magic in words." "now, if you ask my opinion, jurgen, your cantrap is nonsense, and can never be of any earthly use to anybody. without boasting, dear, i have handled a great deal of black magic in my day, but i never encountered a spell at all like this." "none the less, my darling, it is evidently a cantrap, for else the master philologist would never have given it to me." "but how are you to use it, pray?" "why, as need directs," said jurgen, and he put the parchment into the pocket of his glittering shirt. "yes, i repeat, there is always something to be done with words, and here are thirty-two authentic words from the master philologist himself, not to speak of three commas and a full-stop. oh, i shall certainly go far with this." "we women have firmer faith in the sword," replied anaïtis. "at all events, you and i cannot remain upon this thaumaturgist's porch indefinitely." so anaïtis put up caliburn, and carried it from the thaumaturgist's unpretentious residence to her fine palace in the old twilit wood: and afterward, as everybody knows, she gave this sword to king arthur, who with its aid rose to be hailed as one of the nine worthies of the world. so did the husband of guenevere win for himself eternal fame with that which jurgen flung away. 26. in time's hour-glass "well, well!" said jurgen, when he had taken off all that foolish ironmongery, and had made himself comfortable in his shirt; "well, beyond doubt, the situation is awkward. i was content enough in cocaigne, and it is unfair that i should be thus ousted. still, a sensible person will manage to be content anywhere. but whither, pray, am i expected to go?" "into whatever land you may elect, my dear," said anaïtis, fondly. "that much at least i can manage for you: and the interpretation of your legend can be arranged afterward." "but i grow tired of all the countries i have ever seen, dear anaïtis, and in my time i have visited nearly all the lands that are known to men." "that too can be arranged: and you can go instead into one of the countries which are desired by men. indeed there are a number of such realms which no man has ever visited except in dreams, so that your choice is wide." "but how am i to make a choice without having seen any of these countries? it is not fair to be expecting me to do anything of the sort." "why, i will show them to you," anaïtis replied. the two of them then went together into a small blue chamber, the walls of which were ornamented with gold stars placed helter-skelter. the room was entirely empty save for an hour-glass near twice the height of a man. "it is time's own glass," said anaïtis, "which was left in my keeping when time went to sleep." anaïtis opened a little door of carved crystal that was in the lower half of the hour-glass, just above the fallen sands. with her finger-tips she touched the sand that was in time's hour-glass, and in the sand she drew a triangle with equal sides, she who was strangely gifted and perverse. then she drew just such another figure so that the tip of it penetrated the first triangle. the sand began to smoulder there, and vapors rose into the upper part of the hour-glass, and jurgen saw that all the sand in time's hour-glass was kindled by a magic generated by the contact of these two triangles. and in the vapors a picture formed. "i see a land of woods and rivers, anaïtis. a very old fellow, regally crowned, lies asleep under an ash-tree, guarded by a watchman who has more arms and hands than jigsbyed." "it is atlantis you behold, and the sleeping of ancient time--time, to whom this glass belongs,--while briareus watches." "time sleeps quite naked, anaïtis, and, though it is a delicate matter to talk about, i notice he has met with a deplorable accident." "so that time begets nothing any more, jurgen, the while he brings about old happenings over and over, and changes the name of what is ancient, in order to persuade himself he has a new plaything. there is really no more tedious and wearing old dotard anywhere, i can assure you. but atlantis is only the western province of cocaigne. now do you look again, jurgen!" "now i behold a flowering plain and three steep hills, with a castle upon each hill. there are woods wherein the foliage is crimson: shining birds with white bodies and purple heads feed upon the clusters of golden berries that grow everywhere: and people go about in green clothes, with gold chains about their necks, and with broad bands of gold upon their arms, and all these people have untroubled faces." "that is inislocha: and to the south is inis daleb, and to the north inis ercandra. and there is sweet music to be listening to eternally, could we but hear the birds of rhiannon, and there is the best of wine to drink, and there delight is common. for thither comes nothing hard nor rough, and no grief, nor any regret, nor sickness, nor age, nor death, for this is the land of women, a land of many-colored hospitality." "why, then, it is no different from cocaigne. and into no realm where pleasure is endless will i ever venture again of my own free will, for i find that i do not enjoy pleasure." then anaïtis showed him ogygia, and tryphême, and sudarsana, and the fortunate islands, and æaea, and caer-is, and invallis, and the hesperides, and meropis, and planasia, and uttarra, and avalon, and tir-nam-beo, and thelême, and a number of other lands to enter which men have desired: and jurgen groaned. "i am ashamed of my fellows," says he: "for it appears their notion of felicity is to dwell eternally in a glorified brothel. i do not think that as a self-respecting young prince i would care to inhabit any of these earthly paradises, for were there nothing else, i would always be looking for an invasion by the police." "there remains, then, but one other realm, which i have not shown you, in part because it is an obscure little place, and in part because, for a reason that i have, i shall not assist you to go thither. still, there is leukê, where queen helen rules: and leukê it is that you behold." "but leukê seems like any other country in autumn, and appears to be reasonably free from the fantastic animals and overgrown flowers which made the other paradises look childish. come now, there is an attractive simplicity about leukê. i might put up with leukê if the local by-laws allowed me a rational amount of discomfort." "discomfort you would have full measure. for the heart of no man remains untroubled after he has once viewed queen helen and the beauty that is hers. it is for that reason, jurgen, i shall not help you to go into leukê: for in leukê you would forget me, having seen queen helen." "why, what nonsense you are talking, my darling! i will wager she cannot hold a candle to you." "see for yourself!" said anaïtis, sadly. now through the rolling vapors came confusedly a gleaming and a surging glitter of all the loveliest colors of heaven and earth: and these took order presently, and jurgen saw before him in the hour-glass that young dorothy who was not heitman michael's wife. and long and wistfully he looked at her, and the blinding tears came to his eyes for no reason at all, and for the while he could not speak. then jurgen yawned, and said, "but certainly this is not the helen who was famed for beauty." "i can assure you that it is," said anaïtis: "and that it is she who rules in leukê, whither i do not intend you shall go." "why, but, my darling! this is preposterous. the girl is nothing to look at twice, one way or the other. she is not actually ugly, i suppose, if one happens to admire that washed-out blonde type, as of course some people do. but to call her beautiful is out of reason; and that i must protest in simple justice." "do you really think so?" says anaïtis, brightening. "i most assuredly do. why, you remember what calpurnius bassus says about all blondes?" "no, i believe not. what did he say, dear?" "i would only spoil the splendid passage by quoting it inaccurately from memory. but he was quite right, and his opinion is mine in every particular. so if that is the best leukê can offer, i heartily agree with you i had best go into some other country." "i suppose you already have your eyes upon some minx or other?" "well, my love, those girls in the hesperides were strikingly like you, with even more wonderful hair than yours: and the girl aillê whom we saw in tir-nam-beo likewise resembled you remarkably, except that i thought she had the better figure. so i believe in either of those countries i could be content enough, after a while. since part from you i must," said jurgen, tenderly, "i intend, in common fairness to myself, to find a companion as like you as possible. you conceive i can pretend it is you at first: and then as i grow fonder of her for her own sake, you will gradually be put out of my mind without my incurring any intolerable anguish." anaïtis was not pleased. "so you are already hankering after those huzzies! and you think them better looking than i am! and you tell me so to my face!" "my darling, you cannot deny we have been married all of three whole months: and nobody can maintain an infatuation for any woman that long, in the teeth of having nothing refused him. infatuation is largely a matter of curiosity, and both of these emotions die when they are fed." "jurgen," said anaïtis, with conviction, "you are lying to me about something. i can see it in your eyes." "there is no deceiving a woman's intuition. yes, i was not speaking quite honestly when i pretended i had as lief go into the hesperides as to tir-nam-beo: it was wrong of me, and i ask your pardon. i thought that by affecting indifference i could manage you better. but you saw through me at once, and very rightly became angry. so i fling my cards upon the table, i no longer beat about the bushes of equivocation. it is aillê, the daughter of cormac, whom i love, and who can blame me? did you ever in your life behold a more enticing figure, anaïtis?--certainly i never did. besides, i noticed--but never mind about that! still i could not help seeing them. and then such eyes! twin beacons that light my way to comfort for my not inconsiderable regret at losing you, my darling. oh, yes, assuredly it is to tir-nam-beo i elect to go." "whither you go, my fine fellow, is a matter in which i have the choice, not you. and you are going to leukê." "my love, now do be reasonable! we both agreed that leukê was not a bit suitable. why, were there nothing else, in leukê there are no attractive women." "have you no sense except book-sense! it is for that reason i am sending you to leukê." and thus speaking, anaïtis set about a strong magic that hastened the coming of the equinox. in the midst of her charming she wept a little, for she was fond of jurgen. and jurgen preserved a hurt and angry face as well as he could: for at the sight of queen helen, who was so like young dorothy la désirée, he had ceased to care for queen anaïtis and her diverting ways, or to care for aught else in the world save only queen helen, the delight of gods and men. but jurgen had learned that anaïtis required management. "for her own good," as he put it, "and in simple justice to the many admirable qualities which she possesses." 27. vexatious estate of queen helen "but how can i travel with the equinox, with a fictitious thing, with a mere convention?" jurgen had said. "to demand any such proceeding of me is preposterous." "is it any more preposterous than to travel with an imaginary creature like a centaur?" they had retorted. "why, prince jurgen, we wonder how you, who have done that perfectly unheard-of thing, can have the effrontery to call anything else preposterous! is there no reason at all in you? why, conventions are respectable, and that is a deal more than can be said for a great many centaurs. would you be throwing stones at respectability, prince jurgen? why, we are unutterably astounded at your objection to any such well-known phenomenon as the equinox!" and so on, and so on, and so on, said they. and in fine, they kept at him until jurgen was too confused to argue, and his head was in a whirl, and one thing seemed as preposterous as another: and he ceased to notice any especial improbability in his traveling with the equinox, and so passed without any further protest or argument about it, from cocaigne to leukê. but he would not have been thus readily flustered had jurgen not been thinking all the while of queen helen and of the beauty that was hers. so he inquired forthwith the way that one might quickliest come into the presence of queen helen. "why, you will find queen helen," he was told, "in her palace at pseudopolis." his informant was a hamadryad, whom jurgen encountered upon the outskirts of a forest overlooking the city from the west. beyond broad sloping stretches of ripe corn, you saw pseudopolis as a city builded of gold and ivory, now all a dazzling glitter under a hard-seeming sky that appeared unusually remote from earth. "and is the queen as fair as people report?" asks jurgen. "men say that she excels all other women," replied the hamadryad, "as immeasurably as all we women perceive her husband to surpass all other men--" "but, oh, dear me!" says jurgen. "--although, for one, i see nothing remarkable in queen helen's looks. and i cannot but think that a woman who has been so much talked about ought to be more careful in the way she dresses." "so this queen helen is already provided with a husband!" jurgen was displeased, but saw no reason for despair. then jurgen inquired as to the queen's husband, and learned that achilles, the son of peleus, was now wedded to helen, the swan's daughter, and that these two ruled in pseudopolis. "for they report," said the hamadryad, "that in adês' dreary kingdom achilles remembered her beauty, and by this memory was heartened to break the bonds of adês: so did achilles, king of men, and all his ancient comrades come forth resistlessly upon a second quest of this helen, whom people call--and as i think, with considerable exaggeration--the wonder of this world. then the gods fulfilled the desire of achilles, because, they said, the man who has once beheld queen helen will never any more regain contentment so long as his life lacks this wonder of the world. personally, i would dislike to think that all men are so foolish." "men are not always rational, i grant you: but then," says jurgen, slyly, "so many of their ancestresses are feminine." "but an ancestress is always feminine. nobody ever heard of a man being an ancestress. men are ancestors. why, whatever are you talking about?" "well, we were speaking, i believe, of queen helen's marriage." "to be sure we were! and i was telling you about the gods, when you made that droll mistake about ancestors. everybody makes mistakes sometimes, however, and foreigners are always apt to get words confused. i could see at once you were a foreigner--" "yes," said jurgen, "but you were not telling me about myself but about the gods." "why, you must know the aging gods desired tranquillity. so we will give her to achilles, they said; and then, it may be, this king of men will retain her so safely that his littler fellows will despair, and will cease to war for helen: and so we shall not be bothered any longer by their wars and other foolishnesses. for this reason it was that the gods gave helen to achilles, and sent the pair to reign in leukê: though, for my part," concluded the hamadryad, "i shall never cease to wonder what he saw in her--no, not if i live to be a thousand." "i must," says jurgen, "observe this monarch achilles before the world is a day older. a king is all very well, of course, but no husband wears a crown so as to prevent the affixion of other head-gear." and jurgen went down into pseudopolis, swaggering. * * * * * so in the evening, just after sunset, jurgen returned to the hamadryad: he walked now with the aid of the ashen staff which thersitês had given jurgen, and jurgen was mirthless and rather humble. "i have observed your king achilles," jurgen says, "and he is a better man than i. queen helen, as i confess with regret, is worthily mated." "and what have you to say about her?" inquires the hamadryad. "why, there is nothing more to say than that she is worthily mated, and fit to be the wife of achilles." for once, poor jurgen was really miserable. "for i admire this man achilles, i envy him, and i fear him," says jurgen: "and it is not fair that he should have been created my superior." "but is not queen helen the loveliest of ladies that you have ever seen?" "as to that--!" says jurgen. he led the hamadryad to a forest pool hard-by the oak-tree in which she resided. the dusky water lay unruffled, a natural mirror. "look!" said jurgen, and he spoke with a downward waving of his staff. the silence gathering in the woods was wonderful. here the air was sweet and pure: and the little wind which went about the ilex boughs in search of night was a tender and peaceful wind, because it knew that the all-healing night was close at hand. the hamadryad replied, "but i see only my own face." "it is the answer to your question, none the less. now do you tell me your name, my dear, so that i may know who in reality is the loveliest of all the ladies i have ever seen." the hamadryad told him that her name was chloris, and that she always looked a fright with her hair arranged as it was to-day, and that he was a strangely impudent fellow. so he in turn confessed to her he was king jurgen of eubonia, drawn from his remote kingdom by exaggerated reports as to the beauty of queen helen. chloris agreed with him that rumor was in such matters invariably untrustworthy. this led to further talk as twilight deepened: and the while that a little by a little this pretty girl was converted into a warm breathing shadow, hardly visible to the eye, the shadow of jurgen departed from him, and he began to talk better and better. he had seen queen helen face to face, and other women now seemed unimportant. whether or not he got into the graces of this hamadryad did not greatly matter, one way or the other: and in consequence jurgen talked with such fluency, such apposite remarks and such tenderness as astounded him. so he sat listening with delight to the seductive tongue of that monstrous clever fellow, jurgen. for this plump brown-haired bright-eyed little creature, this chloris, he was honestly sorry. into the uneventful life of a hamadryad, here in this uncultured forest, could not possibly have entered much pleasurable excitement, and it seemed only right to inject a little. "why, simply in justice to her!" jurgen reflected. "i must deal fairly." now it grew darker and darker under the trees, and in the dark nobody can see what happens. there were only two voices that talked, with lengthy pauses: and they spoke gravely of unimportant trifles, like children at play together. "and how does a king come thus to be traveling without any retinue or even a sword about him?" "why, i travel with a staff, my dear, as you perceive: and it suffices me." "certainly it is large enough, in all conscience. alas, young outlander, who call yourself a king! you carry the bludgeon of a highwayman, and i am afraid of it." "my staff is a twig from yggdrasill, the tree of universal life: thersitês gave it me, and the sap that throbs therein arises from the undar fountain, where the grave norns make laws for men and fix their destinies." "thersitês is a scoffer, and his gifts are mockery. i would have none of them." the two began to wrangle, not at all angrily, as to what jurgen had best do with his prized staff. "do you take it away from me, at any rate!" says chloris. so jurgen hid his staff where chloris could not possibly see it; and he drew the hamadryad close to him, and he laughed contentedly. "oh, oh! o wretched king," cried chloris, "i fear that you will be the death of me! and you have no right to oppress me in this way, for i am not your subject." "rather shall you be my queen, dear chloris, receiving all that i most prize." "but you are too domineering: and i am afraid to be alone with you and your big staff! ah! not without knowing what she talked about did my mother use to quote her æolic saying, the king is cruel and takes joy in bloodshed!" "presently you will not be afraid of me, nor will you be afraid of my staff. custom is all. for this likewise is an æolic saying, the taste of the first olive is unpleasant, but the second is good." now for a while was silence save for the small secretive rumors of the forest. one of the large green locusts which frequent the island of leukê began shrilling tentatively. "wait now, king jurgen, for surely i hear footsteps, and one comes to trouble us." "it is a wind in the tree-tops: or perhaps it is a god who envies me. i pause for neither." "ah, but speak reverently of the gods! for is not love a god, and a jealous god that has wings with which to leave us?" "then am i a god, for in my heart is love, and in every fibre of me is love, and from me now love emanates." "but certainly i heard somebody approaching through the forest--" "well, and do you not perceive i have withdrawn my staff from its hiding-place?" "ah, you have great faith in that staff of yours!" "i fear nobody when i brandish it." another locust had answered the first one. now the two insects were in full dispute, suffusing the warm darkness with their pertinacious whirrings. "king of eubonia, it is certainly true, that which you told me about olives." "yes, for always love begets truthfulness." "i pray it may beget between us utter truthfulness, and nothing else, king jurgen." "not 'jurgen' now, but 'love'." "indeed, they tell that even so, in such deep darkness, love came to his sweetheart psychê." "then why do you complain because i piously emulate the gods, and offer unto love the sincerest form of flattery?" and jurgen shook his staff at her. "ah, but you are strangely ready with your flattery! and love threatened psychê with no such enormous staff." "that is possible: for i am jurgen. and i deal fairly with all women, and raise my staff against none save in the way of kindness." so they talked nonsense, in utter darkness, while the locusts, and presently a score of locusts, disputed obstinately. now chloris and jurgen were invisible, even to each other, as they talked under her oak-tree: but before them the fields shone mistily under a gold-dusted dome, for this night seemed builded of stars. and the white towers of pseudopolis also could jurgen see, as he laughed there and took his pleasure with chloris. he reflected that very probably achilles and helen were laughing thus, and were not dissimilarly occupied, out yonder, in this night of wonder. he sighed. but in a while jurgen and the hamadryad were speaking again, just as inconsequently, and the locusts were whirring just as obstinately. later the moon rose, and they all slept. with the dawn jurgen arose, and left this hamadryad chloris still asleep. he stood where he overlooked the city and the shirt of nessus glittered in the level sun rays: and jurgen thought of queen helen. then he sighed, and went back to chloris and wakened her with the sort of salutation that appeared her just due. 28. of compromises in leukê now the tale tells that ten days later jurgen and his hamadryad were duly married, in consonance with the law of the wood: not for a moment did chloris consider any violation of the proprieties, so they were married the first evening she could assemble her kindred. "still, chloris, i already have two wives," says jurgen, "and it is but fair to confess it." "i thought it was only yesterday you arrived in leukê." "that is true: for i came with the equinox, over the long sea." "then jugatinus has not had time to marry you to anybody, and certainly he would never think of marrying you to two wives. why do you talk such nonsense?" "no, it is true, i was not married by jugatinus." "so there!" says chloris, as if that settled matters. "now you see for yourself." "why, yes, to be sure," says jurgen, "that does put rather a different light upon it, now i think of it." "it makes all the difference in the world." "i would hardly go that far. still, i perceive it makes a difference." "why, you talk as if everybody did not know that jugatinus marries people!" "no, dear, let us be fair! i did not say precisely that." "--and as if everybody was not always married by jugatinus!" "yes, here in leukê, perhaps. but outside of leukê, you understand, my darling!" "but nobody goes outside of leukê. nobody ever thinks of leaving leukê. i never heard such nonsense." "you mean, nobody ever leaves this island?" "nobody that you ever hear of. of course, there are lares and penates, with no social position, that the kings of pseudopolis sometimes take a-voyaging--" "still, the people of other countries do get married." "no, jurgen," said chloris, sadly, "it is a rule with jugatinus never to leave the island; and indeed i am sure he has never even considered such unheard-of conduct: so, of course, the people of other countries are not able to get married." "well, but, chloris, in eubonia--" "now if you do not mind, dear, i think we had better talk about something more pleasant. i do not blame you men of eubonia, because all men are in such matters perfectly irresponsible. and perhaps it is not altogether the fault of the women, either, though i do think any really self-respecting woman would have the strength of character to keep out of such irregular relations, and that much i am compelled to say. so do not let us talk any more about these persons whom you describe as your wives. it is very nice of you, dear, to call them that, and i appreciate your delicacy. still, i really do believe we had better talk about something else." jurgen deliberated. "yet do you not think, chloris, that in the absence of jugatinus--and in, as i understand it, the unavoidable absence of jugatinus,--somebody else might perform the ceremony?" "oh, yes, if they wanted to. but it would not count. nobody but jugatinus can really marry people. and so of course nobody else does." "what makes you sure of that?" "why, because," said chloris, triumphantly, "nobody ever heard of such a thing." "you have voiced," said jurgen, "an entire code of philosophy. let us by all means go to jugatinus and be married." so they were married by jugatinus, according to the ceremony with which the people of the wood were always married by jugatinus. first virgo loosed the girdle of chloris in such fashion as was customary; and chloris, after sitting much longer than jurgen liked in the lap of mutinus (who was in the state that custom required of him) was led back to jurgen by domiducus in accordance with immemorial custom; subigo did her customary part; then praema grasped the bride's plump arms: and everything was perfectly regular. thereafter jurgen disposed of his staff in the way thersitês had directed: and thereafter jurgen abode with chloris upon the outskirts of the forest, and complied with the customs of leukê. her tree was a rather large oak, for chloris was now in her two hundred and sixty-sixth year; and at first its commodious trunk sheltered them. but later jurgen builded himself a little cabin thatched with birds' wings, and made himself more comfortable. "it is well enough for you, my dear, in fact it is expected of you, to live in a tree-bole. but it makes me feel uncomfortably like a worm, and it needlessly emphasizes the restrictions of married life. besides, you do not want me under your feet all the time, nor i you. no, let us cultivate a judicious abstention from familiarity: such is one secret of an enduring, because endurable, marriage. but why is it, pray, that you have never married before, in all these years?" she told him. at first jurgen could not believe her, but presently jurgen was convinced, through at least two of his senses, that what chloris told him was true about hamadryads. "otherwise, you are not markedly unlike the women of eubonia," said jurgen. and now jurgen met many of the people of the wood; but since the tree of chloris stood upon the verge of the forest, he saw far more of the people of the field, who dwelt between the forest and the city of pseudopolis. these were the neighbors and the ordinary associates of chloris and jurgen; though once in a while, of course, there would be family gatherings in the forest. but jurgen presently had found good reason to distrust the people of the wood, and went to none of these gatherings. "for in eubonia," he said, "we are taught that your wife's relatives will never find fault with you to your face so long as you keep away from them. and more than that, no sensible man expects." meanwhile, king jurgen was perplexed by the people of the field, who were his neighbors. they one and all did what they had always done. thus runcina saw to it that the fields were weeded: seia took care of the seed while it was buried in the earth: nodosa arranged the knots and joints of the stalk: volusia folded the blade around the corn: each had an immemorial duty. and there was hardly a day that somebody was not busied in the fields, whether it was occator harrowing, or sator and sarritor about their sowing and raking, or stercutius manuring the ground: and hippona was always bustling about in one place or another looking after the horses, or else bubona would be there attending to the cattle. there was never any restfulness in the fields. "and why do you do these things year in and year out?" asked jurgen. "why, king of eubonia, we have always done these things," they said, in high astonishment. "yes, but why not stop occasionally?" "because in that event the work would stop. the corn would die, the cattle would perish, and the fields would become jungles." "but, as i understand it, this is not your corn, nor your cattle, nor your fields. you derive no good from them. and there is nothing to prevent your ceasing this interminable labor, and living as do the people of the wood, who perform no heavy work whatever." "i should think not!" said aristæus, and his teeth flashed in a smile that was very pleasant to see, as he strained at the olive-press. "whoever heard of the people of the wood doing anything useful!" "yes, but," says jurgen, patiently, "do you think it is quite fair to yourselves to be always about some tedious and difficult labor when nobody compels you to do it? why do you not sometimes take holiday?" "king jurgen," replied fornax, looking up from the little furnace wherein she was parching corn, "you are talking nonsense. the people of the field have never taken holiday. nobody ever heard of such a thing." "we should think not indeed!" said all the others, sagely. "ah, ah!" said jurgen, "so that is your demolishing reason. well, i shall inquire about this matter among the people of the wood, for they may be more sensible." then as jurgen was about to enter the forest, he encountered terminus, perfumed with ointment, and crowned with a garland of roses, and standing stock still. "aha," said jurgen, "so here is one of the people of the wood about to go down into the fields. but if i were you, my friend, i would keep away from any such foolish place." "i never go down into the fields," said terminus. "oh, then, you are returning into the forest." "but certainly not. whoever heard of my going into the forest!" "indeed, now i look at you, you are merely standing here." "i have always stood here," said terminus. "and do you never move?" "no," said terminus. "and for what reason?" "because i have always stood here without moving," replied terminus. "why, for me to move would be a quite unheard-of thing." so jurgen left him, and went into the forest. and there jurgen encountered a smiling young fellow, who rode upon the back of a large ram. this young man had his left fore-finger laid to his lips, and his right hand held an astonishing object to be thus publicly displayed. "but, oh, dear me! now, really, sir--!" says jurgen. "bah!" says the ram. but the smiling young fellow said nothing at all as he passed jurgen, because it is not the custom of harpocrates to speak. "which would be well enough," reflected jurgen, "if only his custom did not make for stiffness and the embarrassment of others." thereafter jurgen came upon a considerable commotion in the bushes, where a satyr was at play with an oread. "oh, but this forest is not respectable!" said jurgen. "have you no ethics and morals, you people of the wood! have you no sense of responsibility whatever, thus to be frolicking on a working-day?" "why, no," responded the satyr, "of course not. none of my people have such things: and so the natural vocation of all satyrs is that which you are now interrupting." "perhaps you speak the truth," said jurgen. "still, you ought to be ashamed of the fact that you are not lying." "for a satyr to be ashamed of himself would be indeed an unheard-of thing! now go away, you in the glittering shirt! for we are studying eudæmonism, and you are talking nonsense, and i am busy, and you annoy me," said the satyr. "well, but in cocaigne," said jurgen, "this eudæmonism was considered an indoor diversion." "and did you ever hear of a satyr going indoors?" "why, save us from all hurt and harm! but what has that to do with it?" "do not try to equivocate, you shining idiot! for now you see for yourself you are talking nonsense. and i repeat that such unheard-of nonsense irritates me," said the satyr. the oread said nothing at all. but she too looked annoyed, and jurgen reflected that it was probably not the custom of oreads to be rescued from the eudæmonism of satyrs. so jurgen left them; and yet deeper in the forest he found a bald-headed squat old man, with a big paunch and a flat red nose and very small bleared eyes. now the old fellow was so helplessly drunk that he could not walk: instead, he sat upon the ground, and leaned against a tree-bole. "this is a very disgusting state for you to be in so early in the morning," observed jurgen. "but silenus is always drunk," the bald-headed man responded, with a dignified hiccough. "so here is another one of you! well, and why are you always drunk, silenus?" "because silenus is the wisest of the people of the wood." "ah, ah! but i apologize. for here at last is somebody with a plausible excuse for his daily employment. now, then, silenus, since you are so wise, come tell me, is it really the best fate for a man to be drunk always?" "not at all. drunkenness is a joy reserved for the gods: so do men partake of it impiously, and so are they very properly punished for their audacity. for men, it is best of all never to be born; but, being born, to die very quickly." "ah, yes! but failing either?" "the third best thing for a man is to do that which seems expected of him," replied silenus. "but that is the law of philistia: and with philistia, they inform me, pseudopolis is at war." silenus meditated. jurgen had discovered an uncomfortable thing about this old fellow, and it was that his small bleared eyes did not blink nor the lids twitch at all. his eyes moved, as through magic the eyes of a painted statue might move horribly, under quite motionless red lids. therefore it was uncomfortable when these eyes moved toward you. "young fellow in the glittering shirt, i will tell you a secret: and it is that the philistines were created after the image of koshchei who made some things as they are. do you think upon that! so the philistines do that which seems expected. and the people of leukê were created after the image of koshchei who made yet other things as they are: therefore do the people of leukê do that which is customary, adhering to classical tradition. do you think upon that also! then do you pick your side in this war, remembering that you side with stupidity either way. and when that happens which will happen, do you remember how silenus foretold to you precisely what would happen, a long while before it happened, because silenus was so old and so wise and so very disreputably drunk, and so very, very sleepy." "yes, certainly, silenus: but how will this war end?" "dullness will conquer dullness: and it will not matter." "ah, yes! but what will become, in all this fighting, of jurgen?" "that will not matter either," said silenus, comfortably. "nobody will bother about you." and with that he closed his horrible bleared eyes and went to sleep. so jurgen left the old tippler, and started to leave the forest also. "for undoubtedly all the people in leukê are resolute to do that which is customary," reflected jurgen, "for the unarguable reason it is their custom, and has always been their custom. and they will desist from these practises when the cat eats acorns, but not before. so it is the part of wisdom to inquire no further into the matter. for after all, these people may be right; and certainly i cannot go so far as to say they are wrong." jurgen shrugged. "but still, at the same time--!" now in returning to his cabin jurgen heard a frightful sort of yowling and screeching as of mad people. "hail, daughter of various-formed protogonus, thou that takest joy in mountains and battles and in the beating of the drum! hail, thou deceitful saviour, mother of all gods, that comest now, pleased with long wanderings, to be propitious to us!" but the uproar was becoming so increasingly unpleasant that jurgen at this point withdrew into a thicket: and thence he witnessed the passing through the woods of a notable procession. there were features connected with this procession sufficiently unusual to cause jurgen to vow that the desiderated moment wherein he walked unhurt from the forest would mark the termination of his last visit thereto. then amazement tripped up the heels of terror: for now passed mother sereda, or, as anaïtis had called her, æsred. to-day, in place of a towel about her head, she wore a species of crown, shaped like a circlet of crumbling towers: she carried a large key, and her chariot was drawn by two lions. she was attended by howling persons, with shaved heads: and it was apparent that these persons had parted with possessions which jurgen valued. "this is undoubtedly," said he, "a most unwholesome forest." jurgen inquired about this procession, later, and from chloris he got information which surprised him. "and these are the beings who i had thought were poetic ornaments of speech! but what is the old lady doing in such high company?" he described mother sereda, and chloris told him who this was. now jurgen shook his sleek black head. "behold another mystery! yet after all, it is no concern of mine if the old lady elects for an additional anagram. i should be the last person to criticize her, inasmuch as to me she has been more than generous. well, i shall preserve her friendship by the infallible recipe of keeping out of her way. oh, but i shall certainly keep out of her way now that i have perceived what is done to the men who serve her." and after that jurgen and chloris lived very pleasantly together, though jurgen began to find his hamadryad a trifle unperceptive, if not actually obtuse. "she does not understand me, and she does not always treat my superior wisdom quite respectfully. that is unfair, but it seems to be an unavoidable feature of married life. besides, if any woman had ever understood me she would, in self-protection, have refused to marry me. in any case, chloris is a dear brown plump delicious partridge of a darling: and cleverness in women is, after all, a virtue misplaced." and jurgen did not return into the woods, nor did he go down into the city. neither the people of the field nor of the wood, of course, ever went within city gates. "but i would think that you would like to see the fine sights of pseudopolis," says chloris,--"and that fine queen of theirs," she added, almost as though she spoke without premeditation. "woman dear," says jurgen, "i do not wish to appear boastful. but in eubonia, now! well, really some day we must return to my kingdom, and you shall inspect for yourself a dozen or two of my cities--ziph and eglington and poissieux and gazden and bäremburg, at all events. and then you will concede with me that this little village of pseudopolis, while well enough in its way--!" and jurgen shrugged. "but as for saying more!" "sometimes," said chloris, "i wonder if there is any such place as your fine kingdom of eubonia: for certainly it grows larger and more splendid every time you talk of it." "now can it be," asks jurgen, more hurt than angry, "that you suspect me of uncandid dealing and, in short, of being an impostor!" "why, what does it matter? you are jurgen," she answered, happily. and the man was moved as she smiled at him across the glowing queer embroidery-work at which chloris seemed to labor interminably: he was conscious of a tenderness for her which was oddly remorseful: and it appeared to him that if he had known lovelier women he had certainly found nowhere anyone more lovable than was this plump and busy and sunny-tempered little wife of his. "my dear, i do not care to see queen helen again, and that is a fact. i am contented here, with a wife befitting my station, suited to my endowments, and infinitely excelling my deserts." "and do you think of that tow-headed bean-pole very often, king jurgen?" "that is unfair, and you wrong me, chloris, with these unmerited suspicions. it pains me to reflect, my dear, that you esteem the tie between us so lightly you can consider me capable of breaking it even in thought." "to talk of fairness is all very well, but it is no answer to a plain question." jurgen looked full at her; and he laughed. "you women are so unscrupulously practical. my dear, i have seen queen helen face to face. but it is you whom i love as a man customarily loves a woman." "that is not saying much." "no: for i endeavor to speak in consonance with my importance. you forget that i have also seen achilles." "but you admired achilles! you told me so yourself." "i admired the perfections of achilles, but i cordially dislike the man who possesses them. therefore i shall keep away from both the king and queen of pseudopolis." "yet you will not go into the woods, either, jurgen--" "not after what i have witnessed there," said jurgen, with an exaggerated shudder that was not very much exaggerated. now chloris laughed, and quitted her queer embroidery in order to rumple up his hair. "and you find the people of the field so insufferably stupid, and so uninterested by your zorobasiuses and ptolemopiters and so on, that you keep away from them also. o foolish man of mine, you are determined to be neither fish nor beast nor poultry and nowhere will you ever consent to be happy." "it was not i who determined my nature, chloris: and as for being happy, i make no complaint. indeed, i have nothing to complain of, nowadays. so i am very well contented by my dear wife and by my manner of living in leukê," said jurgen, with a sigh. 29. concerning horvendile's nonsense it was on a bright and tranquil day in november, at the period which the people of the field called the summer of alcyonê, that jurgen went down from the forest; and after skirting the moats of pseudopolis, and avoiding a meeting with any of the town's dispiritingly glorious inhabitants, jurgen came to the seashore. chloris had suggested his doing this, in order that she could have a chance to straighten things in his cabin while she was tidying her tree for the winter, and could so make one day's work serve for two. for the dryad of an oak-tree has large responsibilities, what with the care of so many dead leaves all winter, and the acorns being blown from their places and littering up the ground everywhere, and the bark cracking until it looks positively disreputable: and jurgen was at any such work less a help than a hindrance. so chloris gave him a parcel of lunch and a perfunctory kiss, and told him to go down to the seashore and get inspired and make up a pretty poem about her. "and do you be back in time for an early supper, jurgen," says she, "but not a minute before." thus it befell that jurgen reflectively ate his lunch in solitude, and regarded the euxine. the sun was high, and the queer shadow that followed jurgen was huddled into shapelessness. "this is indeed an inspiring spectacle," jurgen reflected. "how puny seems the race of man, in contrast with this mighty sea, which now spreads before me like, as so-and-so has very strikingly observed, a something or other under such and such conditions!" then jurgen shrugged. "really, now i think of it, though, there is no call for me to be suffused with the traditional emotions. it looks like a great deal of water, and like nothing else in particular. and i cannot but consider the water is behaving rather futilely." so he sat in drowsy contemplation of the sea. far out a shadow would form on the water, like the shadow of a broadish plank, scudding shoreward, and lengthening and darkening as it approached. presently it would be some hundred feet in length, and would assume a hard smooth darkness, like that of green stone: this was the under side of the wave. then the top of it would curdle, the southern end of the wave would collapse, and with exceeding swiftness this white feathery falling would plunge and scamper and bluster northward, the full length of the wave. it would be neater and more workmanlike to have each wave tumble down as a whole. from the smacking and the splashing, what looked like boiling milk would thrust out over the brown sleek sands: and as the mess spread it would thin to a reticulated whiteness, like lace, and then to the appearance of smoke sprays clinging to the sands. plainly the tide was coming in. or perhaps it was going out. jurgen's notions as to such phenomena were vague. but, either way, the sea was stirring up a large commotion and a rather pleasant and invigorating odor. and then all this would happen once more: and then it would happen yet again. it had happened a number of hundred of times since jurgen first sat down to eat his lunch: and what was gained by it? the sea was behaving stupidly. there was no sense in this continual sloshing and spanking and scrabbling and spluttering. thus jurgen, as he nodded over the remnants of his lunch. "sheer waste of energy, i am compelled to call it," said jurgen, aloud, just as he noticed there were two other men on this long beach. one came from the north, one from the south, so that they met not far from where jurgen was sitting: and by an incredible coincidence jurgen had known both of these men in his first youth. so he hailed them, and they recognized him at once. one of these travellers was the horvendile who had been secretary to count emmerick when jurgen was a lad: and the other was perion de la forêt, that outlaw who had come to bellegarde very long ago disguised as the vicomte de puysange. and all three of these old acquaintances had kept their youth surprisingly. now horvendile and perion marveled at the fine shirt which jurgen was wearing. "why, you must know," he said, modestly, "that i have lately become king of eubonia, and must dress according to my station." so they said they had always expected some such high honor to befall him, and then the three of them fell to talking. and perion told how he had come through pseudopolis, on his way to king theodoret at lacre kai, and how in the market-place at pseudopolis he had seen queen helen. "she is a very lovely lady," said perion, "and i marvelled over her resemblance to count emmerick's fair sister, whom we all remember." "i noticed that at once," said horvendile, and he smiled strangely, "when i, too, passed through the city." "why, but nobody could fail to notice it," said jurgen. "it is not, of course, that i consider her to be as lovely as dame melicent," continued perion, "since, as i have contended in all quarters of the world, there has never lived, and will never live, any woman so beautiful as melicent. but you gentlemen appear surprised by what seems to me a very simple statement. your air, in fine, is one that forces me to point out it is a statement i can permit nobody to deny." and perion's honest eyes had narrowed unpleasantly, and his sun-browned countenance was uncomfortably stern. "dear sir," said jurgen, hastily, "it was merely that it appeared to me the lady whom they call queen helen hereabouts is quite evidently count emmerick's sister dorothy la désirée." "whereas i recognized her at once," says horvendile, "as count emmerick's third sister, la beale ettarre." and now they stared at one another, for it was certain that these three sisters were not particularly alike. "putting aside any question of eyesight," observes perion, "it is indisputable that the language of both of you is distorted. for one of you says this is madame dorothy, and the other says this is madame ettarre: whereas everybody knows that this queen helen, whomever she may resemble, cannot possibly be anybody else save queen helen." "to you, who are always the same person," replied jurgen, "that may sound reasonable. for my part, i am several people: and i detect no incongruity in other persons' resembling me." "there would be no incongruity anywhere," suggested horvendile, "if queen helen were the woman whom we had loved in vain. for the woman whom when we were young we loved in vain is the one woman that we can never see quite clearly, whatever happens. so we might easily, i suppose, confuse her with some other woman." "but melicent is the lady whom i have loved in vain," said perion, "and i care nothing whatever about queen helen. why should i? what do you mean now, horvendile, by your hints that i have faltered in my constancy to dame melicent since i saw queen helen? i do not like such hints." "no less, it is ettarre whom i love, and have loved not quite in vain, and have loved unfalteringly," says horvendile, with his quiet smile: "and i am certain that it was ettarre whom i beheld when i looked upon queen helen." "i may confess," says jurgen, clearing his throat, "that i have always regarded madame dorothy with peculiar respect and admiration. for the rest, i am married. even so, i think that madame dorothy is queen helen." then they fell to debating this mystery. and presently perion said the one way out was to leave the matter to queen helen. "she at all events must know who she is. so do one of you go back into the city, and embrace her knees as is the custom of this country when one implores a favor of the king or the queen: and do you then ask her fairly." "not i," says jurgen. "i am upon terms of some intimacy with a hamadryad just at present. i am content with my hamadryad. and i intend never to venture into the presence of queen helen any more, in order to preserve my contentment." "why, but i cannot go," says perion, "because dame melicent has a little mole upon her left cheek. and queen helen's cheek is flawless. you understand, of course, that i am certain this mole immeasurably enhances the beauty of dame melicent," he added, loyally. "none the less, i mean to hold no further traffic with queen helen." "now my reason for not going is this," said horvendile:--"that if i attempted to embrace the knees of ettarre, whom people hereabouts call helen, she would instantly vanish. other matters apart, i do not wish to bring any such misfortune upon the island of leukê." "but that," said perion, "is nonsense." "of course it is," said horvendile. "that is probably why it happens." so none of them would go. and each of them clung, none the less, to his own opinion about queen helen. and presently perion said they were wasting both time and words. then perion bade the two farewell, and perion continued southward, toward lacre kai. and as he went he sang a song in honor of dame melicent, whom he celebrated as heart o' my heart: and the two who heard him agreed that perion de la forêt was probably the worst poet in the world. "nevertheless, there goes a very chivalrous and worthy gentleman," said horvendile, "intent to play out the remainder of his romance. i wonder if the author gets much pleasure from these simple characters? at least they must be easy to handle." "i cultivate a judicious amount of gallantry," says jurgen: "i do not any longer aspire to be chivalrous. and indeed, horvendile, it seems to me indisputable that each one of us is the hero in his own romance, and cannot understand any other person's romance, but misinterprets everything therein, very much as we three have fallen out in the simple matter of a woman's face." now young horvendile meditatively stroked his own curly and reddish hair, brushing it away from his ears with his left hand, as he sat there staring meditatively at nothing in particular. "i would put it, jurgen, that we three have met like characters out of three separate romances which the author has composed in different styles." "that also," jurgen submitted, "would be nonsense." "ah, but perhaps the author very often perpetrates nonsense. come jurgen, you who are king of eubonia!" says horvendile, with his wide-set eyes a-twinkle; "what is there in you or me to attest that our author has not composed our romances with his tongue in his cheek?" "messire horvendile, if you are attempting to joke about koshchei who made all things as they are, i warn you i do not consider that sort of humor very wholesome. without being prudish, i believe in common-sense: and i would vastly prefer to have you talk about something else." horvendile was still smiling. "you look some day to come to koshchei, as you call the author. that is easily said, and sounds excellently. ah, but how will you recognize koshchei? and how do you know you have not already passed by koshchei in some street or meadow? come now, king jurgen," said horvendile, and still his young face wore an impish smile; "come tell me, how do you know that i am not koshchei who made all things as they are?" "be off with you!" says jurgen; "you would never have had the wit to invent a jurgen. something else is troubling me: i have just recollected that the young perion who left us only a moment since, grew to be rich and gray-headed and famous, and took dame melicent from her pagan husband, and married her himself: and that all this happened long years ago. so our recent talk with young perion seems very improbable." "why, but do you not remember, too, that i ran away in the night when maugis d'aigremont stormed storisende? and was never heard of any more? and that all this, too, took place a long, long while ago? yet we have met as three fine young fellows, here on the beach of fabulous leukê. i put it to you fairly, king jurgen: now how could this conceivably have come about unless the author sometimes composes nonsense?" "truly the way that you express it, horvendile, the thing does seem a little strange; and i can think of no explanation rendering it plausible." "again, see now, king jurgen of eubonia, how you underrate the author's ability. this is one of the romancer's most venerable devices that is being practised. see for yourself!" and suddenly horvendile pushed jurgen so that jurgen tumbled over in the warm sand. then jurgen arose, gaping and stretching himself. "that was a very foolish dream i had, napping here in the sun. for it was certainly a dream. otherwise, they would have left footprints, these young fellows who have gone the way of youth so long ago. and it was a dream that had no sense in it. but indeed it would be strange if that were the whole point of it, and if living, too, were such a dream, as that queer horvendile would have me think." jurgen snapped his fingers. "well, and what in common fairness could he or anyone else expect me to do about it! that is the answer i fling at you, you horvendile whom i made up in a dream. and i disown you as the most futile of my inventions. so be off with you! and a good riddance, too, for i never held with upsetting people." then jurgen dusted himself, and trudged home to an early supper with the hamadryad who contented him. 30. economics of king jurgen now jurgen's curious dream put notions into the restless head of jurgen. so mighty became his curiosity that he went shuddering into the abhorred woods, and passed over coalisnacoan (which is the ferry of dogs), and did all such detestable things as were necessary to placate phobetor. then jurgen tricked phobetor by an indescribable device, wherein surprising use was made of a cheese and three beetles and a gimlet, and so cheated phobetor out of a gray magic. and that night while pseudopolis slept king jurgen came down into this city of gold and ivory. jurgen went with distaste among the broad-browed and great-limbed monarchs of pseudopolis, for they reminded him of things that he had long ago put aside, and they made him feel unpleasantly ignoble and insignificant. that was his real reason for avoiding the city. now he passed between unlighted and silent palaces, walking in deserted streets where the moon made ominous shadows. here was the house of ajax telamon who reigned in sea-girt salamis, here that of god-like philoctetês: much-counseling odysseus dwelt just across the way, and the corner residence was fair-haired agamemnon's: in the moonlight jurgen easily made out these names engraved upon the bronze shield that hung beside each doorway. to every side of him slept the heroes of old song while jurgen skulked under their windows. he remembered how incuriously--not even scornfully--these people had overlooked him on that disastrous afternoon when he had ventured into pseudopolis by daylight. and a spiteful little gust of rage possessed him, and jurgen shook his fist at the big silent palaces. "yah!" he snarled: for he did not know at all what it was that he desired to say to those great stupid heroes who did not care what he said, but he knew that he hated them. then jurgen became aware of himself growling there like a kicked cur who is afraid to bite, and he began to laugh at this jurgen. "your pardon, gentlemen of greece," says he, with a wide ceremonious bow, "and i think the information i wished to convey was that i am a monstrous clever fellow." jurgen went into the largest palace, and crept stealthily by the bedroom of achilles, king of men, treading a-tip-toe; and so came at last into a little room panelled with cedar-wood where slept queen helen. she was smiling in her sleep when he had lighted his lamp, with due observance of the gray magic. she was infinitely beautiful, this young dorothy whom people hereabouts through some odd error called helen. for jurgen saw very well that this was count emmerick's sister dorothy la désirée, whom jurgen had vainly loved in the days when jurgen was young alike in body and heart. just once he had won back to her, in the garden between dawn and sunrise: but he was then a time-battered burgher whom dorothy did not recognise. now he returned to her a king, less admirable it might be than some of the many other kings without realms who slept now in pseudopolis, but still very fine in his borrowed youth, and above all, armored by a gray magic: so that improbabilities were possible. and jurgen's eyes were furtive, and he passed his tongue across his upper lip from one corner to the other, and his hand went out toward the robe of violet-colored wool which covered the sleeping girl, for he stood ready to awaken dorothy la désirée in the way he often awoke chloris. but a queer thought held him. nothing, he recollected, had shown the power to hurt him very deeply since he had lost this young dorothy. and to affairs which threatened to result unpleasantly, he had always managed to impart an agreeable turn, since then, by virtue of preserving a cool heart. what if by some misfortune he were to get back his real youth? and were to become again the flustered boy who blundered from stammering rapture to wild misery, and back again, at the least word or gesture of a gold-haired girl? "thank you, no!" says jurgen. "the boy was more admirable than i, who am by way of being not wholly admirable. but then he had a wretched time of it, by and large. thus it may be that my real youth lies sleeping here: and for no consideration would i re-awaken it." and yet tears came into his eyes, for no reason at all. and it seemed to him that the sleeping woman, here at his disposal, was not the young dorothy whom he had seen in the garden between dawn and sunrise, although the two were curiously alike; and that of the two this woman here was, somehow, infinitely the lovelier. "lady, if you indeed be the swan's daughter, long and long ago there was a child that was ill. and his illness turned to a fever, and in his fever he arose from his bed one night, saying that he must set out for troy, because of his love for queen helen. i was once that child. i remember how strange it seemed to me i should be talking such nonsense: i remember how the warm room smelt of drugs: and i remember how i pitied the trouble in my nurse's face, drawn and old in the yellow lamplight. for she loved me, and she did not understand: and she pleaded with me to be a good boy and not to worry my sleeping parents. but i perceive now that i was not talking nonsense." he paused, considering the riddle: and his fingers fretted with the robe of violet-colored wool beneath which lay queen helen. "yours is that beauty of which men know by fabulous report alone, and which they may not ever find, nor ever win to, quite. and for that beauty i have hungered always, even in childhood. toward that beauty i have struggled always, but not quite whole-heartedly. that night forecast my life. i have hungered for you: and"--jurgen smiled here--"and i have always stayed a passably good boy, lest i should beyond reason disturb my family. for to do that, i thought, would not be fair: and still i believe for me to have done that would have been unfair." he grimaced at this point: for jurgen was finding his scruples inconveniently numerous. "and now i think that what i do to-night is not quite fair to chloris. and i do not know what thing it is that i desire, and the will of jurgen is a feather in the wind. but i know that i would like to love somebody as chloris loves me, and as so many women have loved me. and i know that it is you who have prevented this, queen helen, at every moment of my life since the disastrous moment when i first seemed to find your loveliness in the face of madame dorothy. it is the memory of your beauty, as i then saw it mirrored in the face of a jill-flirt, which has enfeebled me for such honest love as other men give women: and i envy these other men. for jurgen has loved nothing--not even you, not even jurgen!--quite whole-heartedly. well, what if i took vengeance now upon this thieving comeliness, upon this robber that strips life of joy and sorrow?" jurgen stood at queen helen's bedside, watching her, for a long while. he had shifted into a less fanciful mood: and the shadow that followed him was ugly and hulking and wavering upon the cedarn wall of queen helen's sleeping-chamber. "mine is a magic which does not fail," old phobetor had said, while his attendants raised his eyelids so that he could see king jurgen. now jurgen remembered this. and reflectively he drew back the robe of violet-colored wool, a little way. the breast of queen helen lay bare. and she did not move at all, but she smiled in her sleep. never had jurgen imagined that any woman could be so beautiful nor so desirable as this woman, or that he could ever know such rapture. so jurgen paused. "because," said jurgen now, "it may be this woman has some fault: it may be there is some fleck in her beauty somewhere. and sooner than know that, i would prefer to retain my unreasonable dreams, and this longing which is unfed and hopeless, and the memory of to-night. besides, if she were perfect in everything, how could i live any longer, who would have no more to desire? no, i would be betraying my own interests, either way; and injustice is always despicable." so jurgen sighed and gently replaced the robe of violet-colored wool, and he returned to his hamadryad. "and now that i think of it, too," reflected jurgen, "i am behaving rather nobly. yes, it is questionless that i have to-night evinced a certain delicacy of feeling which merits appreciation, at all events by king achilles." 31. the fall of pseudopolis so jurgen abode in leukê, and complied with the customs of that country; and what with one thing and another, he and chloris made the time pass pleasantly enough, until the winter solstice was at hand. now pseudopolis, as has been said, was at war with philistia: so it befell that at this season leukê was invaded by an army of philistines, led by their queen dolores, a woman who was wise but not entirely reliable. they came from the coast, a terrible army insanely clad in such garments as had been commanded by ageus, a god of theirs; and chaunting psalms in honor of their god vel-tyno, who had inspired this crusade: thus they swept down upon pseudopolis, and encamped before the city. these philistines fought in this campaign by casting before them a more horrible form of greek fire, which consumed whatever was not gray-colored. for that color alone was now favored by their god vel-tyno. "and all other colors," his oracles had decreed, "are forevermore abominable, until i say otherwise." so the forces of philistia were marshalled in the plain before pseudopolis, and queen dolores spoke to her troops. and smilingly she said:-"whenever you come to blows with the enemy he will be beaten. no mercy will be shown, no prisoners taken. as the philistines under libnah and goliath and gershon, and a many other tall captains, made for themselves a name which is still mighty in traditions and legend, even thus to-day may the name of realist be so fixed in pseudopolis, by your deeds to-day, that no one shall ever dare again even to look askance at a philistine. open the door for realism, once for all!" meanwhile within the city achilles, king of men, addressed his army:-"the eyes of all the world will be upon you, because you are in some especial sense the soldiers of romance. let it be your pride, therefore, to show all men everywhere, not only what good soldiers you are, but also what good men you are, keeping yourselves fit and straight in everything, and pure and clean through and through. let us set ourselves a standard so high that it will be a glory to live up to it, and then let us live up to it, and add a new laurel to the crown of pseudopolis. may the gods of old keep you and guide you!" then said thersitês, in his beard: "certainly pelidês has learned from history with what weapon a strong man discomfits the philistines." but the other kings applauded, and the trumpet was sounded, and the battle was joined. and that day the forces of philistia were everywhere triumphant. but they report a queer thing happened: and it was that when the philistines shouted in their triumph, achilles and all they who served him rose from the ground like gleaming clouds and passed above the heads of the philistines, deriding them. thus was pseudopolis left empty, so that the philistines entered thereinto without any opposition. they defiled this city of blasphemous colors, then burned it as a sacrifice to their god vel-tyno, because the color of ashes is gray. then the philistines erected lithoi (which were not unlike may-poles), and began to celebrate their religious rites. * * * * * so it was reported: but jurgen witnessed none of these events. "let them fight it out," said jurgen: "it is not my affair. i agree with silenus: dullness will conquer dullness, and it will not matter. but do you, woman dear, take shelter with your kindred in the unconquerable woods, for there is no telling what damage the philistines may do hereabouts." "will you go with me, jurgen?" "my dear, you know very well that it is impossible for me ever again to go into the woods, after the trick i played upon phobetor." "and if only you had kept your head about that bean-pole of a helen, in her yellow wig--for i have not a doubt that every strand of it is false, and at all events this is not a time to be arguing about it, jurgen,--why, then you would never have meddled with uncle phobetor! it simply shows you!" "yes," said jurgen. "still, i do not know. if you come with me into the woods, uncle phobetor in his impetuous way will quite certainly turn you into a boar-pig, because he has always done that to the people who irritated him--" "i seem to recognise that reason." "--but give me time, and i can get around uncle phobetor, just as i have always done, and he will turn you back." "no," says jurgen, obstinately, "i do not wish to be turned into a boar-pig." "now, jurgen, let us be sensible about this! of course, it is a little humiliating. but i will take the very best of care of you, and feed you with my own acorns, and it will be a purely temporary arrangement. and to be a pig for a week or two, or even for a month, is infinitely better for a poet than being captured by the philistines." "how do i know that?" says jurgen. "--for it is not, after all, as if uncle phobetor's heart were not in the right place. it is just his way. and besides, you must remember what you did with that gimlet!" said jurgen: "all this is hardly to the purpose. you forget i have seen the hapless swine of phobetor, and i know how he ameliorates the natural ferocity of his boar-pigs. no, i am jurgen. so i remain. i will face the philistines and whatever they may possibly do to me, rather than suffer that which phobetor will quite certainly do to me." "then i stay too," said chloris. "no, woman dear--!" "but do you not understand?" says chloris, a little pale, as he saw now. "since the life of a hamadryad is linked with the life of her tree, nobody can harm me so long as my tree lives: and if they cut down my tree i shall die, wherever i may happen to be." "i had forgotten that." he was really troubled now. "--and you can see for yourself, jurgen, it is quite out of the question for me to be carrying that great oak anywhere, and i wonder at your talking such nonsense." "indeed, my dear," says jurgen, "we are very neatly trapped. well, nobody can live longer in peace than his neighbor chooses. nevertheless, it is not fair." as he spoke the philistines came forth from the burning city. again the trumpet sounded, and the philistines advanced in their order of battle. 32. sundry devices of the philistines meanwhile the people of the field had watched pseudopolis burn, and had wondered what would befall them. they had not long to wonder, for next day the fields were occupied, without any resistance by the inhabitants. "the people of the field," said they, "have never fought, and for them to begin now would be a very unheard-of thing indeed." so the fields were captured by the philistines, and chloris and jurgen and all the people of the field were judged summarily. they were declared to be obsolete illusions, whose merited doom was to be relegated to limbo. to jurgen this appeared unreasonable. "for i am no illusion," he asserted. "i am manifestly flesh and blood, and in addition, i am the high king of eubonia, and no less. why, in disputing these facts you contest circumstances that are so well known hereabouts as to rank among mathematical certainties. and that makes you look foolish, as i tell you for your own good." this vexed the leaders of the philistines, as it always vexes people to be told anything for their own good. "we would have you know," said they, "that we are not mathematicians; and that moreover, we have no kings in philistia, where all must do what seems to be expected of them, and have no other law." "how then can you be the leaders of philistia?" "why, it is expected that women and priests should behave unaccountably. therefore all we who are women or priests do what we will in philistia, and the men there obey us. and it is we, the priests of philistia, who do not think you can possibly have any flesh and blood under a shirt which we recognize to be a conventional figure of speech. it does not stand to reason. and certainly you could not ever prove such a thing by mathematics; and to say so is nonsense." "but i can prove it by mathematics, quite irrefutably. i can prove anything you require of me by whatever means you may prefer," said jurgen, modestly, "for the simple reason that i am a monstrous clever fellow." then spoke the wise queen dolores, saying: "i have studied mathematics. i will question this young man, in my tent to-night, and in the morning i will report the truth as to his claims. are you content to endure this interrogatory, my spruce young fellow who wear the shirt of a king?" jurgen looked full upon her: she was lovely as a hawk is lovely: and of all that jurgen saw jurgen approved. he assumed the rest to be in keeping: and deduced that dolores was a fine woman. "madame and queen," said jurgen, "i am content. and i can promise to deal fairly with you." so that evening jurgen was conducted into the purple tent of queen dolores of philistia. it was quite dark there, and jurgen went in alone, and wondering what would happen next: but this scented darkness he found of excellent augury, if only because it prevented his shadow from following him. "now, you who claim to be flesh and blood, and king of eubonia, too," says the voice of queen dolores, "what is this nonsense you were talking about proving any such claims by mathematics?" "well, but my mathematics," replied jurgen, "are praxagorean." "what, do you mean praxagoras of cos?" "as if," scoffed jurgen, "anybody had ever heard of any other praxagoras!" "but he, as i recall, belonged to the medical school of the dogmatici," observed the wise queen dolores, "and was particularly celebrated for his researches in anatomy. was he, then, also a mathematician?" "the two are not incongruous, madame, as i would be delighted to demonstrate." "oh, nobody said that! for, indeed, it does seem to me i have heard of this praxagorean system of mathematics, though, i confess, i have never studied it." "our school, madame, postulates, first of all, that since the science of mathematics is an abstract science, it is best inculcated by some concrete example." said the queen: "but that sounds rather complicated." "it occasionally leads to complications," jurgen admitted, "through a choice of the wrong example. but the axiom is no less true." "come, then, and sit next to me on this couch if you can find it in the dark; and do you explain to me what you mean." "why, madame, by a concrete example i mean one that is perceptible to any of the senses--as to sight or hearing, or touch--" "oh, oh!" said the queen, "now i perceive what you mean by a concrete example. and grasping this, i can understand that complications must of course arise from a choice of the wrong example." "well, then, madame, it is first necessary to implant in you, by the force of example, a lively sense of the peculiar character, and virtues and properties, of each of the numbers upon which is based the whole science of praxagorean mathematics. for in order to convince you thoroughly, we must start far down, at the beginning of all things." "i see," said the queen, "or rather, in this darkness i cannot see at all, but i perceive your point. your opening interests me: and you may go on." "now one, or the monad," says jurgen, "is the principle and the end of all: it reveals the sublime knot which binds together the chain of causes: it is the symbol of identity, of equality, of existence, of conservation, and of general harmony." and jurgen emphasized these characteristics vigorously. "in brief, one is a symbol of the union of things: it introduces that generating virtue which is the cause of all combinations: and consequently one is a good principle." "ah, ah!" said queen dolores, "i heartily admire a good principle. but what has become of your concrete example?" "it is ready for you, madame: there is but one jurgen." "oh, i assure you, i am not yet convinced of that. still, the audacity of your example will help me to remember one, whether or not you prove to be really unique." "now, two, or the dyad, the origin of contrasts--" jurgen went on penetratingly to demonstrate that two was a symbol of diversity and of restlessness and of disorder, ending in collapse and separation: and was accordingly an evil principle. thus was the life of every man made wretched by the struggle between his two components, his soul and his body; and thus was the rapture of expectant parents considerably abated by the advent of twins. three, or the triad, however, since everything was composed of three substances, contained the most sublime mysteries, which jurgen duly communicated. we must remember, he pointed out, that zeus carried a triple thunderbolt, and poseidon a trident, whereas adês was guarded by a dog with three heads: this in addition to the omnipotent brothers themselves being a trio. thus jurgen continued to impart the praxagorean significance of each digit separately: and by and by the queen was declaring his flow of wisdom was superhuman. "ah, but, madame, not even the wisdom of a king is without limit. eight, i repeat, then, is appropriately the number of the beatitudes. and nine, or the ennead, also, being the multiple of three, should be regarded as sacred--" the queen attended docilely to his demonstration of the peculiar properties of nine. and when he had ended she confessed that beyond doubt nine should be regarded as miraculous. but she repudiated his analogues as to the muses, the lives of a cat, and how many tailors made a man. "rather, i shall remember always," she declared, "that king jurgen of eubonia is a nine days' wonder." "well, madame," said jurgen, with a sigh, "now that we have reached nine, i regret to say we have exhausted the digits." "oh, what a pity!" cried queen dolores. "nevertheless, i will concede the only illustration i disputed; there is but one jurgen: and certainly this praxagorean system of mathematics is a fascinating study." and promptly she commenced to plan jurgen's return with her into philistia, so that she might perfect herself in the higher branches of mathematics. "for you must teach me calculus and geometry and all other sciences in which these digits are employed. we can arrange some compromise with the priests. that is always possible with the priests of philistia, and indeed the priests of sesphra can be made to help anybody in anything. and as for your hamadryad, i will attend to her myself." "but, no," says jurgen, "i am ready enough in all conscience to compromise elsewhere: but to compound with the forces of philistia is the one thing i cannot do." "do you mean that, king jurgen?" the queen was astounded. "i mean it, my dear, as i mean nothing else. you are in many ways an admirable people, and you are in all ways a formidable people. so i admire, i dread, i avoid, and at the very last pinch i defy. for you are not my people, and willy-nilly my gorge rises against your laws, as equally insane and abhorrent. mind you, though, i assert nothing. you may be right in attributing wisdom to these laws; and certainly i cannot go so far as to say you are wrong: but still, at the same time--! that is the way i feel about it. so i, who compromise with everything else, can make no compromise with philistia. no, my adored dolores, it is not a virtue, rather it is an instinct with me, and i have no choice." even dolores, who was queen of all the philistines, could perceive that this man spoke truthfully. "i am sorry," says she, with real regret, "for you could be much run after in philistia." "yes," said jurgen, "as an instructor in mathematics." "but, no, king jurgen, not only in mathematics," said dolores, reasonably. "there is poetry, for instance! for they tell me you are a poet, and a great many of my people take poetry quite seriously, i believe. of course, i do not have much time for reading, myself. so you can be the poet laureate of philistia, on any salary you like. and you can teach us all your ideas by writing beautiful poems about them. and you and i can be very happy together." "teach, teach! there speaks philistia, and very temptingly, too, through an adorable mouth, that would bribe me with praise and fine food and soft days forever. it is a thing that happens rather often, though. and i can but repeat that art is not a branch of pedagogy!" "really i am heartily sorry. for apart from mathematics, i like you, king jurgen, just as a person." "i, too, am sorry, dolores. for i confess to a weakness for the women of philistia." "certainly you have given me no cause to suspect you of any weakness in that quarter," observed dolores, "in the long while you have been alone with me, and have talked so wisely and have reasoned so deeply. i am afraid that after to-night i shall find all other men more or less superficial. heigho! and i shall probably weep my eyes out to-morrow when you are relegated to limbo. for that is what the priests will do with you, king jurgen, on one plea or another, if you do not conform to the laws of philistia." "and that one compromise i cannot make! ah, but even now i have a plan wherewith to escape your priests: and failing that, i possess a cantrap to fall back upon in my hour of direst need. my private affairs are thus not yet in a hopeless or even in a dejected condition. this fact now urges me to observe that ten, or the decade, is the measure of all, since it contains all the numeric relations and harmonies--" so they continued their study of mathematics until it was time for jurgen to appear again before his judges. and in the morning queen dolores sent word to her priests that she was too sleepy to attend their council, but that the man was indisputably flesh and blood, amply deserved to be a king, and as a mathematician had not his peer. now these points being settled, the judges conferred, and jurgen was decreed a backslider into the ways of undesirable error. his judges were the priests of vel-tyno and sesphra and ageus, who are the gods of philistia. then the priest of ageus put on his spectacles and consulted the canonical law, and declared that this change in the indictment necessitated a severance of jurgen from the others, in the infliction of punishment. "for each, of course, must be relegated to the limbo of his fathers, as was foretold, in order that the prophecies may be fulfilled. religion languishes when prophecies are not fulfilled. now it appears that the forefathers of the flesh and blood prisoner were of a different faith from the progenitors of these obsolete illusions, and that his fathers foretold quite different things, and that their limbo was called hell." "it is little you know," says jurgen, "of the religion of eubonia." "we have it written down in this great book," the priest of vel-tyno then told him,--"every word of it without blot or error." "then you will see that the king of eubonia is the head of the church there, and changes all the prophecies at will. learned gowlais says so directly: and the judicious stevegonius was forced to agree with him, however unwillingly, as you will instantly discover by consulting the third section of his widely famous nineteenth chapter." "both gowlais and stevegonius were probably notorious heretics," says the priest of ageus. "i believe that was settled once for all at the diet of orthumar." "eh!" says jurgen. he did not like this priest. "now i will wager, sirs," jurgen continued, a trifle patronizingly, "that you gentlemen have not read gowlais, or even stevegonius, in the light of vossler's commentaries. and that is why you underrate them." "i at least have read every word that was ever written by any of these three," replied the priest of sesphra--"and with, as i need hardly say, the liveliest abhorrence. and this gowlais in particular, as i hasten to agree with my learned confrère, is a most notorious heretic--" "oh, sir," said jurgen, horrified, "whatever are you telling me about gowlais!" "i tell you that i have been roused to indignation by his _historia de bello veneris_--" "you surprise me: still--" "--shocked by his _pornoboscodidascolo_--" "i can hardly believe it: even so, you must grant--" "--and horrified by his _liber de immortalitate mentulæ_--" "well, conceding you that earlier work, sir, yet, at the same time--" "--and have been disgusted by his _de modo coeundi_--" "ah, but, none the less--" "--and have shuddered over the unspeakable enormities of his _erotopægnion!_ of his _cinædica!_ and especially of his _epipedesis_, that most pestilential and abominable book, _quem sine horrore nemo potest legere_--" "still, you cannot deny--" "--and have read also all the confutations of this detestable gowlais: as those of zanchius, faventinus, lelius vincentius, lagalla, thomas giaminus, and eight other admirable commentators--" "you are very exact, sir: but--" "--and that, in short, i have read every book you can imagine," says the priest of sesphra. the shoulders of jurgen rose to his ears, and jurgen silently flung out his hands, palms upward. "for, i perceive," says jurgen, to himself, "that this realist is too circumstantial for me. none the less, he invents his facts: it is by citing books which never existed that he publicly confutes the gowlais whom i invented privately: and that is not fair. now there remains only one chance for jurgen; but luckily that chance is sure." "why are you fumbling in your pocket?" asks the old priest of ageus, fidgeting and peering. "aha, you may well ask!" cried jurgen. he unfolded the cantrap which had been given him by the master philologist, and which jurgen had treasured against the time when more was needed than a glib tongue. "o most unrighteous judges," says jurgen, sternly, "now hear and tremble! 'at the death of adrian the fifth, pedro juliani, who should be named john the twentieth, was through an error in the reckoning elevated to the papal chair as john the twenty-first!'" "hah, and what have we to do with that?" inquired the priest of vel-tyno, with raised eyebrows. "why are you telling us of these irrelevant matters?" "because i thought it would interest you," said jurgen. "it was a fact that appeared to me rather amusing. so i thought i would mention it." "then you have very queer ideas of amusement," they told him. and jurgen perceived that either he had not employed his cantrap correctly or else that its magic was unappreciated by the leaders of philistia. 33. farewell to chloris now the philistines led out their prisoners, and made ready to inflict the doom which was decreed. and they permitted the young king of eubonia to speak with chloris. "farewell to you now, jurgen!" says chloris, weeping softly. "it is little i care what foolish words these priests of philistia may utter against me. but the big-armed axemen are felling my tree yonder, to get them timber to make a bedstead for the queen of philistia: for that is what this queen dolores ordered them to do the first thing this morning." and jurgen raised his hands. "you women!" he said. "what man would ever have thought of that?" "so when my tree is felled i must depart into a sombre land wherein there is no laughter at all; and where the puzzled dead go wandering futilely through fields of scentless asphodel, and through tall sullen groves of myrtle,--the puzzled quiet dead, who may not even weep as i do now, but can only wonder what it is that they regret. and i too must taste of lethê, and forget all i have loved." "you should give thanks to the imagination of your forefathers, my dear, that your doom is no worse. for i am going into a more barbaric limbo, into the hell of a people who thought entirely too much about flames and pitchforks," says jurgen, ruefully. "i tell you it is the deuce and all, to come of morbid ancestry." and he kissed chloris, upon the brow. "my dear, dear girl," he said, with a gulp, "as long as you remember me, do so with charity." "jurgen"--and she clung close to him--"you were not ever unkind, not even for a moment. jurgen, you have not ever spoken one harsh word to me or any other person, in all the while we were together. o jurgen, whom i have loved as you could love nobody, it was not much those other women had left me to worship!" "indeed, it is a pity that you loved me, chloris, for i was not worthy." and for the instant jurgen meant it. "if any other person said that, jurgen, i would be very angry. and even to hear you say it troubles me, because there was never a hamadryad between two hills that had a husband one-half so clever-foolish as he made light of time and chance, with his sleek black head cocked to one side, and his mischievous brown eyes a-twinkle." and jurgen wondered that this should be the notion chloris had of him, and that a gesture should be the things she remembered about him: and he was doubly assured that no woman bothers to understand the man she elects to love and cosset and slave for. "o woman dear," says jurgen, "but i have loved you, and my heart is water now that you are taken from me: and to remember your ways and the joy i had in them will be a big and grinding sorrow in the long time to come. oh, not with any heroic love have i loved you, nor with any madness and high dreams, nor with much talking either; but with a love befitting my condition, with a quiet and cordial love." "and must you be trying, while i die, to get your grieving for me into the right words?" she asks him, smiling very sadly. "no matter: you are jurgen, and i have loved you. and i am glad that i shall know nothing about it when in the long time, to come you will be telling so many other women about what was said by zorobasius and ptolemopiter, and when you will be posturing and romancing for their delight. for presently i shall have tasted lethê: and presently i shall have forgotten you, king jurgen, and all the joy i had in you, and all the pride, and all the love i had for you, king jurgen, who loved me as much as you were able." "why, and will there be any love-making, do you think, in hell?" he asks her, with a doleful smile. "there will be love-making," she replied, "wherever you go, king jurgen. and there will be women to listen. and at the last there will be a bean-pole of a woman, in a wig." "i am sorry--" he said. "and yet i have loved you, chloris." "that is my comfort now. and presently there will be lethê. i put the greater faith in lethê. and still, i cannot help but love you, jurgen, in whom i have no faith at all." he said, again: "i am not worthy." they kissed. then each of them was conveyed to an appropriate doom. and tears were in the eyes of jurgen, who was not used to weep: and he thought not at all of what was to befall him, but only of this and that small trivial thing which would have pleased his chloris had jurgen done it, and which for one reason or another jurgen had left undone. "i was not ever unkind to her, says she! ah, but i might have been so much kinder. and now i shall not ever see her any more, nor ever any more may i awaken delight and admiration in those bright tender eyes which saw no fault in me! well, but it is a comfort surely that she does not know how i devoted the last night she was to live to teaching mathematics." and then jurgen wondered how he would be despatched into the hell of his fathers? and when the philistines showed him in what manner they proposed to inflict their sentence he wondered at his own obtuseness. "for i might have surmised this would be the way of it," said jurgen. "and yet as always there is a simplicity in the methods of the philistines which is unimaginable by really clever fellows. and as always, too, these methods are unfair to us clever fellows. well, i am willing to taste any drink once: but this is a very horrible device, none the less; and i wonder if i have the pluck to endure it?" then as he stood considering this matter, a man-at-arms came hurrying. he brought with him three great rolled parchments, with seals and ribbons and everything in order: and these were jurgen's pardon and jurgen's nomination as poet laureate of philistia and jurgen's appointment as mathematician royal. the man-at-arms brought also a letter from queen dolores, and this jurgen read with a frown. "do you consider now what fun it would be to hood-wink everybody by pretending to conform to our laws!" said this letter, and it said nothing more: dolores was really a wise woman. yet there was a postscript. "for we could be so happy!" said the postscript. and jurgen looked toward the woods, where men were sawing up a great oak-tree. and jurgen gave a fine laugh, and with fine deliberateness he tore up the queen's letter into little strips. then statelily he took the parchments, and found they were so tough he could not tear them. this was uncommonly awkward, for jurgen's ill-advised attempt to tear the parchments impaired the dignity of his magnanimous self-sacrifice: he even suspected one of the guards of smiling. so there was nothing for it but presently to give up that futile tugging and jerking, and to compromise by crumpling these parchments. "this is my answer," said jurgen heroically, and with some admiration of himself, but still a little dashed by the uncalled-for toughness of the parchments. then jurgen cried farewell to fallen leukê; and scornfully he cried farewell to the philistines and to their devices. then he submitted to their devices. thus, it was without making any special protest about it that jurgen was relegated to limbo, and was despatched to the hell of his fathers, two days before christmas. 34. how emperor jurgen fared infernally now the tale tells how the devils of hell were in one of their churches celebrating christmas in such manner as the devils observe that day; and how jurgen came through the trapdoor in the vestry-room; and how he saw and wondered over the creatures which inhabited this place. for to him after the christmas services came all such devils as his fathers had foretold, and in not a hair or scale or talon did they differ from the worst that anybody had been able to imagine. "anatomy is hereabouts even more inconsequent than in cocaigne," was jurgen's first reflection. but the first thing the devils did was to search jurgen very carefully, in order to make sure he was not bringing any water into hell. "now, who may you be, that come to us alive, in a fine shirt of which we never saw the like before?" asked dithican. he had the head of a tiger, but otherwise the appearance of a large bird, with shining feathers and four feet: his neck was yellow, his body green, and his feet black. "it would not be treating honestly with you to deny that i am the emperor of noumaria," said jurgen, somewhat advancing his estate. now spoke amaimon, in the form of a thick suet-colored worm going upright upon his tail, which shone like the tail of a glowworm. he had no feet, but under his chops were two short hands, and upon his back were bristles such as grow upon hedgehogs. "but we are rather overrun with emperors," said amaimon, doubtfully, "and their crimes are a great trouble to us. were you a very wicked ruler?" "never since i became an emperor," replied jurgen, "has any of my subjects uttered one word of complaint against me. so it stands to reason i have nothing very serious with which to reproach myself." "your conscience, then, does not demand that you be punished?" "my conscience, gentlemen, is too well-bred to insist on anything." "you do not even wish to be tortured?" "well, i admit i had expected something of the sort. but none the less, i will not make a point of it," said jurgen, handsomely. "no, i shall be quite satisfied even though you do not torture me at all." and then the mob of devils made a great to-do over jurgen. "for it is exceedingly good to have at least one unpretentious and undictatorial human being in hell. nobody as a rule drops in on us save inordinately proud and conscientious ghosts, whose self-conceit is intolerable, and whose demands are outrageous." "how can that be?" "why, we have to punish them. of course they are not properly punished until they are convinced that what is happening to them is just and adequate. and you have no notion what elaborate tortures they insist their exceeding wickedness has merited, as though that which they did or left undone could possibly matter to anybody. and to contrive these torments quite tires us out." "but wherefore is this place called the hell of my fathers?" "because your forefathers builded it in dreams," they told him, "out of the pride which led them to believe that what they did was of sufficient importance to merit punishment. or so at least we have heard: but if you want the truth of the matter you must go to our grandfather at barathum." "i shall go to him, then. and do my own grandfathers, and all the forefathers that i had in the old time, inhabit this gray place?" "all such as are born with what they call a conscience come hither," the devils said. "do you think you could persuade them to go elsewhere? for in that event, we would be deeply obliged to you. their self-conceit is pitiful: but it is also a nuisance, because it prevents our getting any rest." "perhaps i can help you to obtain justice, and certainly to attempt to secure justice for you is my imperial duty. but who governs this country?" they told him how hell was divided into principalities that had for governors lucifer and beelzebub and belial and ascheroth and phlegeton: but that over all these was grandfather satan, who lived in the black house at barathum. "well, i prefer," says jurgen, "to deal directly with your principal, especially if he can explain the polity of this insane and murky country. do some of you conduct me to him in such state as becomes an emperor!" so cannagosta fetched a wheelbarrow, and jurgen got into it, and cannagosta trundled him away. cannagosta was something like an ox, but rather more like a cat, and his hair was curly. and as they came through chorasma, a very uncomfortable place where the damned abide in torment, whom should jurgen see but his own father, coth, the son of smoit and steinvor, standing there chewing his long moustaches in the midst of an especially tall flame. "do you stop now for a moment!" says jurgen, to his escort. "oh, but this is the most vexatious person in all hell!" cried cannagosta; "and a person whom there is absolutely no pleasing!" "nobody knows that better than i," says jurgen. and jurgen civilly bade his father good-day, but coth did not recognize this spruce young emperor of noumaria, who went about hell in a wheelbarrow. "you do not know me, then?" says jurgen. "how should i know you when i never saw you before?" replied coth, irritably. and jurgen did not argue the point: for he knew that he and his father could never agree about anything. so jurgen kept silent for that time, and cannagosta wheeled him through the gray twilight, descending always deeper and yet deeper into the lowlands of hell, until they had come to barathum. 35. what grandfather satan reported next the tale tells how three inferior devils made a loud music with bagpipes as jurgen went into the black house of barathum, to talk with grandfather satan. satan was like a man of sixty, or it might be sixty-two, in all things save that he was covered with gray fur, and had horns like those of a stag. he wore a breech-clout of very dark gray, and he sat in a chair of black marble, on a daïs: his bushy tail, which was like that of a squirrel, waved restlessly over his head as he looked at jurgen, without speaking, and without turning his mind from an ancient thought. and his eyes were like light shining upon little pools of ink, for they had no whites to them. "what is the meaning of this insane country?" says jurgen, plunging at the heart of things. "there is no sense in it, and no fairness at all." "ah," replied satan, in his curious hoarse voice, "you may well say that: and it is what i was telling my wife only last night." "you have a wife, then!" says jurgen, who was always interested in such matters. "why, but to be sure! either as a christian or as a married man, i should have comprehended this was satan's due. and how do you get on with her?" "pretty well," says grandfather satan: "but she does not understand me." "_et tu, brute!_" says jurgen. "and what does that mean?" "it is an expression connotating astonishment over an event without parallel. but everything in hell seems rather strange, and the place is not at all as it was rumored to be by the priests and the bishops and the cardinals that used to be exhorting me in my fine palace at breschau." "and where, did you say, is this palace?" "in noumaria, where i am the emperor jurgen. and i need not insult you by explaining breschau is my capital city, and is noted for its manufacture of linen and woolen cloth and gloves and cameos and brandy, though the majority of my subjects are engaged in cattle-breeding and agricultural pursuits." "of course not: for i have studied geography. and, jurgen, it is often i have heard of you, though never of your being an emperor." "did i not say this place was not in touch with new ideas?" "ah, but you must remember that thoughtful persons keep out of hell. besides, the war with heaven prevents us from thinking of other matters. in any event, you emperor jurgen, by what authority do you question satan, in satan's home?" "i have heard that word which the ass spoke with the cat," replied jurgen; for he recollected upon a sudden what merlin had shown him. grandfather satan nodded comprehendingly. "all honor be to set and bast! and may their power increase. this, emperor, is how my kingdom came about." then satan, sitting erect and bleak in his tall marble chair, explained how he, and all the domain and all the infernal hierarchies he ruled, had been created extempore by koshchei, to humor the pride of jurgen's forefathers. "for they were exceedingly proud of their sins. and koshchei happened to notice earth once upon a time, with your forefathers walking about it exultant in the enormity of their sins and in the terrible punishments they expected in requital. now koshchei will do almost anything to humor pride, because to be proud is one of the two things that are impossible to koshchei. so he was pleased, oh, very much pleased: and after he had had his laugh out, he created hell extempore, and made it just such a place as your forefathers imagined it ought to be, in order to humor the pride of your forefathers." "and why is pride impossible to koshchei?" "because he made things as they are; and day and night he contemplates things as they are, having nothing else to look at. how, then, can koshchei be proud?" "i see. it is as if i were imprisoned in a cell wherein there was nothing, absolutely nothing, except my verses. i shudder to think of it! but what is this other thing which is impossible to koshchei?" "i do not know. it is something that does not enter into hell." "well, i wish i too had never entered here, and now you must assist me to get out of this murky place." "and why must i assist you?" "because," said jurgen, and he drew out the cantrap of the master philologist, "because at the death of adrian the fifth, pedro juliani, who should be named john the twentieth, was through an error in the reckoning elevated to the papal chair as john the twenty-first. do you not find my reason sufficient?" "no," said grandfather satan, after thinking it over, "i cannot say that i do. but, then, popes go to heaven. it is considered to look better, all around, and particularly by my countrymen, inasmuch as many popes have been suspected of pro-celestialism. so we admit none of them into hell, in order to be on the safe side, now that we are at war. in consequence, i am no judge of popes and their affairs, nor do i pretend to be." and jurgen perceived that again he had employed his cantrap incorrectly or else that it was impotent to rescue people from satan. "but who would have thought," he reflected, "that grandfather satan was such a simple old creature!" "how long, then, must i remain here?" asks jurgen, after a dejected pause. "i do not know," replies satan. "it must depend entirely upon what your father thinks about it--" "but what has he to do with it?" "--since i and all else that is here are your father's absurd notions, as you have so frequently proved by logic. and it is hardly possible that such a clever fellow as you can be mistaken." "why, of course, that is not possible," says jurgen. "well, the matter is rather complicated. but i am willing to taste any drink once: and i shall manage to get justice somehow, even in this unreasonable place where my father's absurd notions are the truth." so jurgen left the black house of barathum: and jurgen also left grandfather satan, erect and bleak in his tall marble chair, and with his eyes gleaming in the dim light, as he sat there restively swishing his soft bushy tail, and not ever turning his mind from an ancient thought. 36. why coth was contradicted then jurgen went back to chorasma, where coth, the son of smoit and steinvor, stood conscientiously in the midst of the largest and hottest flame he had been able to imagine, and rebuked the outworn devils who were tormenting him, because the tortures they inflicted were not adequate to the wickedness of coth. and jurgen cried to his father: "the lewd fiend cannagosta told you i was the emperor of noumaria, and i do not deny it even now. but do you not perceive i am likewise your son jurgen?" "why, so it is," said coth, "now that i look at the rascal. and how, jurgen, did you become an emperor?" "oh, sir, and is this a place wherein to talk about mere earthly dignities? i am surprised your mind should still run upon these empty vanities even here in torment." "but it is inadequate torment, jurgen, such as does not salve my conscience. there is no justice in this place, and no way of getting justice. for these shiftless devils do not take seriously that which i did, and they merely pretend to punish me, and so my conscience stays unsatisfied." "well, but, father, i have talked with them, and they seem to think your crimes do not amount to much, after all." coth flew into one of his familiar rages. "i would have you know that i killed eight men in cold blood, and held five other men while they were being killed. i estimate the sum of such iniquity as ten and a half murders, and for these my conscience demands that i be punished." "ah, but, sir, that was fifty years or more ago, and these men would now be dead in any event, so you see it does not matter now." "i went astray with women, with i do not know how many women." jurgen shook his head. "this is very shocking news for a son to receive, and you can imagine my feelings. none the less, sir, that also was fifty years ago, and nobody is bothering over it now." "you jackanapes, i tell you that i swore and stole and forged and burned four houses and broke the sabbath and was guilty of mayhem and spoke disrespectfully to my mother and worshipped a stone image in porutsa. i tell you i shattered the whole decalogue, time and again. i committed all the crimes that were ever heard of, and invented six new ones." "yes, sir," said jurgen: "but, still, what does it matter if you did?" "oh, take away this son of mine!" cried coth: "for he is his mother all over again; and though i was the vilest sinner that ever lived, i have not deserved to be plagued twice with such silly questions. and i demand that you loitering devils bring more fuel." "sir," said a panting little fiend, in the form of a tadpole with hairy arms and legs like a monkey's, as he ran up with four bundles of faggots, "we are doing the very best we can for your discomfort. but you damned have no consideration for us, and do not remember that we are on our feet day and night, waiting upon you," said the little devil, whimpering, as with his pitchfork he raked up the fire about coth. "you do not even remember the upset condition of the country, on account of the war with heaven, which makes it so hard for us to get you all the inconveniences of life. instead, you lounge in your flames, and complain about the service, and grandfather satan punishes us, and it is not fair." "i think, myself," said jurgen, "you should be gentler with the boy. and as for your crimes, sir, come, will you not conquer this pride which you nickname conscience, and concede that after any man has been dead a little while it does not matter at all what he did? why, about bellegarde no one ever thinks of your throat-cutting and sabbath-breaking except when very old people gossip over the fire, and your wickedness brightens up the evening for them. to the rest of us you are just a stone in the churchyard which describes you as a paragon of all the virtues. and outside of bellegarde, sir, your name and deeds mean nothing now to anybody, and no one anywhere remembers you. so really your wickedness is not bothering any person now save these poor toiling devils: and i think that, in consequence, you might consent to put up with such torments as they can conveniently contrive, without complaining so ill-temperedly about it." "ah, but my conscience, jurgen! that is the point." "oh, if you continue to talk about your conscience, sir, you restrict the conversation to matters i do not understand, and so cannot discuss. but i dare say we will find occasion to thresh out this, and all other matters, by and by: and you and i will make the best of this place, for now i will never leave you." coth began to weep: and he said that his sins in the flesh had been too heinous for this comfort to be permitted him in the unendurable torment which he had fairly earned, and hoped some day to come by. "do you care about me, one way or the other, then?" says jurgen, quite astounded. and from the midst of his flame coth, the son of smoit, talked of the birth of jurgen, and of the infant that had been jurgen, and of the child that had been jurgen. and a horrible, deep, unreasonable emotion moved in jurgen as he listened to the man who had begotten him, and whose flesh was jurgen's flesh, and whose thoughts had not ever been jurgen's thoughts: and jurgen did not like it. then the voice of coth was bitterly changed, as he talked of the young man that had been jurgen, of the young man who was idle and rebellious and considerate of nothing save his own light desires; and of the division which had arisen between jurgen and jurgen's father coth spoke likewise: and jurgen felt better now, but was still grieved to know how much his father had once loved him. "it is lamentably true," says jurgen, "that i was an idle and rebellious son. so i did not follow your teachings. i went astray, oh, very terribly astray. i even went astray, sir i must tell you, with a nature myth connected with the moon." "oh, hideous abomination of the heathen!" "and she considered, sir, that thereafter i was likely to become a solar legend." "i should not wonder," said coth, and he shook his bald and dome-shaped head despondently. "ah, my son, it simply shows you what comes of these wild courses." "and in that event, i would, of course, be released from sojourning in the underworld by the spring equinox. do you not think so, sir?" says jurgen, very coaxingly, because he remembered that, according to satan, whatever coth believed would be the truth in hell. "i am sure," said coth--"why, i am sure i do not know anything about such matters." "yes, but what do you think?" "i do not think about it at all." "yes, but--" "jurgen, you have a very uncivil habit of arguing with people--" "still, sir--" "and i have spoken to you about it before--" "yet, father--" "and i do not wish to have to speak to you about it again--" "none the less, sir--" "and when i say that i have no opinion--" "but everybody has an opinion, father!" jurgen shouted this, and felt it was quite like old times. "how dare you speak to me in that tone of voice, sir!" "but i only meant--" "do not lie to me, jurgen! and stop interrupting me! for, as i was saying when you began to yell at your father as though you were addressing an unreasonable person, it is my opinion that i know nothing whatever about equinoxes! and do not care to know anything about equinoxes, i would have you understand! and that the less said as to such disreputable topics the better, as i tell you to your face!" and jurgen groaned. "here is a pretty father! if you had thought so, it would have happened. but you imagine me in a place like this, and have not sufficient fairness, far less paternal affection, to imagine me out of it." "i can only think of your well merited affliction, you quarrelsome scoundrel! and of the host of light women with whom you have sinned! and of the doom which has befallen you in consequence!" "well, at worst," says jurgen, "there are no women here. that ought to be a comfort to you." "i think there are women here," snapped his father. "it is reputed that quite a number of women have had consciences. but these conscientious women are probably kept separate from us men, in some other part of hell, for the reason that if they were admitted into chorasma they would attempt to tidy the place and make it habitable. i know your mother would have been meddling out of hand." "oh, sir, and must you still be finding fault with mother?" "your mother, jurgen, was in many ways an admirable woman. but," said coth, "she did not understand me." "ah, well, that may have been the trouble. still, all this you say about women being here is mere guess-work." "it is not!" said coth, "and i want none of your impudence, either. how many times must i tell you that?" jurgen scratched his ear reflectively. for he still remembered what grandfather satan had said, and coth's irritation seemed promising. "well, but the women here are all ugly, i wager." "they are not!" said his father, angrily. "why do you keep contradicting me?" "because you do not know what you are talking about," says jurgen, egging him on. "how could there be any pretty women in this horrible place? for the soft flesh would be burned away from their little bones, and the loveliest of queens would be reduced to a horrid cinder." "i think there are any number of vampires and succubi and such creatures, whom the flames do not injure at all, because these creatures are informed with an ardor that is unquenchable and is more hot than fire. and you understand perfectly what i mean, so there is no need for you to stand there goggling at me like a horrified abbess!" "oh, sir, but you know very well that i would have nothing to do with such unregenerate persons." "i do not know anything of the sort. you are probably lying to me. you always lied to me. i think you are on your way to meet a vampire now." "what, sir, a hideous creature with fangs and leathery wings!" "no, but a very poisonous and seductively beautiful creature." "come, now! you do not really think she is beautiful." "i do think so. how dare you tell me what i think and do not think!" "ah, well, i shall have nothing to do with her." "i think you will," said his father: "ah, but i think you will be up to your tricks with her before this hour is out. for do i not know what emperors are? and do i not know you?" and coth fell to talking of jurgen's past, in the customary terms of a family squabble, such as are not very nicely repeatable elsewhere. and the fiends who had been tormenting coth withdrew in embarrassment, and so long as coth continued talking they kept out of earshot. 37. invention of the lovely vampire so again coth parted with his son in anger, and jurgen returned again toward barathum; and, whether or not it was a coincidence, jurgen met precisely the vampire of whom he had inveigled his father into thinking. she was the most seductively beautiful creature that it would be possible for jurgen's father or any other man to imagine: and her clothes were orange-colored, for a reason sufficiently well known in hell, and were embroidered everywhere with green fig-leaves. "a good morning to you, madame," says jurgen, "and whither are you going?" "why, to no place at all, good youth. for this is my vacation, granted yearly by the law of kalki--" "and who is kalki, madame?" "nobody as yet: but he will come as a stallion. meanwhile his law precedes him, so that i am spending my vacation peacefully in hell, with none of my ordinary annoyances to bother me." "and what, madame, can they be?" "why, you must understand that it is little rest a vampire gets on earth, with so many fine young fellows like yourself going about everywhere eager to be destroyed." "but how, madame, did you happen to become a vampire if the life does not please you? and what is it that they call you?" "my name, sir," replied the vampire, sorrowfully, "is florimel, because my nature no less than my person was as beautiful as the flowers of the field and as sweet as the honey which the bees (who furnish us with such admirable examples of industry) get out of these flowers. but a sad misfortune changed all this. for i chanced one day to fall ill and die (which, of course, might happen to anyone), and as my funeral was leaving the house the cat jumped over my coffin. that was a terrible misfortune to befall a poor dead girl so generally respected, and in wide demand as a seamstress; though, even then, the worst might have been averted had not my sister-in-law been of what they call a humane disposition and foolishly attached to the cat. so they did not kill it, and i, of course, became a vampire." "yes, i can understand that was inevitable. still, it seems hardly fair. i pity you, my dear." and jurgen sighed. "i would prefer, sir, that you did not address me thus familiarly, since you and i have omitted the formality of an introduction; and in the absence of any joint acquaintances are unlikely ever to meet properly." "i have no herald handy, for i travel incognito. however, i am that jurgen who recently made himself emperor of noumaria, king of eubonia, prince of cocaigne, and duke of logreus; and of whom you have doubtless heard." "why, to be sure!" says she, patting her hair straight. "and who would have anticipated meeting your highness in such a place!" "one says 'majesty' to an emperor, my dear. it is a detail, of course: but in my position one has to be a little exigent." "i perfectly comprehend, your majesty; and indeed i might have divined your rank from your lovely clothes. i can but entreat you to overlook my unintentional breach of etiquette: and i make bold to add that a kind heart reveals the splendor of its graciousness through the interest which your majesty has just evinced in my disastrous history." "upon my word," thinks jurgen, "but in this flow of words i seem to recognize my father's imagination when in anger." then florimel told jurgen of her horrible awakening in the grave, and of what had befallen her hands and feet there, the while that against her will she fed repugnantly, destroying first her kindred and then the neighbors. this done, she had arisen. "for the cattle still lived, and that troubled me. when i had put an end to this annoyance, i climbed into the church belfry, not alone, for one went with me of whom i prefer not to talk; and at midnight i sounded the bell so that all who heard it would sicken and die. and i wept all the while, because i knew that when everything had been destroyed which i had known in my first life in the flesh, i would be compelled to go into new lands, in search of the food which alone can nourish me, and i was always sincerely attached to my home. so it was, your majesty, that i forever relinquished my sewing, and became a lovely peril, a flashing desolation, and an evil which smites by night, in spite of my abhorrence of irregular hours: and what i do i dislike extremely, for it is a sad fate to become a vampire, and still to sympathize with your victims, and particularly with their poor mothers." so jurgen comforted florimel, and he put his arm around her. "come, come!" he said, "but i will see that your vacation passes pleasantly. and i intend to deal fairly with you, too." then he glanced sidewise at his shadow, and whispered a suggestion which caused florimel to sigh. "by the terms of my doom," said she, "at no time during the nine lives of the cat can i refuse. still, it is a comfort you are the emperor of noumaria and have a kind heart." "oh, and a many other possessions, my dear! and i again assure you that i intend to deal fairly with you." so florimel conducted jurgen, through the changeless twilight of barathum, like that of a gray winter afternoon, to a quiet cleft by the sea of blood, which she had fitted out very cosily in imitation of her girlhood home; and she lighted a candle, and made him welcome to her cleft. and when jurgen was about to enter it he saw that his shadow was following him into the vampire's home. "let us extinguish this candle!" says jurgen, "for i have seen so many flames to-day that my eyes are tired." so florimel extinguished the candle, with a good-will that delighted jurgen. and now they were in utter darkness, and in the dark nobody can see what is happening. but that florimel now trusted jurgen and his noumarian claims was evinced by her very first remark. "i was in the beginning suspicious of your majesty," said florimel, "because i had always heard that every emperor carried a magnificent sceptre, and you then displayed nothing of the sort. but now, somehow, i do not doubt you any longer. and of what is your majesty thinking?" "why, i was reflecting, my dear," says jurgen, "that my father imagines things very satisfactorily." 38. as to applauded precedents afterward jurgen abode in hell, and complied with the customs of that country. and the tale tells that a week or it might be ten days after his meeting with florimel, jurgen married her, without being at all hindered by his having three other wives. for the devils, he found, esteemed polygamy, and ranked it above mere skill at torturing the damned, through a literal interpretation of the saying that it is better to marry than to burn. "and formerly," they told jurgen, "you could hardly come across a marriage anywhere that was not hallmarked 'made in heaven': but since we have been at war with heaven we have quite taken away that trade from our enemies. so you may marry here as much as you like." "why, then," says jurgen, "i shall marry in haste, and repeat at leisure. but can one obtain a divorce here?" "oh, no," said they. "we trafficked in them for a while, but we found that all persons who obtained divorces through our industry promptly thanked heaven they were free at last. in the face of such ingratitude we gave over that profitless trade, and now there is a manufactory, for specialties in men's clothing, upon the old statutory grounds." "but these makeshifts are unsatisfactory, and i wish to know, in confidence, what do you do in hell when there is no longer any putting up with your wives." the devils all blushed. "we would prefer not to tell you," said they, "for it might get to their ears." "now do i perceive," said jurgen, "that hell is pretty much like any other place." so jurgen and the lovely vampire were duly married. first jurgen's nails were trimmed, and the parings were given to florimel. a broomstick was laid before them, and they stepped over it. then florimel said "temon!" thrice, and nine times did jurgen reply "arigizator!" afterward the emperor jurgen and his bride were given a posset of dudaïm and eruca, and the devils modestly withdrew. thereafter jurgen abode in hell, and complied with the customs of that country, and was tolerably content for a while. now jurgen shared with florimel that quiet cleft which she had fitted out in imitation of her girlhood home: and they lived in the suburbs of barathum, very respectably, by the shore of the sea. there was, of course, no water in hell; indeed the importation of water was forbidden, under severe penalties, in view of its possible use for baptismal purposes: this sea was composed of the blood that had been shed by piety in furthering the kingdom of the prince of peace, and was reputed to be the largest ocean in existence. and it explained the nonsensical saying which jurgen had so often heard, as to hell's being paved with good intentions. "for epigenes of rhodes is right, after all," said jurgen, "in suggesting a misprint: and the word should be 'laved'." "why, to be sure, your majesty," assented florimel: "ah, but i always said your majesty had remarkable powers of penetration, quite apart from your majesty's scholarship." for florimel had this cajoling way of speaking. none the less, all vampires have their foibles, and are nourished by the vigor and youth of their lovers. so one morning florimel complained of being unwell, and attributed it to indigestion. jurgen stroked her head meditatively; then he opened his glittering shirt, and displayed what was plain enough to see. "i am full of vigor and i am young," said jurgen, "but my vigor and my youthfulness are of a peculiar sort, and are not wholesome. so let us have no more of your tricks, or you will quite spoil your vacation by being very ill indeed." "but i had thought all emperors were human!" said florimel, in a flutter of blushing penitence, exceedingly pretty to observe. "even so, sweetheart, all emperors are not jurgens," he replied, magnificently. "therefore you will find that not every emperor is justly styled the father of his people, or is qualified by nature to wield the sceptre of noumaria. i trust this lesson will suffice." "it will," said florimel, with a wry face. so thereafter they had no further trouble of this sort, and the wound on jurgen's breast was soon healed. and jurgen kept away from the damned, of course, because he and florimel were living respectably. they paid a visit to jurgen's father, however, very shortly after they were married, because this was the proper thing to do. and coth was civil enough, for coth, and voiced a hope that florimel might have a good influence upon jurgen and make him worth his salt, but did not pretend to be optimistic. yet this visit was never returned, because coth considered his wickedness was too great for him to be spared a moment of torment, and so would not leave his flame. "and really, your majesty," said florimel, "i do not wish for an instant to have the appearance of criticizing your majesty's relatives. but i do think that your majesty's father might have called upon us, at least once, particularly after i offered to have a fire made up for him to sit on any time he chose to come. i consider that your majesty's father assumes somewhat extravagant airs, in the lack of any definite proof as to his having been a bit more wicked than anybody else: and the child-like candor which has always been with me a leading characteristic prevents concealment of my opinion." "oh, it is just his conscience, dear." "a conscience is all very well in its place, your majesty; and i, for one, would never have been able to endure the interminable labor of seducing and assassinating so many fine young fellows if my conscience had not assured me that it was all the fault of my sister-in-law. but, even so, there is no sense in letting your conscience make a slave of you: and when conscience reduces your majesty's father to ignoring the rules of common civility and behaving like a candle-wick, i am sure that matters are being carried too far." "and right you are, my dear. however, we do not lack for company. so come now, make yourself fine, and shake the black dog from your back, for we are spending the evening with the asmodeuses." "and will your majesty talk politics again?" "oh, i suppose so. they appear to like it." "i only wish that i did, your majesty," observed florimel, and she yawned by anticipation. for with the devils jurgen got on garrulously. the religion of hell is patriotism, and the government is an enlightened democracy. this contented the devils, and jurgen had learned long ago never to fall out with either of these codes, without which, as the devils were fond of observing, hell would not be what it is. they were, to jurgen's finding, simple-minded fiends who allowed themselves to be deplorably overworked by the importunate dead. they got no rest because of the damned, who were such persons as had been saddled with a conscience, and who in consequence demanded interminable torments. and at the time of jurgen's coming into hell political affairs were in a very bad way, because there was a considerable party among the younger devils who were for compounding the age-old war with heaven, at almost any price, in order to get relief from this unceasing influx of conscientious dead persons in search of torment. for it was well-known that when satan submitted to be bound in chains there would be no more death: and the annoying immigration would thus be ended. so said the younger devils: and considered grandfather satan ought to sacrifice himself for the general welfare. then too they pointed out that satan had been perforce their presiding magistrate ever since the settlement of hell, because a change of administration is inexpedient in war-time: so that satan must term after term be re-elected: and of course satan had been voted absolute power in everything, since this too is customary in wartime. well, and after the first few thousand years of this the younger devils began to whisper that such government was not ideal democracy. but their more conservative elders were enraged by these effete and wild new notions, and dealt with their juniors somewhat severely, tearing them into bits and quite destroying them. the elder devils then proceeded to inflict even more startling punishments. * * * * * so grandfather satan was much vexed, because the laws were being violated everywhere: and a day or two after jurgen's advent satan issued a public appeal to his subjects, that the code of hell should be better respected. but under a democratic government people do not like to be perpetually bothering about law and order, as one of the older and stronger devils pointed out to jurgen. jurgen drew a serious face, and he stroked his chin. "why, but look you," says jurgen, "in deploring the mob spirit that has been manifesting itself sporadically throughout this country against the advocates of peace and submission to the commands of heaven and other pro-celestial propaganda,--and in warning loyal citizenship that such outbursts must be guarded against, as hurtful to the public welfare of hell,--why, grandfather satan should bear in mind that the government, in large measure, holds the remedy of the evil in its own hands." and jurgen looked very severely toward satan. "come now," says phlegeton, nodding his head, which was like that of a bear, except for his naked long, red ears, inside each of which was a flame like that of a spirit-lamp: "come now, but this young emperor in the fine shirt speaks uncommonly well!" "so we spoke together in pandemonium," said belial, wistfully, "in the brave days when pandemonium was newly built and we were all imps together." "yes, his talk is of the old school, than which there is none better. so pray continue, emperor jurgen," cried the elderly devils, "and let us know what you are talking about." "why, merely this," says jurgen, and again he looked severely toward satan: "i tell you that as long as sentimental weakness marks the prosecution of offences in violation of the laws necessitated by war-time conditions; as long as deserved punishment for overt acts of pro-celestialism is withheld; as long as weak-kneed clemency condones even a suspicion of disloyal thinking: then just so long will a righteously incensed, if now and then misguided patriotism take into its own hands vengeance upon the offenders." "but, still--" said grandfather satan. "ineffectual administration of the law," continued jurgen, sternly, "is the true defence of these outbursts: and far more justly deplorable than acts of mob violence is the policy of condonation that furnishes occasion for them. the patriotic people of hell are not in a temper to be trifled with, now that they are at war. conviction for offenses against the nation should not be behedged about with technicalities devised for over-refined peacetime jurisprudence. why, there is no one of you, i am sure, but has at his tongue's tip the immortal words of livonius as to this very topic: and so i shall not repeat them. but i fancy you will agree with me that what livonius says is unanswerable." so it was that jurgen went on at a great rate, and looking always very sternly at grandfather satan. "yes, yes!" said satan, wriggling uncomfortably, but still not thinking of jurgen entirely: "yes, all this is excellent oratory, and not for a moment would i decry the authority of livonius. and your quotation is uncommonly apropos and all that sort of thing. but with what are you charging me?" "with sentimental weakness," retorted jurgen. "was it not only yesterday one of the younger devils was brought before you, upon the charge that he had said the climate in heaven was better than the climate here? and you, sir, hell's chief magistrate--you it was who actually asked him if he had ever uttered such a disloyal heresy!" "now, but what else was i to do?" said satan, fidgeting, and swishing his great bushy tail so that it rustled against his horns, and still not really turning his mind from that ancient thought. "you should have remembered, sir, that a devil whose patriotism is impugned is a devil to be punished; and that there is no time to be prying into irrevelant questions of his guilt or innocence. otherwise, i take it, you will never have any real democracy in hell." now jurgen looked very impressive, and the devils were all cheering him. "and so," says jurgen, "your disgusted hearers were wearied by such frivolous interrogatories, and took the fellow out of your hands, and tore him into particularly small bits. now i warn you, grandfather satan, that it is your duty as a democratic magistrate just so to deal with such offenders first of all, and to ask your silly questions afterward. for what does rudigernus say outright upon this point? and zantipher magnus, too? why, my dear sir, i ask you plainly, where in the entire history of international jurisprudence will you find any more explicit language than these two employ?" "now certainly," says satan, with his bleak smile, "you cite very respectable authority: and i shall take your reproof in good part. i will endeavor to be more strict in the future. and you must not blame my laxity too severely, emperor jurgen, for it is a long while since any man came living into hell to instruct us how to manage matters in time of war. no doubt, precisely as you say, we do need a little more severity hereabouts, and would gain by adopting more human methods. rudigernus, now?--yes, rudigernus is rather unanswerable, and i concede it frankly. so do you come home and have supper with me, emperor jurgen, and we will talk over these things." then jurgen went off arm in arm with grandfather satan, and jurgen's erudition and sturdy common-sense were forevermore established among the older and more solid element in hell. and satan followed jurgen's suggestions, and the threatened rebellion was satisfactorily discouraged, by tearing into very small fragments anybody who grumbled about anything. so that all the subjects of satan went about smiling broadly all the time at the thought of what might befall them if they seemed dejected. thus was hell a happier looking place because of jurgen's coming. 39. of compromises in hell now grandfather satan's wife was called phyllis: and apart from having wings like a bat's, she was the loveliest little slip of devilishness that jurgen had seen in a long while. jurgen spent this night at the black house of barathum, and two more nights, or it might be three nights: and the details of what jurgen used to do there, after supper, when he would walk alone in the black house gardens, among the artfully colored cast-iron flowers and shrubbery, and would so come to the grated windows of phyllis's room, and would stand there joking with her in the dark, are not requisite to this story. satan was very jealous of his wife, and kept one of her wings clipped and held her under lock and key, as the treasure that she was. but jurgen was accustomed to say afterward that, while the gratings over the windows were very formidable, they only seemed somehow to enhance the piquancy of his commerce with dame phyllis. this queen, said jurgen, he had found simply unexcelled at repartee. florimel considered the saying cryptic: just what precisely did his majesty mean? "why, that in any and all circumstances dame phyllis knows how to take a joke, and to return as good as she receives." "so your majesty has already informed me: and certainly jokes can be exchanged through a grating--" "yes, that was what i meant. and dame phyllis appeared to appreciate my ready flow of humor. she informs me grandfather satan is of a cold dry temperament, with very little humor in him, so that they go for months without exchanging any pleasantries. well, i am willing to taste any drink once: and for the rest, remembering that my host had very enormous and intimidating horns, i was at particular pains to deal fairly with my hostess. though, indeed, it was more for the honor and the glory of the affair than anything else that i exchanged pleasantries with satan's wife. for to do that, my dear, i felt was worthy of the emperor jurgen." "ah, i am afraid your majesty is a sad scapegrace," replied florimel: "however, we all know that the sceptre of an emperor is respected everywhere." "indeed," says jurgen, "i have often regretted that i did not bring with me my jewelled sceptre when i left noumaria." she shivered at some unspoken thought: it was not until some while afterward that florimel told jurgen of her humiliating misadventure with the absent-minded sultan of garçao's sceptre. now she only replied that jewels might, conceivably, seem ostentatious and out of place. jurgen agreed to this truism: for of course they were living very quietly, and jurgen was splendid enough for any reasonable wife's requirements, in his glittering shirt. so jurgen got on pleasantly with florimel. but he never became as fond of her as he had been of guenevere or anaïtis, nor one-tenth as fond of her as he had been of chloris. in the first place, he suspected that florimel had been invented by his father, and coth and jurgen had never any tastes in common: and in the second place, jurgen could not but see that florimel thought a great deal of his being an emperor. "it is my title she loves, not me," reflected jurgen, sadly, "and her affection is less for that which is really integral to me than for imperial orbs and sceptres and such-like external trappings." and jurgen would come out of florimel's cleft considerably dejected, and would sit alone by the sea of blood, and would meditate how inequitable it was that the mere title of emperor should thus shut him off from sincerity and candor. "we who are called kings and emperors are men like other men: we are as rightly entitled as other persons to the solace of true love and affection: instead, we live in a continuous isolation, and women offer us all things save their hearts, and we are a lonely folk. no, i cannot believe that florimel loves me for myself alone: it is my title which dazzles her. and i would that i had never made myself the emperor of noumaria: for this emperor goes about everywhere in a fabulous splendor, and is, very naturally, resistless in his semi-mythical magnificence. ah, but these imperial gewgaws distract the thoughts of florimel from the real jurgen; so that the real jurgen is a person whom she does not understand at all. and it is not fair." then, too, he had a sort of prejudice against the way in which florimel spent her time in seducing and murdering young men. it was not possible, of course, actually to blame the girl, since she was the victim of circumstances, and had no choice about becoming a vampire, once the cat had jumped over her coffin. still, jurgen always felt, in his illogical masculine way, that her vocation was not nice. and equally in the illogical way of men, did he persist in coaxing florimel to tell him of her vampiric transactions, in spite of his underlying feeling that he would prefer to have his wife engaged in some other trade: and the merry little creature would humor him willingly enough, with her purple eyes a-sparkle, and with her vivid lips curling prettily back, so as to show her tiny white sharp teeth quite plainly. she was really very pretty thus, as she told him of what happened in copenhagen when young count osmund went down into the blind beggar-woman's cellar, and what they did with bits of him; and of how one kind of serpent came to have a secret name, which, when cried aloud in the night, with the appropriate ceremony, will bring about delicious happenings; and of what one can do with small unchristened children, if only they do not kiss you, with their moist uncertain little mouths, for then this thing is impossible; and of what use she had made of young sir ganelon's skull, when he was through with it, and she with him; and of what the young priest wulfnoth had said to the crocodiles at the very last. "oh, yes, my life has its amusing side," said florimel: "and one likes to feel, of course, that one is not wholly out of touch with things, and is even, in one's modest way, contributing to the suppression of folly. but even so, your majesty, the calls that are made upon one! the things that young men expect of you, as the price of their bodily and spiritual ruin! and the things their relatives say about you! and, above all, the constant strain, the irregular hours, and the continual effort to live up to one's position! oh, yes, your majesty, i was far happier when i was a consumptive seamstress and took pride in my buttonholes. but from a sister-in-law who only has you in to tea occasionally as a matter of duty, and who is prominent in churchwork, one may, of course, expect anything. and that reminds me that i really must tell your majesty about what happened in the hay-loft, just after the abbot had finished undressing--" so she would chatter away, while jurgen listened and smiled indulgently. for she certainly was very pretty. and so they kept house in hell contentedly enough until florimel's vacation was at an end: and then they parted, without any tears but in perfect friendliness. and jurgen always remembered florimel most pleasantly, but not as a wife with whom he had ever been on terms of actual intimacy. now when this lovely vampire had quitted him, the emperor jurgen, in spite of his general popularity and the deference accorded his political views, was not quite happy in hell. "it is a comfort, at any rate," said jurgen, "to discover who originated the theory of democratic government. i have long wondered who started the notion that the way to get a wise decision on any conceivable question was to submit it to a popular vote. now i know. well, and the devils may be right in their doctrines; certainly i cannot go so far as to say they are wrong: but still, at the same time--!" for instance, this interminable effort to make the universe safe for democracy, this continual warring against heaven because heaven clung to a tyrannical form of autocratic government, sounded both logical and magnanimous, and was, of course, the only method of insuring any general triumph for democracy: yet it seemed rather futile to jurgen, since, as he knew now, there was certainly something in the celestial system which made for military efficiency, so that heaven usually won. moreover, jurgen could not get over the fact that hell was just a notion of his ancestors with which koshchei had happened to fall in: for jurgen had never much patience with antiquated ideas, particularly when anyone put them into practice, as koshchei had done. "why, this place appears to me a glaring anachronism," said jurgen, brooding over the fires of chorasma: "and its methods of tormenting conscientious people i cannot but consider very crude indeed. the devils are simple-minded and they mean well, as nobody would dream of denying, but that is just it: for hereabouts is needed some more pertinacious and efficiently disagreeable person--" and that, of course, reminded him of dame lisa: and so it was the thoughts of jurgen turned again to doing the manly thing. and he sighed, and went among the devils tentatively looking and inquiring for that intrepid fiend who in the form of a black gentleman had carried off dame lisa. but a queer happening befell, and it was that nowhere could jurgen find the black gentleman, nor did any of the devils know anything about him. "from what you tell us, emperor jurgen," said they all, "your wife was an acidulous shrew, and the sort of woman who believes that whatever she does is right." "it was not a belief," says jurgen: "it was a mania with the poor dear." "by that fact, then, she is forever debarred from entering hell." "you tell me news," says jurgen, "which if generally known would lead many husbands into vicious living." "but it is notorious that people are saved by faith. and there is no faith stronger than that of a bad-tempered woman in her own infallibility. plainly, this wife of yours is the sort of person who cannot be tolerated by anybody short of the angels. we deduce that your empress must be in heaven." "well, that sounds reasonable. and so to heaven i will go, and it may be that there i shall find justice." "we would have you know," the fiends cried, bristling, "that in hell we have all kinds of justice, since our government is an enlightened democracy." "just so," says jurgen: "in an enlightened democracy one has all kinds of justice, and i would not dream of denying it. but you have not, you conceive, that lesser plague, my wife; and it is she whom i must continue to look for." "oh, as you like," said they, "so long as you do not criticize the exigencies of war-time. but certainly we are sorry to see you going into a country where the benighted people put up with an autocrat who was not duly elected to his position. and why need you continue seeking your wife's society when it is so much pleasanter living in hell?" and jurgen shrugged. "one has to do the manly thing sometimes." so the fiends told him the way to heaven's frontiers, pitying him. "but the crossing of the frontier must be your affair." "i have a cantrap," said jurgen; "and my stay in hell has taught me how to use it." then jurgen followed his instructions, and went into meridie, and turned to the left when he had come to the great puddle where the adders and toads are reared, and so passed through the mists of tartarus, with due care of the wild lightning, and took the second turn to his left--"always in seeking heaven be guided by your heart," had been the advice given him by devils,--and thus avoiding the abode of jemra, he crossed the bridge over the bottomless pit and the solitary narakas. and brachus, who kept the toll-gate on this bridge, did that of which the fiends had forewarned jurgen: but for this, of course, there was no help. 40. the ascension of pope jurgen the tale tells how on the feast of the annunciation jurgen came to the high white walls which girdle heaven. for jurgen's forefathers had, of course, imagined that hell stood directly contiguous to heaven, so that the blessed could augment their felicity by gazing down upon the tortures of the damned. now at this time a boy angel was looking over the parapet of heaven's wall. "and a good day to you, my fine young fellow," says jurgen. "but of what are you thinking so intently?" for just as dives had done long years before, now jurgen found that a man's voice carries perfectly between hell and heaven. "sir," replies the boy, "i was pitying the poor damned." "why, then, you must be origen," says jurgen, laughing. "no, sir, my name is jurgen." "heyday!" says jurgen: "well, but this jurgen has been a great many persons in my time. so very possibly you speak the truth." "i am jurgen, the son of coth and azra." "ah, ah! but so were all of them, my boy." "why, then, i am jurgen, the grandson of steinvor, and the grandchild whom she loved above her other grandchildren: and so i abide forever in heaven with all the other illusions of steinvor. but who, messire, are you that go about hell unscorched, in such a fine looking shirt?" jurgen reflected. clearly it would never do to give his real name, and thus raise the question as to whether jurgen was in heaven or hell. then he recollected the cantrap of the master philologist, which jurgen had twice employed incorrectly. and jurgen cleared his throat, for he believed that he now understood the proper use of cantraps. "perhaps," says jurgen, "i ought not to tell you who i am. but what is life without confidence in one another? besides, you appear a boy of remarkable discretion. so i will confide in you that i am pope john the twentieth, heaven's regent upon earth, now visiting this place upon celestial business which i am not at liberty to divulge more particularly, for reasons that will at once occur to a young man of your unusual cleverness." "oh, but i say! that is droll. do you just wait a moment!" cried the boy angel. his bright face vanished, with a whisking of brown curls: and jurgen carefully re-read the cantrap of the master philologist. "yes, i have found, i think, the way to use such magic," observes jurgen. presently the young angel re-appeared at the parapet. "i say, messire! i looked on the register--all popes are admitted here the moment they die, without inquiring into their private affairs, you know, so as to avoid any unfortunate scandal,--and we have twenty-three pope johns listed. and sure enough, the mansion prepared for john the twentieth is vacant. he seems to be the only pope that is not in heaven." "why, but of course not," says jurgen, complacently, "inasmuch as you see me, who was once bishop of rome and servant to the servants of god, standing down here on this cinder-heap." "yes, but none of the others in your series appears to place you. john the nineteenth says he never heard of you, and not to bother him in the middle of a harp lesson--" "he died before my accession, naturally." "--and john the twenty-first says he thinks they lost count somehow, and that there never was any pope john the twentieth. he says you must be an impostor." "ah, professional jealousy!" sighed jurgen: "dear me, this is very sad, and gives one a poor opinion of human nature. now, my boy, i put it to you fairly, how could there have been a twenty-first unless there had been a twentieth? and what becomes of the great principle of papal infallibility when a pope admits to a mistake in elementary arithmetic? oh, but this is a very dangerous heresy, let me tell you, an inquisition matter, a consistory business! yet, luckily, upon his own contention, this pedro juliani--" "and that was his name, too, for he told me! you evidently know all about it, messire," said the young angel, visibly impressed. "of course, i know all about it. well, i repeat, upon his own contention this man is non-existent, and so, whatever he may say amounts to nothing. for he tells you there was never any pope john the twentieth: and either he is lying or he is telling you the truth. if he is lying, you, of course, ought not to believe him: yet, if he is telling you the truth, about there never having been any pope john the twentieth, why then, quite plainly, there was never any pope john the twenty-first, so that this man asserts his own non-existence; and thus is talking nonsense, and you, of course, ought not to believe in nonsense. even did we grant his insane contention that he is nobody, you are too well brought up, i am sure, to dispute that nobody tells lies in heaven: it follows that in this case nobody is lying; and so, of course, i must be telling the truth, and you have no choice save to believe me." "now, certainly that sounds all right," the younger jurgen conceded: "though you explain it so quickly it is a little difficult to follow you." "ah, but furthermore, and over and above this, and as a tangible proof of the infallible particularity of every syllable of my assertion," observes the elder jurgen, "if you will look in the garret of heaven you will find the identical ladder upon which i descended hither, and which i directed them to lay aside until i was ready to come up again. indeed, i was just about to ask you to fetch it, inasmuch as my business here is satisfactorily concluded." well, the boy agreed that the word of no pope, whether in hell or heaven, was tangible proof like a ladder: and again he was off. jurgen waited, in tolerable confidence. it was a matter of logic. jacob's ladder must from all accounts have been far too valuable to throw away after one night's use at beth-el; it would come in very handy on judgment day: and jurgen's knowledge of lisa enabled him to deduce that anything which was being kept because it would come in handy some day would inevitably be stored in the garret, in any establishment imaginable by women. "and it is notorious that heaven is a delusion of old women. why, the thing is a certainty," said jurgen; "simply a mathematical certainty." and events proved his logic correct: for presently the younger jurgen came back with jacob's ladder, which was rather cobwebby and obsolete looking after having been lain aside so long. "so you see you were perfectly right," then said this younger jurgen, as he lowered jacob's ladder into hell. "oh, messire john, do hurry up and have it out with that old fellow who slandered you!" thus it came about that jurgen clambered merrily from hell to heaven upon a ladder of unalloyed, time-tested gold: and as he climbed the shirt of nessus glittered handsomely in the light which shone from heaven: and by this great light above him, as jurgen mounted higher and yet higher, the shadow of jurgen was lengthened beyond belief along the sheer white wall of heaven, as though the shadow were reluctant and adhered tenaciously to hell. yet presently jurgen leaped the ramparts: and then the shadow leaped too; and so his shadow came with jurgen into heaven, and huddled dispiritedly at jurgen's feet. "well, well!" thinks jurgen, "certainly there is no disputing the magic of the master philologist when it is correctly employed. for through its aid i am entering alive into heaven, as only enoch and elijah have done before me: and moreover, if this boy is to be believed, one of the very handsomest of heaven's many mansions awaits my occupancy. one could not ask more of any magician fairly. aha, if only lisa could see me now!" that was his first thought. afterward jurgen tore up the cantrap and scattered its fragments as the master philologist had directed. then jurgen turned to the boy who aided jurgen to get into heaven. "come, youngster, and let us have a good look at you!" and jurgen talked with the boy that he had once been, and stood face to face with all that jurgen had been and was not any longer. and this was the one happening which befell jurgen that the writer of the tale lacked heart to tell of. so jurgen quitted the boy that he had been. but first had jurgen learned that in this place his grandmother steinvor (whom king smoit had loved) abode and was happy in her notion of heaven; and that about her were her notions of her children and of her grandchildren. steinvor had never imagined her husband in heaven, nor king smoit either. "that is a circumstance," says jurgen, "which heartens me to hope one may find justice here. yet i shall keep away from my grandmother, the steinvor whom i knew and loved, and who loved me so blindly that this boy here is her notion of me. yes, in mere fairness to her, i must keep away." so he avoided that part of heaven wherein were his grandmother's illusions: and this was counted for righteousness in jurgen. that part of heaven smelt of mignonette, and a starling was singing there. 41. of compromises in heaven jurgen then went unhindered to where the god of jurgen's grandmother sat upon a throne, beside a sea of crystal. a rainbow, made high and narrow like a window frame, so as to fit the throne, formed an arch-way in which he sat: at his feet burned seven lamps, and four remarkable winged creatures sat there chaunting softly, "glory and honor and thanks to him who liveth forever!" in one hand of the god was a sceptre, and in the other a large book with seven red spots on it. there were twelve smaller thrones, without rainbows, upon each side of the god of jurgen's grandmother, in two semi-circles: upon these inferior thrones sat benignant-looking elderly angels, with long white hair, all crowned, and clothed in white robes, and having a harp in one hand, and in the other a gold flask, about pint size. and everywhere fluttered and glittered the multicolored wings of seraphs and cherubs, like magnified paroquets, as they went softly and gaily about the golden haze that brooded over heaven, to a continuous sound of hushed organ music and a remote and undistinguishable singing. now the eyes of this god met the eyes of jurgen: and jurgen waited thus for a long while, and far longer, indeed, than jurgen suspected. "i fear you," jurgen said, at last: "and, yes, i love you: and yet i cannot believe. why could you not let me believe, where so many believed? or else, why could you not let me deride, as the remainder derided so noisily? o god, why could you not let me have faith? for you gave me no faith in anything, not even in nothingness. it was not fair." and in the highest court of heaven, and in plain view of all the angels, jurgen began to weep. "i was not ever your god, jurgen." "once very long ago," said jurgen, "i had faith in you." "no, for that boy is here with me, as you yourself have seen. and to-day there is nothing remaining of him anywhere in the man that is jurgen." "god of my grandmother! god whom i too loved in boyhood!" said jurgen then: "why is it that i am denied a god? for i have searched: and nowhere can i find justice, and nowhere can i find anything to worship." "what, jurgen, and would you look for justice, of all places, in heaven?" "no," jurgen said; "no, i perceive it cannot be considered here. else you would sit alone." "and for the rest, you have looked to find your god without, not looking within to see that which is truly worshipped in the thoughts of jurgen. had you done so, you would have seen, as plainly as i now see, that which alone you are able to worship. and your god is maimed: the dust of your journeying is thick upon him; your vanity is laid as a napkin upon his eyes; and in his heart is neither love nor hate, not even for his only worshipper." "do not deride him, you who have so many worshippers! at least, he is a monstrous clever fellow," said jurgen: and boldly he said it, in the highest court of heaven, and before the pensive face of the god of jurgen's grandmother. "ah, very probably. i do not meet with many clever people. and as for my numerous worshippers, you forget how often you have demonstrated that i was the delusion of an old woman." "well, and was there ever a flaw in my logic?" "i was not listening to you, jurgen. you must know that logic does not much concern us, inasmuch as nothing is logical hereabouts." and now the four winged creatures ceased their chaunting, and the organ music became a far-off murmuring. and there was silence in heaven. and the god of jurgen's grandmother, too, was silent for a while, and the rainbow under which he sat put off its seven colors and burned with an unendurable white, tinged bluishly, while the god considered ancient things. then in the silence this god began to speak. some years ago (said the god of jurgen's grandmother) it was reported to koshchei that scepticism was abroad in his universe, and that one walked therein who would be contented with no rational explanation. "bring me this infidel," says koshchei: so they brought to him in the void a little bent gray woman in an old gray shawl. "now, tell me why you will not believe," says koshchei, "in things as they are." then the decent little bent gray woman answered civilly; "i do not know, sir, who you may happen to be. but, since you ask me, everybody knows that things as they are must be regarded as temporary afflictions, and as trials through which we are righteously condemned to pass, in order to attain to eternal life with our loved ones in heaven." "ah, yes," said koshchei, who made things as they are; "ah, yes, to be sure! and how did you learn of this?" "why, every sunday morning the priest discoursed to us about heaven, and of how happy we would be there after death." "has this woman died, then?" asked koshchei. "yes, sir," they told him,--"recently. and she will believe nothing we explain to her, but demands to be taken to heaven." "now, this is very vexing," koshchei said, "and i cannot, of course, put up with such scepticism. that would never do. so why do you not convey her to this heaven which she believes in, and thus put an end to the matter?" "but, sir," they told him, "there is no such place." then koshchei reflected. "it is certainly strange that a place which does not exist should be a matter of public knowledge in another place. where does this woman come from?" "from earth," they told him. "where is that?" he asked: and they explained to him as well as they could. "oh, yes, over that way," koshchei interrupted. "i remember. now--but what is your name, woman who wish to go to heaven?" "steinvor, sir: and if you please i am rather in a hurry to be with my children again. you see, i have not seen any of them for a long while." "but stay," said koshchei: "what is that which comes into this woman's eyes as she speaks of her children?" they told him it was love. "did i create this love?" says koshchei, who made things as they are. and they told him, no: and that there were many sorts of love, but that this especial sort was an illusion which women had invented for themselves, and which they exhibited in all dealings with their children. and koshchei sighed. "tell me about your children," koshchei then said to steinvor: "and look at me as you talk, so that i may see your eyes." so steinvor talked of her children: and koshchei, who made all things, listened very attentively. of coth she told him, of her only son, confessing coth was the finest boy that ever lived,--"a little wild, sir, at first, but then you know what boys are,"--and telling of how well coth had done in business and of how he had even risen to be an alderman. koshchei, who made all things, seemed properly impressed. then steinvor talked of her daughters, of imperia and lindamira and christine: of imperia's beauty, and of lindamira's bravery under the mishaps of an unlucky marriage, and of christine's superlative housekeeping. "fine women, sir, every one of them, with children of their own! and to me they still seem such babies, bless them!" and the decent little bent gray woman laughed. "i have been very lucky in my children, sir, and in my grandchildren, too," she told koshchei. "there is jurgen, now, my coth's boy! you may not believe it, sir, but there is a story i must tell you about jurgen--" so she ran on very happily and proudly, while koshchei, who made all things, listened, and watched the eyes of steinvor. then privately koshchei asked, "are these children and grandchildren of steinvor such as she reports?" "no, sir," they told him privately. so as steinvor talked koshchei devised illusions in accordance with that which steinvor said, and created such children and grandchildren as she described. male and female he created them standing behind steinvor, and all were beautiful and stainless: and koshchei gave life to these illusions. then koshchei bade her turn about. she obeyed: and koshchei was forgotten. well, koshchei sat there alone in the void, looking not very happy, and looking puzzled, and drumming upon his knee, and staring at the little bent gray woman, who was busied with her children and grandchildren, and had forgotten all about him. "but surely, lindamira," he hears steinvor say, "we are not yet in heaven."--"ah, my dear mother," replies her illusion of lindamira, "to be with you again is heaven: and besides, it may be that heaven is like this, after all."--"my darling child, it is sweet of you to say that, and exactly like you to say that. but you know very well that heaven is fully described in the book of revelations, in the bible, as the glorious place that heaven is. whereas, as you can see for yourself, around us is nothing at all, and no person at all except that very civil gentleman to whom i was just talking; and who, between ourselves, seems woefully uninformed about the most ordinary matters." "bring earth to me," says koshchei. this was done, and koshchei looked over the planet, and found a bible. koshchei opened the bible, and read the revelation of st. john the divine, while steinvor talked with her illusions. "i see," said koshchei. "the idea is a little garish. still--!" so he replaced the bible, and bade them put earth, too, in its proper place, for koshchei dislikes wasting anything. then koshchei smiled and created heaven about steinvor and her illusions, and he made heaven just such a place as was described in the book. "and so, jurgen, that was how it came about," ended the god of jurgen's grandmother. "and me also koshchei created at that time, with the seraphim and the saints and all the blessed, very much as you see us: and, of course, he caused us to have been here always, since the beginning of time, because that, too, was in the book." "but how could that be done?" says jurgen, with brows puckering. "and in what way could koshchei juggle so with time?" "how should i know, since i am but the illusion of an old woman, as you have so frequently proved by logic? let it suffice that whatever koshchei wills, not only happens, but has already happened beyond the ancientest memory of man and his mother. how otherwise could he be koshchei?" "and all this," said jurgen, virtuously, "for a woman who was not even faithful to her husband!" "oh, very probably!" said the god: "at all events, it was done for a woman who loved. koshchei will do almost anything to humor love, since love is one of the two things which are impossible to koshchei." "i have heard that pride is impossible to koshchei--" the god of jurgen's grandmother raised his white eyebrows. "what is pride? i do not think i ever heard of it before. assuredly it is something that does not enter here." "but why is love impossible to koshchei?" "because koshchei made things as they are, and day and night he contemplates things as they are. how, then, can koshchei love anything?" but jurgen shook his sleek black head. "that i cannot understand at all. if i were imprisoned in a cell wherein was nothing except my verses i would not be happy, and certainly i would not be proud: but even so, i would love my verses. i am afraid that i fall in more readily with the ideas of grandfather satan than with yours; and without contradicting you, i cannot but wonder if what you reveal is true." "and how should i know whether or not i speak the truth?" the god asked of him, "since i am but the illusion of an old woman, as you have so frequently proved by logic." "well, well!" said jurgen, "you may be right in all matters, and certainly i cannot presume to say you are wrong: but still, at the same time--! no, even now i do not quite believe in you." "who could expect it of a clever fellow, who sees so clearly through the illusions of old women?" the god asked, a little wearily. and jurgen answered: "god of my grandmother, i cannot quite believe in you, and your doings as they are recorded i find incoherent and a little droll. but i am glad the affair has been so arranged that you may always now be real to brave and gentle persons who have believed in and have worshipped and have loved you. to have disappointed them would have been unfair: and it is right that before the faith they had in you not even koshchei who made things as they are was able to be reasonable. "god of my grandmother, i cannot quite believe in you; but remembering the sum of love and faith that has been given you, i tremble. i think of the dear people whose living was confident and glad because of their faith in you: i think of them, and in my heart contends a blind contrition, and a yearning, and an enviousness, and yet a tender sort of amusement colors all. oh, god, there was never any other deity who had such dear worshippers as you have had, and you should be very proud of them. "god of my grandmother, i cannot quite believe in you, yet i am not as those who would come peering at you reasonably. i, jurgen, see you only through a mist of tears. for you were loved by those whom i loved greatly very long ago: and when i look at you it is your worshippers and the dear believers of old that i remember. and it seems to me that dates and manuscripts and the opinions of learned persons are very trifling things beside what i remember, and what i envy!" "who could have expected such a monstrous clever fellow ever to envy the illusions of old women?" the god of jurgen's grandmother asked again: and yet his countenance was not unfriendly. "why, but," said jurgen, on a sudden, "why, but my grandmother--in a way--was right about heaven and about you also. for certainly you seem to exist, and to reign in just such estate as she described. and yet, according to your latest revelation, i too was right--in a way--about these things being an old woman's delusions. i wonder now--?" "yes, jurgen?" "why, i wonder if everything is right, in a way? i wonder if that is the large secret of everything? it would not be a bad solution, sir," said jurgen, meditatively. the god smiled. then suddenly that part of heaven was vacant, except for jurgen, who stood there quite alone. and before him was the throne of the vanished god and the sceptre of the god, and jurgen saw that the seven spots upon the great book were of red sealing-wax. jurgen was afraid: but he was particularly appalled by his consciousness that he was not going to falter. "what, you who have been duke and prince and king and emperor and pope! and do such dignities content a jurgen? why, not at all," says jurgen. so jurgen ascended the throne of heaven, and sat beneath that wondrous rainbow: and in his lap now was the book, and in his hand was the sceptre, of the god of jurgen's grandmother. jurgen sat thus, for a long while regarding the bright vacant courts of heaven. "and what will you do now?" says jurgen, aloud. "oh, fretful little jurgen, you that have complained because you had not your desire, you are omnipotent over earth and all the affairs of men. what now is your desire?" and sitting thus terribly enthroned, the heart of jurgen was as lead within him, and he felt old and very tired. "for i do not know. oh, nothing can help me, for i do not know what thing it is that i desire! and this book and this sceptre and this throne avail me nothing at all, and nothing can ever avail me: for i am jurgen who seeks he knows not what." so jurgen shrugged, and climbed down from the throne of the god, and wandering at adventure, came presently to four archangels. they were seated upon a fleecy cloud, and they were eating milk and honey from gold porringers: and of these radiant beings jurgen inquired the quickest way out of heaven. "for hereabouts are none of my illusions," said jurgen, "and i must now return to such illusions as are congenial. one must believe in something. and all that i have seen in heaven i have admired and envied, but in none of these things could i believe, and with none of these things could i be satisfied. and while i think of it, i wonder now if any of you gentlemen can give me news of that lisa who used to be my wife?" he described her; and they regarded him with compassion. but these archangels, he found, had never heard of lisa, and they assured him there was no such person in heaven. for steinvor had died when jurgen was a boy, and so she had never seen lisa; and in consequence, had not thought about lisa one way or the other, when steinvor outlined her notions to koshchei who made things as they are. now jurgen discovered, too, that, when his eyes first met the eyes of the god of jurgen's grandmother, jurgen had stayed motionless for thirty-seven days, forgetful of everything save that the god of his grandmother was love. "nobody else has willingly turned away so soon," zachariel told him: "and we think that your insensibility is due to some evil virtue in the glittering garment which you are wearing, and of which the like was never seen in heaven." "i did but search for justice," jurgen said: "and i could not find it in the eyes of your god, but only love and such forgiveness as troubled me." "because of that should you rejoice," the four archangels said; "and so should all that lives rejoice: and more particularly should we rejoice that dwell in heaven, and hourly praise our lord god's negligence of justice, whereby we are permitted to enter into this place." 42. twelve that are fretted hourly so it was upon walburga's eve, when almost anything is rather more than likely to happen, that jurgen went hastily out of heaven, without having gained or wasted any love there. st. peter unbarred for him, not the main entrance, but a small private door, carved with innumerable fishes in bas-relief, because this exit opened directly upon any place you chose to imagine. "for thus," st. peter said, "you may return without loss of time to your own illusions." "there was a cross," said jurgen, "which i used to wear about my neck, through motives of sentiment, because it once belonged to my dead mother. for no woman has ever loved me save that azra who was my mother--" "i wonder if your mother told you that?" st. peter asked him, smiling reminiscently. "mine did, time and again. and sometimes i have wondered--? for, as you may remember, i was a married man, jurgen: and my wife did not quite understand me," said st. peter, with a sigh. "why, indeed," says jurgen, "my case is not entirely dissimilar: and the more i marry, the less i find of comprehension. i should have had more sympathy with king smoit, who was certainly my grandfather. well, you conceive, st. peter, these other women have trusted me, more or less, because they loved a phantom jurgen. but azra trusted me not at all, because she loved me with clear eyes. she comprehended jurgen, and yet loved him: though i for one, with all my cleverness, cannot do either of these things. none the less, in order to do the manly thing, in order to pleasure a woman,--and a married woman, too!--i flung away the little gold cross which was all that remained to me of my mother: and since then, st. peter, the illusions of sentiment have given me a woefully wide berth. so i shall relinquish heaven to seek a cross." "that has been done before, jurgen, and i doubt if much good came of it." "heyday, and did it not lead to the eternal glory of the first and greatest of the popes? it seems to me, sir, that you have either very little memory or very little gratitude, and i am tempted to crow in your face." "why, now you talk like a cherub, jurgen, and you ought to have better manners. do you suppose that we apostles enjoy hearing jokes made about the church?" "well, it is true, st. peter, that you founded the church--" "now, there you go again! that is what those patronizing seraphim and those impish cherubs are always telling us. you see, we twelve sit together in heaven, each on his white throne: and we behold everything that happens on earth. now from our station there has been no ignoring the growth and doings of what you might loosely call christianity. and sometimes that which we see makes us very uncomfortable, jurgen. especially as just then some cherub is sure to flutter by, in a broad grin, and chuckle, 'but you started it.' and we did; i cannot deny that in a way we did. yet really we never anticipated anything of this sort, and it is not fair to tease us about it." "indeed, st. peter, now i think of it, you ought to be held responsible for very little that has been said or done in the shadow of a steeple. for as i remember it, you twelve attempted to convert a world to the teachings of jesus: and good intentions ought to be respected, however drolly they may turn out." it was apparent this sympathy was grateful to the old saint, for he was moved to a more confidential tone. meditatively he stroked his long white beard, then said with indignation: "if only they would not claim sib with us we could stand it: but as it is, for centuries we have felt like fools. it is particularly embarrassing for me, of course, being on the wicket; for to cap it all, jurgen, the little wretches die, and come to heaven impudent as sparrows, and expect me to let them in! from their thumbscrewings, and their auto-da-fés, and from their massacres, and patriotic sermons, and holy wars, and from every manner of abomination, they come to me, smirking. and millions upon millions of them, jurgen! there is no form of cruelty or folly that has not come to me for praise, and no sort of criminal idiot who has not claimed fellowship with me, who was an apostle and a gentleman. why, jurgen, you may not believe it, but there was an eminent bishop came to me only last week in the expectation that i was going to admit him,--and i with the full record of his work for temperance, all fairly written out and in my hand!" now jurgen was surprised. "but temperance is surely a virtue, st. peter." "ah, but his notion of temperance! and his filthy ravings to my face, as though he were talking in some church or other! why, the slavering little blasphemer! to my face he spoke against the first of my master's miracles, and against the last injunction which was laid upon us twelve, spluttering that the wine was unfermented! to me he said this, look you, jurgen! to me, who drank of that noble wine at cana and equally of that sustaining wine we had in the little upper room in jerusalem when the hour of trial was near and our master would have us at our best! with me, who have since tasted of that unimaginable wine which the master promised us in his kingdom, the busy wretch would be arguing! and would have convinced me, in the face of all my memories, that my master, who was a man among men, was nourished by such thin swill as bred this niggling brawling wretch to plague me!" "well, but indeed, st. peter, there is no denying that wine is often misused." "so he informed me, jurgen. and i told him by that argument he would prohibit the making of bishops, for reasons he would find in the mirror: and that, remembering what happened at the crucifixion, he would clap every lumber dealer into jail. so they took him away still slavering," said st. peter, wearily. "he was threatening to have somebody else elected in my place when i last heard him: but that was only old habit." "i do not think, however, that i encountered any such bishop, sir, down yonder." "in the hell of your fathers? oh, no: your fathers meant well, but their notions were limited. no, we have quite another eternal home for these blasphemers, in a region that was fitted out long ago, when the need grew pressing to provide a place for zealous churchmen." "and who devised this place, st. peter?" "as a very special favor, we twelve to whom is imputed the beginning and the patronizing of such abominations were permitted to design and furnish this place. and, of course, we put it in charge of our former confrère, judas. he seemed the appropriate person. equally of course, we put a very special roof upon it, the best imitation which we could contrive of the war roof, so that none of those grinning cherubs could see what long reward it was we twelve who founded christianity had contrived for these blasphemers." "well, doubtless that was wise." "ah, and if we twelve had our way there would be just such another roof kept always over earth. for the slavering madman has left a many like him clamoring and spewing about the churches that were named for us twelve, and in the pulpits of the churches that were named for us: and we find it embarrassing. it is the doctrine of mahound they splutter, and not any doctrine that we ever preached or even heard of: and they ought to say so fairly, instead of libeling us who were apostles and gentlemen. but thus it is that the rascals make free with our names: and the cherubs keep track of these antics, and poke fun at us. so that it is not all pleasure, this being a holy apostle in heaven, jurgen, though once we twelve were happy enough." and st. peter sighed. "one thing i did not understand, sir: and that was when you spoke just now of the war roof." "it is a stone roof, made of the two tablets handed down at sinai, which god fits over earth whenever men go to war. for he is merciful: and many of us here remember that once upon a time we were men and women. so when men go to war god screens the sight of what they do, because he wishes to be merciful to us." "that must prevent, however, the ascent of all prayers that are made in war-time." "why, but, of course, that is the roof's secondary purpose," replied st. peter. "what else would you expect when the master's teachings are being flouted? rumors get through, though, somehow, and horribly preposterous rumors. for instance, i have actually heard that in war-time prayers are put up to the lord god to back his favorites and take part in the murdering. not," said the good saint, in haste, "that i would believe even a christian bishop to be capable of such blasphemy: i merely want to show you, jurgen, what wild stories get about. still, i remember, back in cappadocia--" and then st. peter slapped his thigh. "but would you keep me gossiping here forever, jurgen, with the souls lining up at the main entrance like ants that swarm to molasses! come, out of heaven with you, jurgen! and back to whatever place you imagine will restore to you your own proper illusions! and let me be returning to my duties." "well, then, st. peter, i imagine amneran heath, where i flung away my mother's last gift to me." "and amneran heath it is," said st. peter, as he thrust jurgen through the small private door that was carved with fishes in bas-relief. and jurgen saw that the saint spoke truthfully. 43. postures before a shadow thus jurgen stood again upon amneran heath. and again it was walburga's eve, when almost anything is rather more than likely to happen: and the low moon was bright, so that the shadow of jurgen was long and thin. and jurgen searched for the gold cross that he had worn through motives of sentiment, but he could not find it, nor did he ever recover it: but barberry bushes and the thorns of barberry bushes he found in great plenty as he searched vainly. all the while that he searched, the shirt of nessus glittered in the moonlight, and the shadow of jurgen streamed long and thin, and every movement that was made by jurgen the shadow parodied. and as always, it was the shadow of a lean woman, with her head wrapped in a towel. now jurgen regarded this shadow, and to jurgen it was abhorrent. "oh, mother sereda," says he, "for a whole year your shadow has dogged me. many lands we have visited, and many sights we have seen: and at the end all that we have done is a tale that is told: and it is a tale that does not matter. so i stand where i stood at the beginning of my foiled journeying. the gift you gave me has availed me nothing: and i do not care whether i be young or old: and i have lost all that remained to me of my mother and of my mother's love, and i have betrayed my mother's pride in me, and i am weary." now a little whispering gathered upon the ground, as though dead leaves were moving there: and the whispering augmented (because this was upon walburga's eve, when almost anything is rather more than likely to happen), and the whispering became the ghost of a voice. "you flattered me very cunningly, jurgen, for you are a monstrous clever fellow." this it was that the voice said drily. "a number of people might say that with tolerable justice," jurgen declared: "and yet i guess who speaks. as for flattering you, godmother, i was only joking that day in glathion: in fact, i was careful to explain as much, the moment i noticed your shadow seemed interested in my idle remarks and was writing them all down in a notebook. oh, no, i can assure you i trafficked quite honestly, and have dealt fairly everywhere. for the rest, i really am very clever: it would be foolish of me to deny it." "vain fool!" said the voice of mother sereda. jurgen replied: "it may be that i am vain. but it is certain that i am clever. and even more certain is the fact that i am weary. for, look you, in the tinsel of my borrowed youth i have gone romancing through the world; and into lands unvisited by other men have i ventured, playing at spillikins with women and gear and with the welfare of kingdoms; and into hell have i fallen, and into heaven have i climbed, and into the place of the lord god himself have i crept stealthily: and nowhere have i found what i desired. nor do i know what my desire is, even now. but i know that it is not possible for me to become young again, whatever i may appear to others." "indeed, jurgen, youth has passed out of your heart, beyond the reach of léshy: and the nearest you can come to regaining youth is to behave childishly." "o godmother, but do give rein to your better instincts and all that sort of thing, and speak with me more candidly! come now, dear lady, there should be no secrets between you and me. in leukê you were reported to be cybelê, the great res dea, the mistress of every tangible thing. in cocaigne they spoke of you as æsred. and at cameliard merlin called you adères, dark mother of the little gods. well, but at your home in the forest, where i first had the honor of making your acquaintance, godmother, you told me you were sereda, who takes the color out of things, and controls all wednesdays. now these anagrams bewilder me, and i desire to know you frankly for what you are." "it may be that i am all these. meanwhile i bleach, and sooner or later i bleach everything. it may be that some day, jurgen, i shall even take the color out of a fool's conception of himself." "yes, yes! but just between ourselves, godmother, is it not this shadow of you that prevents my entering, quite, into the appropriate emotion, the spirit of the occasion, as one might say, and robs my life of the zest which other persons apparently get out of living? come now, you know it is! well, and for my part, godmother, i love a jest as well as any man breathing, but i do prefer to have it intelligible." "now, let me tell you something plainly, jurgen!" mother sereda cleared her invisible throat, and began to speak rather indignantly. * * * * * "well, godmother, if you will pardon my frankness, i do not think it is quite nice to talk about such things, and certainly not with so much candor. however, dismissing these considerations of delicacy, let us revert to my original question. you have given me youth and all the appurtenances of youth: and therewith you have given, too, in your joking way--which nobody appreciates more heartily than i,--a shadow that renders all things not quite satisfactory, not wholly to be trusted, not to be met with frankness. now--as you understand, i hope,--i concede the jest, i do not for a moment deny it is a master-stroke of humor. but, after all, just what exactly is the point of it? what does it mean?" "it may be that there is no meaning anywhere. could you face that interpretation, jurgen?" "no," said jurgen: "i have faced god and devil, but that i will not face." "no more would i who have so many names face that. you jested with me. so i jest with you. probably koshchei jests with all of us. and he, no doubt--even koshchei who made things as they are,--is in turn the butt of some larger jest." "he may be, certainly," said jurgen: "yet, on the other hand--" "about these matters i do not know. how should i? but i think that all of us take part in a moving and a shifting and a reasoned using of the things which are koshchei's, a using such as we do not comprehend, and are not fit to comprehend." "that is possible," said jurgen: "but, none the less--!" "it is as a chessboard whereon the pieces move diversely: the knights leaping sidewise, and the bishops darting obliquely, and the rooks charging straightforward, and the pawns laboriously hobbling from square to square, each at the player's will. there is no discernible order, all to the onlooker is manifestly in confusion: but to the player there is a meaning in the disposition of the pieces." "i do not deny it: still, one must grant--" "and i think it is as though each of the pieces, even the pawns, had a chessboard of his own which moves as he is moved, and whereupon he moves the pieces to suit his will, in the very moment wherein he is moved willy-nilly." "you may be right: yet, even so--" "and koshchei who directs this infinite moving of puppets may well be the futile harried king in some yet larger game." "now, certainly i cannot contradict you: but, at the same time--!" "so goes this criss-cross multitudinous moving as far as thought can reach: and beyond that the moving goes. all moves. all moves uncomprehendingly, and to the sound of laughter. for all moves in consonance with a higher power that understands the meaning of the movement. and each moves the pieces before him in consonance with his ability. so the game is endless and ruthless: and there is merriment overhead, but it is very far away." "nobody is more willing to concede that these are handsome fancies, mother sereda. but they make my head ache. moreover, two people are needed to play chess, and your hypothesis does not provide anybody with an antagonist. lastly, and above all, how do i know there is a word of truth in your high-sounding fancies?" "how can any of us know anything? and what is jurgen, that his knowing or his not knowing should matter to anybody?" jurgen slapped his hands together. "hah, mother sereda!" says he, "but now i have you. it is that, precisely that damnable question, which your shadow has been whispering to me from the beginning of our companionship. and i am through with you. i will have no more of your gifts, which are purchased at the cost of hearing that whisper. i am resolved henceforward to be as other persons, and to believe implicitly in my own importance." "but have you any reason to blame me? i restored to you your youth. and when, just at the passing of that replevined wednesday which i loaned, you rebuked the countess dorothy very edifyingly, i was pleased to find a man so chaste: and therefore i continued my grant of youth--" "ah, yes!" said jurgen: "then that was the way of it! you were pleased, just in the nick of time, by my virtuous rebuke of the woman who tempted me. yes, to be sure. well, well! come now, you know, that is very gratifying." "none the less your chastity, however unusual, has proved a barren virtue. for what have you made of a year of youth? why, each thing that every man of forty-odd by ordinary regrets having done, you have done again, only more swiftly, compressing the follies of a quarter of a century into the space of one year. you have sought bodily pleasures. you have made jests. you have asked many idle questions. and you have doubted all things, including jurgen. in the face of your memories, in the face of what you probably considered cordial repentance, you have made of your second youth just nothing. each thing that every man of forty-odd regrets having done, you have done again." "yes: it is undeniable that i re-married," said jurgen. "indeed, now i think of it, there was anaïtis and chloris and florimel, so that i have married thrice in one year. but i am largely the victim of heredity, you must remember, since it was without consulting me that smoit of glathion perpetuated his characteristics." "your marriages i do not criticize, for each was in accordance with the custom of the country: the law is always respectable; and matrimony is an honorable estate, and has a steadying influence, in all climes. it is true my shadow reports several other affairs--" "oh, godmother, and what is this you are telling me!" "there was a yolande and a guenevere"--the voice of mother sereda appeared to read from a memorandum,--"and a sylvia, who was your own step-grandmother, and a stella, who was a yogini, whatever that may be; and a phyllis and a dolores, who were the queens of hell and philistia severally. moreover, you visited the queen of pseudopolis in circumstances which could not but have been unfavorably viewed by her husband. oh, yes, you have committed follies with divers women." "follies, it may be, but no crimes, not even a misdemeanor. look you, mother sereda, does your shadow report in all this year one single instance of misconduct with a woman?" says jurgen, sternly. "no, dearie, as i joyfully concede. the very worst reported is that matters were sometimes assuming a more or less suspicious turn when you happened to put out the light. and, of course, shadows cannot exist in absolute darkness." "see now," said jurgen, "what a thing it is to be careful! careful, i mean, in one's avoidance of even an appearance of evil. in what other young man of twenty-one may you look to find such continence? and yet you grumble!" "i do not complain because you have lived chastely. that pleases me, and is the single reason you have been spared this long." "oh, godmother, and whatever are you telling me!" "yes, dearie, had you once sinned with a woman in the youth i gave, you would have been punished instantly and very terribly. for i was always a great believer in chastity, and in the old days i used to insure the chastity of all my priests in the only way that is infallible." "in fact, i noticed something of the sort as you passed in leukê." "and over and over again i have been angered by my shadow's reports, and was about to punish you, my poor dearie, when i would remember that you held fast to the rarest of all virtues in a man, and that my shadow reported no irregularities with women. and that would please me, i acknowledge: so i would let matters run on a while longer. but it is a shiftless business, dearie, for you are making nothing of the youth i restored to you. and had you a thousand lives the result would be the same." "nevertheless, i am a monstrous clever fellow." jurgen chuckled here. "you are, instead, a palterer; and your life, apart from that fine song you made about me, is sheer waste." "ah, if you come to that, there was a brown man in the druid forest, who showed me a very curious spectacle, last june. and i am not apt to lose the memory of what he showed me, whatever you may say, and whatever i may have said to him." "this and a many other curious spectacles you have seen and have made nothing of, in the false youth i gave you. and therefore my shadow was angry that in the revelation of so much futile trifling i did not take away the youth i gave--as i have half a mind to do, even now, i warn you, dearie, for there is really no putting up with you. but i spared you because of my shadow's grudging reports as to your continence, which is a virtue that we of the léshy peculiarly revere." now jurgen considered. "eh?--then it is within your ability to make me old again, or rather, an excellently preserved person of forty-odd, or say, thirty-nine, by the calendar, but not looking it by a long shot? such threats are easily voiced. but how can i know that you are speaking the truth?" "how can any of us know anything? and what is jurgen, that his knowing or his not knowing should matter to anybody?" "ah, godmother, and must you still be mumbling that! come now, forget you are a woman, and be reasonable! you exercise the fair and ancient privilege of kinship by calling me harsh names, but it is in the face of this plain fact: i got from you what never man has got before. i am a monstrous clever fellow, say what you will: for already i have cajoled you out of a year of youth, a year wherein i have neither builded nor robbed any churches, but have had upon the whole a very pleasant time. ah, you may murmur platitudes and threats and axioms and anything else which happens to appeal to you: the fact remains that i got what i wanted. yes, i cajoled you very neatly into giving me eternal youth. for, of course, poor dear, you are now powerless to take it back: and so i shall retain, in spite of you, the most desirable possession in life." "i gave, in honor of your chastity, which is the one commendable trait that you possess--" "my chastity, i grant you, is remarkable. nevertheless, you really gave because i was the cleverer." "--and what i give i can retract at will!" "come, come, you know very well you can do nothing of the sort. i refer you to sævius nicanor. none of the léshy can ever take back the priceless gift of youth. that is explicitly proved, in the appendix." "now, but i am becoming angry--" "to the contrary, as i perceive with real regret, you are becoming ridiculous, since you dispute the authority of sævius nicanor." "--and i will show you--oh, but i will show you, you jackanapes!" "ah, but come now! keep your temper in hand! all fairly erudite persons know you cannot do the thing you threaten: and it is notorious that the weakest wheel of every cart creaks loudest. so do you cultivate a judicious taciturnity! for really nobody is going to put up with petulance in an ugly and toothless woman of your age, as i tell you for your own good." it always vexes people to be told anything for their own good. so what followed happened quickly. a fleece of cloud slipped over the moon. the night seemed bitterly cold, for the space of a heart-beat, and then matters were comfortable enough. the moon emerged in its full glory, and there in front of jurgen was the proper shadow of jurgen. he dazedly regarded his hands, and they were the hands of an elderly person. he felt the calves of his legs, and they were shrunken. he patted himself centrally, and underneath the shirt of nessus the paunch of jurgen was of impressive dimension. in other respects he had abated. "then, too, i have forgotten something very suddenly," reflected jurgen. "it was something i wanted to forget. ah, yes! but what was it that i wanted to forget? why, there was a brown man--with something unusual about his feet--he talked nonsense and behaved idiotically in a druid forest--he was probably insane. no, i do not remember what it was that i have forgotten: but i am sure it has gnawed away in the back of my mind, like a small ruinous maggot: and that, after all, it was of no importance." aloud he wailed, in his most moving tones: "oh, mother sereda, i did not mean to anger you. it was not fair to snap me up on a thoughtless word! have mercy upon me, mother sereda, for i would never have alluded to your being so old and plain-looking if i had known you were so vain!" but mother sereda did not appear to be softened by this form of entreaty, for nothing happened. "well, then, thank goodness, that is over!" says jurgen, to himself. "of course, she may be listening still, and it is dangerous jesting with the léshy: but really they do not seem to be very intelligent. otherwise this irritable maunderer would have known that, everything else apart, i am heartily tired of the responsibilities of youth under any such constant surveillance. now all is changed: there is no call to avoid a suspicion of wrong doing by transacting all philosophical investigations in the dark: and i am no longer distrustful of lamps or candles, or even of sunlight. old body, you are as grateful as old slippers, to a somewhat wearied man: and for the second time i have tricked mother sereda rather neatly. my knowledge of lisa, however painfully acquired, is a decided advantage in dealing with anything that is feminine." then jurgen regarded the black cave. "and that reminds me it still would be, i suppose, the manly thing to continue my quest for lisa. the intimidating part is that if i go into this cave for the third time i shall almost certainly get her back. by every rule of tradition the third attempt is invariably successful. i wonder if i want lisa back?" jurgen meditated: and he shook a grizzled head. "i do not definitely know. she was an excellent cook. there were pies that i shall always remember with affection. and she meant well, poor dear! but then if it was really her head that i sliced off last may--or if her temper is not any better--still, it is an interminable nuisance washing your own dishes: and i appear to have no aptitude whatever for sewing and darning things. but, to the other hand, lisa nags so: and she does not understand me--" jurgen shrugged. "see-saw! the argument for and against might run on indefinitely. since i have no real preference, i will humor prejudice by doing the manly thing. for it seems only fair: and besides, it may fail after all." then he went into the cave for the third time. 44. in the manager's office the tale tells that all was dark there, and jurgen could see no one. but the cave stretched straight forward, and downward, and at the far end was a glow of light. jurgen went on and on, and so came to the place where nessus had lain in wait for jurgen. again jurgen stooped, and crawled through the opening in the cave's wall, and so came to where lamps were burning upon tall iron stands. now, one by one, these lamps were going out, and there were now no women here: instead, jurgen trod inch deep in fine white ashes, leaving the print of his feet upon them. he went forward as the cave stretched. he came to a sharp turn in the cave, with the failing lamplight now behind him, so that his shadow confronted jurgen, blurred but unarguable. it was the proper shadow of a commonplace and elderly pawnbroker, and jurgen regarded it with approval. jurgen came then into a sort of underground chamber, from the roof of which was suspended a kettle of quivering red flames. facing him was a throne, and back of this were rows of benches: but here, too, was nobody. resting upright against the vacant throne was a triangular white shield: and when jurgen looked more closely he could see there was writing upon it. jurgen carried this shield as close as he could to the kettle of flames, for his eyesight was now not very good, and besides, the flames in the kettle were burning low: and jurgen deciphered the message that was written upon the shield, in black and red letters. "absent upon important affairs," it said. "will be back in an hour." and it was signed, "thragnar r." "i wonder now for whom king thragnar left this notice?" reflected jurgen--"certainly not for me. and i wonder, too, if he left it here a year ago or only this evening? and i wonder if it was thragnar's head i removed in the black and silver pavilion? ah, well, there are a number of things to wonder about in this incredible cave, wherein the lights are dying out, as i observe with some discomfort. and i think the air grows chillier." then jurgen looked to his right, at the stairway which he and guenevere had ascended; and he shook his head. "glathion is no fit resort for a respectable pawnbroker. chivalry is for young people, like the late duke of logreus. but i must get out of this place, for certainly there is in the air a deathlike chill." so jurgen went on down the aisle between the rows of benches wherefrom thragnar's warriors had glared at jurgen when he was last in this part of the cave. at the end of the aisle was a wooden door painted white. it was marked, in large black letters, "office of the manager--keep out." so jurgen opened this door. he entered into a notable place illuminated by six cresset lights. these lights were the power of assyria, and nineveh, and egypt, and rome, and athens, and byzantium: six other cressets stood ready there, but fire had not yet been laid to these. back of all was a large blackboard with much figuring on it in red chalk. and here, too, was the black gentleman, who a year ago had given his blessing to jurgen, for speaking civilly of the powers of darkness. to-night the black gentleman wore a black dressing-gown that was embroidered with all the signs of the zodiac. he sat at a table, the top of which was curiously inlaid with thirty pieces of silver: and he was copying entries from one big book into another. he looked up from his writing pleasantly enough, and very much as though he were expecting jurgen. "you find me busy with the stellar accounts," says he, "which appear to be in a fearful muddle. but what more can i do for you, jurgen?--for you, my friend, who spoke a kind word for things as they are, and furnished me with one or two really very acceptable explanations as to why i had created evil?" "i have been thinking, prince--" begins the pawnbroker. "and why do you call me a prince, jurgen?" "i do not know, sir. but i suspect that my quest is ended, and that you are koshchei the deathless." the black gentleman nodded. "something of the sort. koshchei, or ardnari, or ptha, or jaldalaoth, or abraxas,--it is all one what i may be called hereabouts. my real name you never heard: no man has ever heard my name. so that matter we need hardly go into." "precisely, prince. well, but it is a long way that i have traveled roundabout, to win to you who made things as they are. and it is eager i am to learn just why you made things as they are." up went the black gentleman's eyebrows into regular gothic arches. "and do you really think, jurgen, that i am going to explain to you why i made things as they are?" "i fail to see, prince, how my wanderings could have any other equitable climax." "but, friend, i have nothing to do with justice. to the contrary, i am koshchei who made things as they are." jurgen saw the point. "your reasoning, prince, is unanswerable. i bow to it. i should even have foreseen it. do you tell me, then, what thing is this which i desire, and cannot find in any realm that man has known nor in any kingdom that man has imagined." koshchei was very patient. "i am not, i confess, anything like as well acquainted with what has been going on in this part of the universe as i ought to be. of course, events are reported to me, in a general sort of way, and some of my people were put in charge of these stars, a while back: but they appear to have run the constellation rather shiftlessly. still, i have recently been figuring on the matter, and i do not despair of putting the suns hereabouts to some profitable use, in one way or another, after all. of course, it is not as if it were an important constellation. but i am an economist, and i dislike waste--" then he was silent for an instant, not greatly worried by the problem, as jurgen could see, but mildly vexed by his inability to divine the solution out of hand. presently koshchei said: "and in the mean time, jurgen, i am afraid i cannot answer your question on the spur of the moment. you see, there appears to have been a great number of human beings, as you call them, evolved upon--oh, yes!--upon earth. i have the approximate figures over yonder, but they would hardly interest you. and the desires of each one of these human beings seem to have been multitudinous and inconstant. yet, jurgen, you might appeal to the local authorities, for i remember appointing some, at the request of a very charming old lady." "in fine, you do not know what thing it is that i desire," said jurgen, much surprised. "why, no, i have not the least notion," replied koshchei. "still, i suspect that if you got it you would protest it was a most unjust affliction. so why keep worrying about it?" jurgen demanded, almost indignantly: "but have you not then, prince, been guiding all my journeying during this last year?" "now, really, jurgen, i remember our little meeting very pleasantly. and i endeavored forthwith to dispose of your most urgent annoyance. but i confess i have had one or two other matters upon my mind since then. you see, jurgen, the universe is rather large, and the running of it is a considerable tax upon my time. i cannot manage to see anything like as much of my friends as i would be delighted to see of them. and so perhaps, what with one thing and another, i have not given you my undivided attention all through the year--not every moment of it, that is." "ah, prince, i see that you are trying to spare my feelings, and it is kind of you. but the upshot is that you do not know what i have been doing, and you did not care what i was doing. dear me! but this is a very sad come-down for my pride." "yes, but reflect how remarkable a possession is that pride of yours, and how i wonder at it, and how i envy it in vain,--i, who have nothing anywhere to contemplate save my own handiwork. do you consider, jurgen, what i would give if i could find, anywhere in this universe of mine, anything which would make me think myself one-half so important as you think jurgen is!" and koshchei sighed. but instead, jurgen considered the humiliating fact that koshchei had not been supervising jurgen's travels. and of a sudden jurgen perceived that this koshchei the deathless was not particularly intelligent. then jurgen wondered why he should ever have expected koshchei to be intelligent? koshchei was omnipotent, as men estimate omnipotence: but by what course of reasoning had people come to believe that koshchei was clever, as men estimate cleverness? the fact that, to the contrary, koshchei seemed well-meaning, but rather slow of apprehension and a little needlessly fussy, went far toward explaining a host of matters which had long puzzled jurgen. cleverness was, of course, the most admirable of all traits: but cleverness was not at the top of things, and never had been. "very well, then!" says jurgen, with a shrug; "let us come to my third request and to the third thing that i have been seeking. here, though, you ought to be more communicative. for i have been thinking, prince, my wife's society is perhaps becoming to you a trifle burdensome." "eh, sirs, i am not unaccustomed to women. i may truthfully say that as i find them, so do i take them. and i was willing to oblige a fellow rebel." "but i do not know, prince, that i have ever rebelled. far from it, i have everywhere conformed with custom." "your lips conformed, but all the while your mind made verses, jurgen. and poetry is man's rebellion against being what he is." "--and besides, you call me a fellow rebel. now, how can it be possible that koshchei, who made all things as they are, should be a rebel? unless, indeed, there is some power above even koshchei. i would very much like to have that explained to me, sir." "no doubt: but then why should i explain it to you, jurgen?" says the black gentleman. "well, be that as it may, prince! but--to return a little--i do not know that you have obliged me in carrying off my wife. i mean, of course, my first wife." "why, jurgen," says the black gentleman, in high astonishment, "do you mean to tell me that you want the plague of your life back again!" "i do not know about that either, sir. she was certainly very hard to live with. on the other hand, i had become used to having her about. i rather miss her, now that i am again an elderly person. indeed, i believe i have missed lisa all along." the black gentleman meditated. "come, friend," he says, at last. "you were a poet of some merit. you displayed a promising talent which might have been cleverly developed, in any suitable environment. now, i repeat, i am an economist: i dislike waste: and you were never fitted to be anything save a poet. the trouble was"--and koshchei lowered his voice to an impressive whisper,--"the trouble was your wife did not understand you. she hindered your art. yes, that precisely sums it up: she interfered with your soul-development, and your instinctive need of self-expression, and all that sort of thing. you are very well rid of this woman, who converted a poet into a pawnbroker. to the other side, as is with point observed somewhere or other, it is not good for man to live alone. but, friend, i have just the wife for you." "well, prince," said jurgen, "i am willing to taste any drink once." so koshchei waved his hand: and there, quick as winking, was the loveliest lady that jurgen had ever imagined. 45. the faith of guenevere very fair was this woman to look upon, with her shining gray eyes and small smiling lips, a fairer woman might no man boast of having seen. and she regarded jurgen graciously, with her cheeks red and white, very lovely to observe. she was clothed in a robe of flame-colored silk, and about her neck was a collar of red gold. and she told him, quite as though she spoke with a stranger, that she was queen guenevere. "but lancelot is turned monk, at glastonbury: and arthur is gone into avalon," says she: "and i will be your wife if you will have me, jurgen." and jurgen saw that guenevere did not know him at all, and that even his name to her was meaningless. there were a many ways of accounting for this: but he put aside the unflattering explanation that she had simply forgotten all about jurgen, in favor of the reflection that the jurgen she had known was a scapegrace of twenty-one. whereas he was now a staid and knowledgeable pawnbroker. and it seemed to jurgen that he had never really loved any woman save guenevere, the daughter of gogyrvan gawr, and the pawnbroker was troubled. "for again you make me think myself a god," says jurgen. "madame guenevere, when man recognized himself to be heaven's vicar upon earth, it was to serve and to glorify and to protect you and your radiant sisterhood that man consecrated his existence. you were beautiful, and you were frail; you were half goddess and half bric-à-brac. ohimé, i recognize the call of chivalry, and my heart-strings resound: yet, for innumerable reasons, i hesitate to take you for my wife, and to concede myself your appointed protector, responsible as such to heaven. for one matter, i am not altogether sure that i am heaven's vicar here upon earth. certainly the god of heaven said nothing to me about it, and i cannot but suspect that omniscience would have selected some more competent representative." "it is so written, messire jurgen." jurgen shrugged. "i too, in the intervals of business, have written much that is beautiful. very often my verses were so beautiful that i would have given anything in the world in exchange for somewhat less sure information as to the author's veracity. ah, no, madame, desire and knowledge are pressing me so sorely that, between them, i dare not love you, and still i cannot help it!" then jurgen gave a little wringing gesture with his hands. his smile was not merry; and it seemed pitiful that guenevere should not remember him. "madame and queen," says jurgen, "once long and long ago there was a man who worshipped all women. to him they were one and all of sacred, sweet intimidating beauty. he shaped sonorous rhymes of this, in praise of the mystery and sanctity of women. then a count's tow-headed daughter whom he loved, with such love as it puzzles me to think of now, was shown to him just as she was, as not even worthy of hatred. the goddess stood revealed, unveiled, and displaying in all things such mediocrity as he fretted to find in himself. that was unfortunate. for he began to suspect that women, also, are akin to their parents; and are no wiser, and no more subtle, and no more immaculate, than the father who begot them. madame and queen, it is not good for any man to suspect this." "it is certainly not the conduct of a chivalrous person, nor of an authentic poet," says queen guenevere. "and yet your eyes are big with tears." "hah, madame," he replied, "but it amuses me to weep for a dead man with eyes that once were his. for he was a dear lad before he went rampaging through the world, in the pride of his youth and in the armor of his hurt. and songs he made for the pleasure of kings, and sword play he made for the pleasure of men, and a whispering he made for the pleasure of women, in places where renown was, and where he trod boldly, giving pleasure to everybody in those fine days. but for all his laughter, he could not understand his fellows, nor could he love them, nor could he detect anything in aught they said or did save their exceeding folly." "why, man's folly is indeed very great, messire jurgen, and the doings of this world are often inexplicable: and so does it come about that man can be saved by faith alone." "ah, but this boy had lost his fellows' cordial common faith in the importance of what use they made of half-hours and months and years; and because a jill-flirt had opened his eyes so that they saw too much, he had lost faith in the importance of his own actions, too. there was a little time of which the passing might be made not unendurable; beyond gaped unpredictable darkness; and that was all there was of certainty anywhere. meanwhile, he had the loan of a brain which played with ideas, and a body that went delicately down pleasant ways. and so he was never the mate for you, dear guenevere, because he had not sufficient faith in anything at all, not even in his own deductions." now said queen guenevere: "farewell to you, then, jurgen, for it is i that am leaving you forever. i was to them that served me the lovely and excellent masterwork of god: in caerleon and northgalis and at joyeuse garde might men behold me with delight, because, men said, to view me was to comprehend the power and kindliness of their creator. very beautiful was iseult, and the face of luned sparkled like a moving gem; morgaine and enid and viviane and shrewd nimuë were lovely, too; and the comeliness of ettarde exalted the beholder like a proud music: these, going statelily about arthur's hall, seemed heaven's finest craftsmanship until the queen came to her daïs, as the moon among glowing stars: men then affirmed that god in making guenevere had used both hands. and it is i that am leaving you forever. my beauty was no human white and red, said they, but an explicit sign of heaven's might. in approaching me men thought of god, because in me, they said, his splendor was incarnate. that which i willed was neither right nor wrong: it was divine. this thing it was that the knights saw in me; this surety, as to the power and kindliness of their great father, it was of which the chevaliers of yesterday were conscious in beholding me, and of men's need to be worthy of such parentage; and it is i that am leaving you forever." said jurgen: "i could not see all this in you, not quite all this, because of a shadow that followed me. now it is too late, and this is a sorrowful thing which is happening. i am become as a rudderless boat that goes from wave to wave: i am turned to unfertile dust which a whirlwind makes coherent, and presently lets fall. and so, farewell to you, queen guenevere, for it is a sorrowful thing and a very unfair thing that is happening." thus he cried farewell to the daughter of gogyrvan gawr. and instantly she vanished like the flame of a blown out altar-candle. 46. the desire of anaïtis and again koshchei waved his hand. then came to jurgen a woman who was strangely gifted and perverse. her dark eyes glittered: upon her head was a net-work of red coral, with branches radiating downward, and her tunic was of two colors, being shot with black and crimson curiously mingled. and anaïtis also had forgotten jurgen, or else she did not recognize him in this man of forty and something: and again belief awoke in jurgen's heart that this was the only woman whom jurgen had really loved, as he listened to anaïtis and to her talk of marvelous things. of the lore of thaïs she spoke, and of the schooling of sappho, and of the secrets of rhodopê, and of the mourning for adonis: and the refrain of all her talking was not changed. "for we have but a little while to live, and none knows his fate thereafter. so that a man possesses nothing certainly save a brief loan of his own body: and yet the body of man is capable of much curious pleasure. as thus and thus," says she. and the bright-colored pensive woman spoke with antique directness of matters that jurgen, being no longer a scapegrace of twenty-one, found rather embarrassing. "come, come!" thinks he, "but it will never do to seem provincial. i believe that i am actually blushing." aloud he said: "sweetheart, there was--why, not a half-hour since!--a youth who sought quite zealously for the over-mastering frenzies you prattle about. but, candidly, he could not find the flesh whose touch would rouse insanity. the lad had opportunities, too, let me tell you! hah, i recall with tenderness the glitter of eyes and hair, and the gay garments, and the soft voices of those fond foolish women, even now. but he went from one pair of lips to another, with an ardor that was always half-feigned, and with protestations which were conscious echoes of some romance or other. such escapades were pleasant enough: but they were not very serious, after all. for these things concerned his body alone: and i am more than an edifice of viands reared by my teeth. to pretend that what my body does or endures is of importance seems rather silly nowadays. i prefer to regard it as a necessary beast of burden which i maintain, at considerable expense and trouble. so i shall make no more pother about it." but then again queen anaïtis spoke of marvelous things; and he listened, fair-mindedly; for the queen spoke now of that which was hers to share with him. "well, i have heard," says jurgen, "that you have a notable residence in cocaigne." "but that is only a little country place, to which i sometimes repair in summer, in order to live rustically. no, jurgen, you must see my palaces. in babylon i have a palace where many abide with cords about them and burn bran for perfume, while they await that thing which is to befall them. in armenia i have a palace surrounded by vast gardens, where only strangers have the right to enter: they there receive a hospitality that is more than gallant. in paphos i have a palace wherein is a little pyramid of white stone, very curious to see: but still more curious is the statue in my palace at amathus, of a bearded woman, which displays other features that women do not possess. and in alexandria i have a palace that is tended by thirty-six exceedingly wise and sacred persons, and wherein it is always night: and there folk seek for monstrous pleasures, even at the price of instant death, and win to both of these swiftly. everywhere my palaces stand upon high places near the sea: so they are beheld from afar by those whom i hold dearest, my beautiful broad-chested mariners, who do not fear even me, but know that in my palaces they will find notable employment. for i must tell you of what is to be encountered within these places that are mine, and of how pleasantly we pass our time there." then she told him. now he listened more attentively than ever, and his eyes were narrowed, and his lips were lax and motionless and foolish-looking, and he was deeply interested. for anaïtis had thought of some new diversions since their last meeting: and to jurgen, even at forty and something, this queen's voice was all a horrible and strange and lovely magic. "she really tempts very nicely, too," he reflected, with a sort of pride in her. then jurgen growled and shook himself, half angrily: and he tweaked the ear of queen anaïtis. "sweetheart," says he, "you paint a glowing picture: but you are shrewd enough to borrow your pigments from the day-dreams of inexperience. what you prattle about is not at all as you describe it. you forget you are talking to a widely married man of varied experience. moreover, i shudder to think of what might happen if lisa were to walk in unexpectedly. and for the rest, all this to-do over nameless delights and unspeakable caresses and other anonymous antics seems rather naïve. my ears are beset by eloquent gray hairs which plead at closer quarters than does that fibbing little tongue of yours. and so be off with you!" with that queen anaïtis smiled very cruelly, and she said: "farewell to you, then jurgen, for it is i that am leaving you forever. henceforward you must fret away much sunlight by interminably shunning discomfort and by indulging tepid preferences. for i, and none but i, can waken that desire which uses all of a man, and so wastes nothing, even though it leave that favored man forever after like wan ashes in the sunlight. and with you i have no more concern, for it is i that am leaving you forever. join with your graying fellows, then! and help them to affront the clean sane sunlight, by making guilds and laws and solemn phrases wherewith to rid the world of me. i, anaïtis, laugh, and my heart is a wave in the sunlight. for there is no power like my power, and no living thing which can withstand my power; and those who deride me, as i well know, are but the dead dry husks that a wind moves, with hissing noises, while i harvest in open sunlight. for i am the desire that uses all of a man: and it is i that am leaving you forever." said jurgen: "i could not see all this in you, not quite all this, because of a shadow that followed me. now it is too late, and this is a sorrowful thing which is happening. i am become as a puzzled ghost who furtively observes the doings of loud-voiced ruddy persons: and i am compact of weariness and apprehension, for i no longer discern what thing is i, nor what is my desire, and i fear that i am already dead. so farewell to you, queen anaïtis, for this, too, is a sorrowful thing and a very unfair thing that is happening." thus he cried farewell to the sun's daughter. and all the colors of her loveliness flickered and merged into the likeness of a tall thin flame, that aspired; and then this flame was extinguished. 47. the vision of helen and for the third time koshchei waved his hand. now came to jurgen a gold-haired woman, clothed all in white. she was tall, and lovely and tender to regard: and hers was not the red and white comeliness of many ladies that were famed for beauty, but rather it had the even glow of ivory. her nose was large and high in the bridge, her flexible mouth was not of the smallest; and yet, whatever other persons might have said, to jurgen this woman's countenance was in all things perfect. and, beholding her, jurgen kneeled. he hid his face in her white robe: and he stayed thus, without speaking, for a long while. "lady of my vision," he said, and his voice broke--"there is that in you which wakes old memories. for now assuredly i believe your father was not dom manuel but that ardent bird which nestled very long ago in leda's bosom. and now troy's sons are all in adês' keeping, in the world below; fire has consumed the walls of troy, and the years have forgotten her tall conquerors; but still you are bringing woe on woe to hapless sufferers." and again his voice broke. for the world seemed cheerless, and like a house that none has lived in for a great while. queen helen, the delight of gods and men, replied nothing at all, because there was no need, inasmuch as the man who has once glimpsed her loveliness is beyond saving, and beyond the desire of being saved. "to-night," says jurgen, "as once through the gray art of phobetor, now through the will of koshchei, it appears that you stand within arm's reach. hah, lady, were that possible--and i know very well it is not possible, whatever my senses may report,--i am not fit to mate with your perfection. at the bottom of my heart, i no longer desire perfection. for we who are tax-payers as well as immortal souls must live by politic evasions and formulae and catchwords that fret away our lives as moths waste a garment; we fall insensibly to common-sense as to a drug; and it dulls and kills whatever in us is rebellious and fine and unreasonable; and so you will find no man of my years with whom living is not a mechanism which gnaws away time unprompted. for within this hour i have become again a creature of use and wont; i am the lackey of prudence and half-measures; and i have put my dreams upon an allowance. yet even now i love you more than i love books and indolence and flattery and the charitable wine which cheats me into a favorable opinion of myself. what more can an old poet say? for that reason, lady, i pray you begone, because your loveliness is a taunt which i find unendurable." but his voice yearned, because this was queen helen, the delight of gods and men, who regarded him with grave, kind eyes. she seemed to view, as one appraises the pattern of an unrolled carpet, every action of jurgen's life: and she seemed, too, to wonder, without reproach or trouble, how men could be so foolish, and of their own accord become so miry. "oh, i have failed my vision!" cries jurgen. "i have failed, and i know very well that every man must fail: and yet my shame is no less bitter. for i am transmuted by time's handling! i shudder at the thought of living day-in and day-out with my vision! and so i will have none of you for my wife." then, trembling, jurgen raised toward his lips the hand of her who was the world's darling. "and so farewell to you, queen helen! oh, very long ago i found your beauty mirrored in a wanton's face! and often in a woman's face i have found one or another feature wherein she resembled you, and for the sake of it have lied to that woman glibly. and all my verses, as i know now, were vain enchantments striving to evoke that hidden loveliness of which i knew by dim report alone. oh, all my life was a foiled quest of you, queen helen, and an unsatiated hungering. and for a while i served my vision, honoring you with clean-handed deeds. yes, certainly it should be graved upon my tomb, 'queen helen ruled this earth while it stayed worthy.' but that was very long ago. "and so farewell to you, queen helen! your beauty has been to me as a robber that stripped my life of joy and sorrow, and i desire not ever to dream of your beauty any more. for i have been able to love nobody. and i know that it is you who have prevented this, queen helen, at every moment of my life since the disastrous moment when i first seemed to find your loveliness in the face of madame dorothy. it is the memory of your beauty, as i then saw it mirrored in the face of a jill-flirt, which has enfeebled me for such honest love as other men give women; and i envy these other men. for jurgen has loved nothing--not even you, not even jurgen!--quite whole-heartedly. "and so farewell to you, queen helen! hereafter i rove no more a-questing anything; instead, i potter after hearthside comforts, and play the physician with myself, and strive painstakingly to make old bones. and no man's notion anywhere seems worth a cup of mulled wine; and for the sake of no notion would i endanger the routine which so hideously bores me. for i am transmuted by time's handling; i have become the lackey of prudence and half-measures; and it does not seem fair, but there is no help for it. so it is necessary that i now cry farewell to you, queen helen: for i have failed in the service of my vision, and i deny you utterly!" thus he cried farewell to the swan's daughter: and queen helen vanished as a bright mist passes, not departing swiftly, as had departed queen guenevere and queen anaïtis; and jurgen was alone with the black gentleman. and to jurgen the world seemed cheerless, and like a house that none has lived in for a great while. 48. candid opinions of dame lisa "eh, sirs!" observes koshchei the deathless, "but some of us are certainly hard to please." and now jurgen was already intent to shrug off his display of emotion. "in selecting a wife, sir," submitted jurgen, "there are all sorts of matters to be considered--" then bewilderment smote him. for it occurred to jurgen that his previous commerce with these three women was patently unknown to koshchei. why, koshchei, who made all things as they are--koshchei, no less--was now doing for jurgen koshchei's utmost: and that utmost amounted to getting for jurgen what jurgen had once, with the aid of youth and impudence, got for himself. not even koshchei, then, could do more for jurgen than might be accomplished by that youth and impudence and tendency to pry into things generally which jurgen had just relinquished as over-restless nuisances. jurgen drew the inference, and shrugged; decidedly cleverness was not at the top. however, there was no pressing need to enlighten koshchei, and no wisdom in attempting it. "--for you must understand, sir," continued jurgen, smoothly, "that, whatever the first impulse of the moment, it was apparent to any reflective person that in the past of each of these ladies there was much to suggest inborn inaptitude for domestic life. and i am a peace-loving fellow, sir; nor do i hold with moral laxity, now that i am forty-odd, except, of course, in talk when it promotes sociability, and in verse-making wherein it is esteemed as a conventional ornament. still, prince, the chance i lost! i do not refer to matrimony, you conceive. but in the presence of these famous fair ones now departed from me forever, with what glowing words i ought to have spoken! upon a wondrous ladder of trophes, metaphors and recondite allusions, to what stylistic heights of asiatic prose i ought to have ascended! and instead, i twaddled like a schoolmaster. decidedly, lisa is right, and i am good-for-nothing. however," jurgen added, hopefully, "it appeared to me that when i last saw her, a year ago this evening, lisa was somewhat less outspoken than usual." "eh, sirs, but she was under a very potent spell. i found that necessary in the interest of law and order hereabouts. i, who made things as they are, am not accustomed to the excesses of practical persons who are ruthlessly bent upon reforming their associates. indeed, it is one of the advantages of my situation that such folk do not consider things as they are, and in consequence very rarely bother me." and the black gentleman in turn shrugged. "you will pardon me, but i notice in my accounts that i am positively committed to color this year's anemones to-night, and there is a rather large planetary system to be discontinued at half-past ten. so time presses." "and time is inexorable. prince, with all due respect, i fancy it is precisely this truism which you have overlooked. you produce the most charming of women, in a determined onslaught upon my fancy; but you forget you are displaying them to a man of forty-and-something." "and does that make so great a difference?" "oh, a sad difference, prince! for as a man gets on in life he changes in many ways. he handles sword and lance less creditably, and does not carry as heavy a staff as he once flourished. he takes less interest in conversation, and his flow of humor diminishes. he is not the tireless mathematician that he was, if only because his faith in his personal endowments slackens. he recognizes his limitations, and in consequence the unimportance of his opinions, and indeed he recognizes the probable unimportance of all fleshly matters. so he relinquishes trying to figure out things, and sceptres and candles appear to him about equivalent; and he is inclined to give up philosophical experiments, and to let things pass unplumbed. oh, yes, it makes a difference." and jurgen sighed. "and yet, for all that, it is a relief, sir, in a way." "nevertheless," said koshchei, "now that you have inspected the flower of womanhood, i cannot soberly believe you prefer your termagant of a wife." "frankly, prince, i also am, as usual, undecided. you may be right in all you have urged; and certainly i cannot go so far as to say you are wrong; but still, at the same time--! come now, could you not let me see my first wife for just a moment?" this was no sooner asked than granted; for there, sure enough, was dame lisa. she was no longer restricted to quiet speech by any stupendous necromancy: and uncommonly plain she looked, after the passing of those lovely ladies. "aha, you rascal!" begins dame lisa, addressing jurgen; "and so you thought to be rid of me! oh, a precious lot you are! and a deal of thanks i get for my scrimping and slaving!" and she began scolding away. but she began, somewhat to jurgen's astonishment, by stating that he was even worse than the countess dorothy. then he recollected that, by not the most disastrous piece of luck conceivable, dame lisa's latest news from the outside world had been rendered by her sister, the notary's wife, a twelvemonth back. and rather unaccountably jurgen fell to thinking of how unsubstantial seemed these curious months devoted to other women, as set against the commonplace years which he and lisa had fretted through together; of the fine and merry girl that lisa had been before she married him; of how well she knew his tastes in cookery and all his little preferences, and of how cleverly she humored them on those rare days when nothing had occurred to vex her; of all the buttons she had replaced, and all the socks she had darned, and of what tempests had been loosed when anyone else had had the audacity to criticize jurgen; and of how much more unpleasant--everything considered--life was without her than with her. she was so unattractive looking, too, poor dear, that you could not but be sorry for her. and jurgen's mood was half yearning and half penitence. "i think i will take her back, prince," says jurgen, very subdued,--"now that i am forty-and-something. for i do not know but it is as hard on her as on me." "my friend, do you forget the poet that you might be, even yet? no rational person would dispute that the society and amiable chat of dame lisa must naturally be a desideratum--" but dame lisa was always resentful of long words. "be silent, you black scoffer, and do not allude to such disgraceful things in the presence of respectable people! for i am a decent christian woman, i would have you understand. but everybody knows your reputation! and a very fit companion you are for that scamp yonder! and volumes could not say more!" thus casually, and with comparative lenience, did dame lisa dispose of koshchei, who made things as they are, for she believed him to be merely satan. and to her husband dame lisa now addressed herself more particularly. "jurgen, i always told you you would come to this, and now i hope you are satisfied. jurgen, do not stand there with your mouth open, like a scared fish, when i ask you a civil question! but answer when you are spoken to! yes, and you need not try to look so idiotically innocent, jurgen, because i am disgusted with you. for, jurgen, you heard perfectly well what your very suitable friend just said about me, with my own husband standing by. no--now i beg of you!--do not ask me what he said, jurgen! i leave that to your conscience, and i prefer to talk no more about it. you know that when i am once disappointed in a person i am through with that person. so, very luckily, there is no need at all for you to pile hypocrisy on cowardice, because if my own husband has not the feelings of a man, and cannot protect me from insults and low company, i had best be going home and getting supper ready. i dare say the house is like a pig-sty: and i can see by looking at you that you have been ruining your eyes by reading in bed again. and to think of your going about in public, even among such associates, with a button off your shirt!" she was silent for one terrible moment; then lisa spoke in frozen despair. "and now i look at that shirt, i ask you fairly, jurgen, do you consider that a man of your age has any right to be going about in a shirt that nobody--in a shirt which--in a shirt that i can only--ah, but i never saw such a shirt! and neither did anybody else! you simply cannot imagine what a figure you cut in it, jurgen. jurgen, i have been patient with you; i have put up with a great deal, saying nothing where many women would have lost their temper; but i simply cannot permit you to select your own clothes, and so ruin the business and take the bread out of our mouths. in short, you are enough to drive a person mad; and i warn you that i am done with you forever." dame lisa went with dignity to the door of koshchei's office. "so you can come with me or not, precisely as you elect. it is all one to me, i can assure you, after the cruel things you have said, and the way you have stormed at me, and have encouraged that notorious blackamoor to insult me in terms which i, for one, would not soil my lips by repeating. i do not doubt you consider it is all very clever and amusing, but you know now what i think about it. and upon the whole, if you do not feel the exertion will kill you, you had better come home the long way, and stop by sister's and ask her to let you have a half-pound of butter; for i know you too well to suppose you have been attending to the churning." dame lisa here evinced a stately sort of mirth such as is unimaginable by bachelors. "you churning while i was away!--oh, no, not you! there is probably not so much as an egg in the house. for my lord and gentleman has had other fish to fry, in his fine new courting clothes. and that--and on a man of your age, with a paunch to you like a beer barrel and with legs like pipe-stems!--yes, that infamous shirt of yours is the reason you had better, for your own comfort, come home the long way. for i warn you, jurgen, that the style in which i have caught you rigged out has quite decided me, before i go home or anywhere else, to stop by for a word or so with your high and mighty madame dorothy. so you had just as well not be along with me, for there is no pulling wool over my eyes any longer, and you two need never think to hoodwink me again about your goings-on. no, jurgen, you cannot fool me; for i can read you like a book. and such behavior, at your time of life, does not surprise me at all, because it is precisely what i would have expected of you." with that dame lisa passed through the door and went away, still talking. it was of heitman michael's wife that the wife of jurgen spoke, discoursing of the personal traits, and of the past doings, and (with augmented fervor) of the figure and visage of madame dorothy, as all these abominations appeared to the eye of discernment, and must be revealed by the tongue of candor, as a matter of public duty. so passed dame lisa, neither as flame nor mist, but as the voice of judgment. 49. of the compromise with koshchei "phew!" said koshchei, in the ensuing silence: "you had better stay overnight, in any event. i really think, friend, you will be more comfortable, just now at least, in this quiet cave." but jurgen had taken up his hat. "no, i dare say i, too, had better be going," says jurgen. "i thank you very heartily for your intended kindness, sir, still i do not know but it is better as it is. and is there anything"--jurgen coughed delicately--"and is there anything to pay, sir?" "oh, just a trifle, first of all, for a year's maintenance of dame lisa. you see, jurgen, that is an almighty fine shirt you are wearing: it rather appeals to me; and i fancy, from something your wife let drop just now, it did not impress her as being quite suited to you. so, in the interest of domesticity, suppose you ransom dame lisa with that fine shirt of yours?" "why, willingly," said jurgen, and he took off the shirt of nessus. "you have worn this for some time, i understand," said koshchei, meditatively: "and did you ever notice any inconvenience in wearing this garment?" "not that i could detect, prince; it fitted me, and seemed to impress everybody most favorably." "there!" said koshchei; "that is what i have always contended. to the strong man, and to wholesome matter of fact people generally, it is a fatal irritant; but persons like you can wear the shirt of nessus very comfortably for a long, long while, and be generally admired; and you end by exchanging it for your wife's society. but now, jurgen, about yourself. you probably noticed that my door was marked keep out. one must have rules, you know. often it is a nuisance, but still rules are rules; and so i must tell you, jurgen, it is not permitted any person to leave my presence unmaimed, if not actually annihilated. one really must have rules, you know." "you would chop off an arm? or a hand? or a whole finger? come now, prince, you must be joking!" koshchei the deathless was very grave as he sat there, in meditation, drumming with his long jet-black fingers upon the table-top that was curiously inlaid with thirty pieces of silver. in the lamplight his sharp nails glittered like flame points, and the color suddenly withdrew from his eyes, so that they showed like small white eggs. "but, man, how strange you are!" said koshchei, presently; and life flowed back into his eyes, and jurgen ventured the liberty of breathing. "inside, i mean. why, there is hardly anything left. now rules are rules, of course; but you, who are the remnant of a poet, may depart unhindered whenever you will, and i shall take nothing from you. for really it is necessary to draw the line somewhere." jurgen meditated this clemency; and with a sick heart he seemed to understand. "yes; that is probably the truth; for i have not retained the faith, nor the desire, nor the vision. yes, that is probably the truth. well, at all events, prince, i very unfeignedly admired each of the ladies to whom you were friendly enough to present me, and i was greatly flattered by their offers. more than generous i thought them. but it really would not do for me to take up with any one of them now. for lisa is my wife, you see. a great deal has passed between us, sir, in the last ten years--and i have been a sore disappointment to her, in many ways--and i am used to her--" then jurgen considered, and regarded the black gentleman with mingled envy and commiseration. "why, no, you probably would not understand, sir, on account of your not being, i suppose, a married person. but i can assure you it is always pretty much like that." "i lack grounds to dispute your aphorism," observed koshchei, "inasmuch as matrimony was certainly not included in my doom. none the less, to a by-stander, the conduct of you both appears remarkable. i could not understand, for example, just how your wife proposed to have you keep out of her sight forever and still have supper with her to-night; nor why she should desire to sup with such a reprobate as she described with unbridled pungency and disapproval." "ah, but again, it is always pretty much like that, sir. and the truth of it, prince, is a great symbol. the truth of it is, we have lived together so long that my wife has become rather foolishly fond of me. so she is not, as one might say, quite reasonable about me. no, sir; it is the fashion of women to discard civility toward those for whom they suffer most willingly; and whom a woman loveth she chasteneth, after a good precedent." "but her talking, jurgen, has nowhere any precedent. why, it deafens, it appals, it submerges you in an uproarious sea of fault-finding; and in a word, you might as profitably oppose a hurricane. yet you want her back! now assuredly, jurgen, i do not think very highly of your wisdom, but by your bravery i am astounded." "ah, prince, it is because i can perceive that all women are poets, though the medium they work in is not always ink. so the moment lisa is set free from what, in a manner of speaking, sir, inconsiderate persons might, in their unthinking way, refer to as the terrors of an underground establishment that i do not for an instant doubt to be conducted after a system which furthers the true interests of everybody, and so reflects vast credit upon its officials, if you will pardon my frankness"--and jurgen smiled ingratiatingly,--"why, at that moment lisa's thoughts take form in very much the high denunciatory style of jeremiah and amos, who were remarkably fine poets. her concluding observations as to the countess, in particular, i consider to have been an example of sustained invective such as one rarely encounters in this degenerate age. well, her next essay in creative composition is my supper, which will be an equally spirited impromptu. to-morrow she will darn and sew me an epic; and her desserts will continue to be in the richest lyric vein. such, sir, are the poems of lisa, all addressed to me, who came so near to gallivanting with mere queens!" "what, can it be that you are remorseful?" said koshchei. "oh, prince, when i consider steadfastly the depth and the intensity of that devotion which, for so many years, has tended me, and has endured the society of that person whom i peculiarly know to be the most tedious and irritating of companions, i stand aghast, before a miracle. and i cry, oh, certainly a goddess! and i can think of no queen who is fairly mentionable in the same breath. hah, all we poets write a deal about love: but none of us may grasp the word's full meaning until he reflects that this is a passion mighty enough to induce a woman to put up with him." "even so, it does not seem to induce quite thorough confidence. jurgen, i was grieved to see that dame lisa evidently suspects you of running after some other woman in your wife's absence." "think upon that now! and you saw for yourself how little the handsomest of women could tempt me. yet even lisa's absurd notion i can comprehend and pardon. and again, you probably would not understand my overlooking such a thing, sir, on account of your not being a married person. nevertheless, my forgiveness also is a great symbol." then jurgen sighed and he shook hands, very circumspectly, with koshchei, who made things as they are; and jurgen started out of the office. "but i will bear you company a part of the way," says koshchei. so koshchei removed his dressing-gown, and he put on the fine laced coat which was hung over the back of a strange looking chair with three legs, each of a different metal; the shirt of nessus koshchei folded and put aside, saying that some day he might be able to use it somehow. and koshchei paused before the blackboard and he scratched his head reflectively. jurgen saw that this board was nearly covered with figures which had not yet been added up; and this blackboard seemed to him the most frightful thing he had faced anywhere. then koshchei came out of the cave with jurgen, and koshchei walked with jurgen across amneran heath, and through morven, in the late evening. and koshchei talked as they went; and a queer thing jurgen noticed, and it was that the moon was sinking in the east, as though the time were getting earlier and earlier. but jurgen did not presume to criticize this, in the presence of koshchei, who made things as they are. "and i manage affairs as best i can, jurgen. but they get in a fearful muddle sometimes. eh, sirs, i have no competent assistants. i have to look out for everything, absolutely everything! and of course, while in a sort of way i am infallible, mistakes will occur every now and then in the actual working out of plans that in the abstract are right enough. so it really does please me to hear anybody putting in a kind word for things as they are, because, between ourselves, there is a deal of dissatisfaction about. and i was honestly delighted, just now, to hear you speaking up for evil in the face of that rapscallion monk. so i give you thanks and many thanks, jurgen, for your kind word." "'just now!'" thinks jurgen. he perceived that they had passed the cistercian abbey, and were approaching bellegarde. and it was as in a dream that jurgen was speaking, _"who are you, and why do you thank me?"_ asks jurgen. _"my name is no great matter. but you have a kind heart, jurgen. may your life lie free from care."_ _"save us from hurt and harm, friend, but i am already married_--" then resolutely jurgen put aside the spell that was befogging him. "see here, prince, are you beginning all over again? for i really cannot stand any more of your benevolences." koshchei smiled. "no, jurgen, i am not beginning all over again. for now i have never begun, and now there is no word of truth in anything which you remember of the year just past. now none of these things has ever happened." "but how can that be, prince?" "why should i tell you, jurgen? let it suffice that what i will, not only happens, but has already happened, beyond the ancientest memory of man and his mother. how otherwise could i be koshchei? and so farewell to you, poor jurgen, to whom nothing in particular has happened now. it is not justice i am giving you, but something infinitely more acceptable to you and all your kind." "but, to be sure!" says jurgen. "i fancy that nobody anywhere cares much for justice. so farewell to you, prince. and at our parting i ask no more questions of you, for i perceive it is scant comfort a man gets from questioning koshchei, who made things as they are. but i am wondering what pleasure you get out of it all?" "eh, sirs," says koshchei, with not the most candid of smiles, "i contemplate the spectacle with appropriate emotions." and so speaking, koshchei quitted jurgen forever. "yet how may i be sure," thought jurgen, instantly, "that this black gentleman was really koshchei? he said he was? why, yes; and horvendile to all intents told me that horvendile was koshchei. aha, and what else did horvendile say!--'this is one of the romancer's most venerable devices that is being practised.' why, but there was smoit of glathion, also, so that this is the third time i have been fobbed off with the explanation i was dreaming! and left with no proof, one way or the other." thus jurgen, indignantly, and then he laughed. "why, but, of course! i may have talked face to face with koshchei, who made all things as they are; and again, i may not have. that is the whole point of it--the cream, as one might say, of the jest--that i cannot ever be sure. well!"--and jurgen shrugged here--"well, and what could i be expected to do about it?" 50. the moment that did not count and that is really all the story save for the moment jurgen paused on his way home. for koshchei (if it, indeed, was koshchei) had quitted jurgen just as they approached bellegarde: and as the pawnbroker walked on alone in the pleasant april evening one called to him from the terrace. even in the dusk he knew this was the countess dorothy. "may i speak with you a moment?" says she. "very willingly, madame." and jurgen ascended from the highway to the terrace. "i thought it would be near your supper hour. so i was waiting here until you passed. you conceive, it is not quite convenient for me to seek you out at the shop." "why, no, madame. there is a prejudice," said jurgen, soberly. and he waited. he saw that madame dorothy was perfectly composed, yet anxious to speed the affair. "you must know," said she, "that my husband's birthday approaches, and i wish to surprise him with a gift. it is therefore necessary that i raise some money without troubling him. how much--abominable usurer!--could you advance me upon this necklace?" jurgen turned it in his hand. it was a handsome piece of jewelry, familiar to him as formerly the property of heitman michael's mother. jurgen named a sum. "but that," the countess says, "is not a fraction of its worth!" "times are very hard, madame. of course, if you cared to sell outright i could deal more generously." "old monster, i could not do that. it would not be convenient." she hesitated here. "it would not be explicable." "as to that, madame, i could make you an imitation in paste which nobody could distinguish from the original, i can amply understand that you desire to veil from your husband any sacrifices that are entailed by your affection." "it is my affection for him," said the countess quickly. "i alluded to your affection for him," said jurgen--"naturally." then countess dorothy named a price for the necklace. "for it is necessary i have that much, and not a penny less." and jurgen shook his head dubiously, and vowed that ladies were unconscionable bargainers: but jurgen agreed to what she asked, because the necklace was worth almost as much again. then jurgen suggested that the business could be most conveniently concluded through an emissary. "if messire de nérac, for example, could have matters explained to him, and could manage to visit me tomorrow, i am sure we could carry through this amiable imposture without any annoyance whatever to heitman michael," says jurgen, smoothly. "nérac will come then," says the countess. "and you may give him the money, precisely as though it were for him." "but certainly, madame. a very estimable young nobleman, that! and it is a pity his debts are so large. i heard that he had lost heavily at dice within the last month; and i grieved, madame." "he has promised me when these debts are settled to play no more--but again what am i saying! i mean, master inquisitive, that i take considerable interest in the welfare of messire de nérac: and so i have sometimes chided him on his wild courses. and that is all i mean." "precisely, madame. and so messire de nérac will come to me to-morrow for the money: and there is no more to say." jurgen paused. the moon was risen now. these two sat together upon a bench of carved stone near the balustrade: and before them, upon the other side of the highway, were luminous valleys and tree-tops. fleetingly jurgen recollected the boy and girl who had once sat in this place, and had talked of all the splendid things which jurgen was to do, and of the happy life that was to be theirs together. then he regarded the composed and handsome woman beside him, and he considered that the money to pay her latest lover's debts had been assured with a suitable respect for appearances. "come, but this is a gallant lady, who would defy the almanac," reflected jurgen. "even so, thirty-eight is an undeniable and somewhat autumnal figure, and i suspect young nérac is bleeding his elderly mistress. well, but at his age nobody has a conscience. yes, and madame dorothy is handsome still; and still my pulse is playing me queer tricks, because she is near me, and my voice has not the intonation i intend, because she is near me; and still i am three-quarters in love with her. yes, in the light of such cursed folly as even now possesses me, i have good reason to give thanks for the regained infirmities of age. yet living seems to me a wasteful and inequitable process, for this is a poor outcome for the boy and girl that i remember. and weighing this outcome, i am tempted to weep and to talk romantically, even now." but he did not. for really, weeping was not requisite. jurgen was making his fair profit out of the countess's folly, and it was merely his duty to see that this little business transaction was managed without any scandal. "so there is nothing more to say," observed jurgen, as he rose in the moonlight, "save that i shall always be delighted to serve you, madame, and i may reasonably boast that i have earned a reputation for fair dealing." and he thought: "in effect, since certainly as she grows older she will need yet more money for her lovers, i am offering to pimp for her." then jurgen shrugged. "that is one side of the affair. the other is that i transact my legitimate business,--i, who am that which the years have made of me." thus it was that jurgen quitted the countess dorothy, whom, as you have heard, this pawnbroker had loved in his first youth under the name of heart's desire; and whom in the youth that was loaned him by mother sereda he had loved as queen helen, the delight of gods and men. for jurgen was quitting madame dorothy after the simplest of business transactions, which consumed only a moment, and did not actually count one way or the other. and after this moment which did not count, the pawnbroker resumed his journey, and so came presently to his home. he peeped through the window. and there in a snug room, with supper laid, sat dame lisa about some sewing, and evidently in a quite amiable frame of mind. then terror smote the jurgen who had faced sorcerers and gods and devils intrepidly. "for i forgot about the butter!" but immediately afterward he recollected that, now, not even what lisa had said to him in the cave was real. neither he nor lisa, now, had ever been in the cave, and probably there was no longer any such place, and now there never had been any such place. it was rather confusing. "ah, but i must remember carefully," said jurgen, "that i have not seen lisa since breakfast, this morning. nothing whatever has happened. there has been no requirement laid upon me, after all, to do the manly thing. so i retain my wife, such as she is, poor dear! i retain my home. i retain my shop and a fair line of business. yes, koshchei--if it was really koshchei--has dealt with me very justly. and probably his methods are everything they should be; certainly i cannot go so far as to say that they are wrong: but still, at the same time--!" then jurgen sighed, and entered his snug home. thus it was in the old days. explicit the decameron of giovanni boccaccio faithfully translated by j.m. rigg with illustrations by louis chalon volume ii contents fifth day novel i. cimon, by loving, waxes wise, wins his wife iphigenia by capture on the high seas, and is imprisoned at rhodes. he is delivered by lysimachus; and the twain capture cassandra and recapture iphigenia in the hour of their marriage. they flee with their ladies to crete, and having there married them, are brought back to their homes. novel ii. gostanza loves martuccio gomito, and hearing that he is dead, gives way to despair, and hies her alone aboard a boat, which is wafted by the wind to susa. she finds him alive in tunis, and makes herself known to him, who, having by his counsel gained high place in the king's favour, marries her, and returns with her wealthy to lipari. novel iii. pietro boccamazza runs away with agnolella, and encounters a gang of robbers: the girl takes refuge in a wood, and is guided to a castle. pietro is taken, but escapes out of the hands of the robbers, and after some adventures arrives at the castle where agnolella is, marries her, and returns with her to rome. novel iv. ricciardo manardi is found by messer lizio da valbona with his daughter, whom he marries, and remains at peace with her father. novel v. guidotto da cremona dies leaving a girl to giacomino da pavia. she has two lovers in faenza, to wit, giannole di severino and minghino di mingole, who fight about her. she is discovered to be giannole's sister, and is given to minghino to wife. novel vi. gianni di procida, being found with a damsel that he loves, and who had been given to king frederic, is bound with her to a stake, so to be burned. he is recognized by ruggieri dell' oria, is delivered, and marries her. novel vii. teodoro, being enamoured of violante, daughter of messer amerigo, his lord, gets her with child, and is sentenced to the gallows; but while he is being scourged thither, he is recognized by his father, and being set at large, takes violante to wife. novel viii. nastagio degli onesti, loving a damsel of the traversari family, by lavish expenditure gains not her love. at the instance of his kinsfolk he hies him to chiassi, where he sees a knight hunt a damsel and slay her and cause her to be devoured by two dogs. he bids his kinsfolk and the lady that he loves to breakfast. during the meal the said damsel is torn in pieces before the eyes of the lady, who, fearing a like fate, takes nastagio to husband. novel ix. federigo degli alberighi loves and is not loved in return: he wastes his substance by lavishness until nought is left but a single falcon, which, his lady being come to see him at his house, he gives her to eat: she, knowing his case, changes her mind, takes him to husband and makes him rich. novel x. pietro di vinciolo goes from home to sup: his wife brings a boy into the house to bear her company: pietro returns, and she hides her gallant under a hen-coop: pietro explains that in the house of ercolano, with whom he was to have supped, there was discovered a young man bestowed there by ercolano's wife: the lady thereupon censures ercolano's wife: but unluckily an ass treads on the fingers of the boy that is hidden under the hen-coop, so that he cries for pain: pietro runs to the place, sees him, and apprehends the trick played on him by his wife, which nevertheless he finally condones, for that he is not himself free from blame. sixth day novel i. a knight offers to carry madonna oretta a horseback with a story, but tells it so ill that she prays him to dismount her. novel ii. cisti, a baker, by an apt speech gives messer geri spina to know that he has by inadvertence asked that of him which he should not. novel iii. monna nonna de' pulci by a ready retort silences the scarce seemly jesting of the bishop of florence. novel iv. chichibio, cook to currado gianfigliazzi, owes his safety to a ready answer, whereby he converts currado's wrath into laughter, and evades the evil fate with which currado had threatened him. novel v. messer forese da rabatta and master giotto, the painter, journeying together from mugello, deride one another's scurvy appearance. novel vi. michele scalza proves to certain young men that the baronci are the best gentlemen in the world and the maremma, and wins a supper. novel vii. madonna filippa, being found by her husband with her lover, is cited before the court, and by a ready and jocund answer acquits herself, and brings about an alteration of the statute. novel viii. fresco admonishes his niece not to look at herself in the glass, if 'tis, as she says, grievous to her to see nasty folk. novel ix. guido cavalcanti by a quip meetly rebukes certain florentine gentlemen who had taken him at a disadvantage. novel x. fra cipolla promises to shew certain country-folk a feather of the angel gabriel, in lieu of which he finds coals, which he avers to be of those with which st. lawrence was roasted. seventh day novel i. gianni lotteringhi hears a knocking at his door at night: he awakens his wife, who persuades him that 'tis the bogey, which they fall to exorcising with a prayer; whereupon the knocking ceases. novel ii. her husband returning home, peronella bestows her lover in a tun; which, being sold by her husband, she avers to have been already sold by herself to one that is inside examining it to set if it be sound. whereupon the lover jumps out, and causes the husband to scour the tun for him, and afterwards to carry it to his house. novel iii. fra rinaldo lies with his gossip: her husband finds him in the room with her; and they make him believe that he was curing his godson of worms by a charm. novel iv. tofano one night locks his wife out of the house: she, finding that by no entreaties may she prevail upon him to let her in, feigns to throw herself into a well, throwing therein a great stone. tofano hies him forth of the house, and runs to the spot: she goes into the house, and locks him out, and hurls abuse at him from within. novel v. a jealous husband disguises himself as a priest, and hears his own wife's confession: she tells him that she loves a priest, who comes to her every night. the husband posts himself at the door to watch for the priest, and meanwhile the lady brings her lover in by the roof, and tarries with him. novel vi. madonna isabella has with her leonetto, her accepted lover, when she is surprised by one messer lambertuccio, by whom she is beloved: her husband coming home about the same time, she sends messer lambertuccio forth of the house drawn sword in hand, and the husband afterwards escorts leonetto home. novel vii. lodovico discovers to madonna beatrice the love that he bears her: she sends egano, her husband, into a garden disguised as herself, and lies with lodovico; who thereafter, being risen, hies him to the garden and cudgels egano. novel viii. a husband grows jealous of his wife, and discovers that she has warning of her lover's approach by a piece of pack-thread, which she ties to her great toe a nights. while he is pursuing her lover, she puts another woman in bed in her place. the husband, finding her there, beats her, and cuts off her hair. he then goes and calls his wife's brothers, who, holding his accusation to be false, give him a rating. novel ix. lydia, wife of nicostratus, loves pyrrhus, who to assure himself thereof, asks three things of her, all of which she does, and therewithal enjoys him in presence of nicostratus, and makes nicostratus believe that what he saw was not real. novel x. two sienese love a lady, one of them being her gossip: the gossip dies, having promised his comrade to return to him from the other world; which he does, and tells him what sort of life is led there. eighth day novel i. gulfardo borrows moneys of guasparruolo, which he has agreed to give guasparruolo's wife, that he may lie with her. he gives them to her, and in her presence tells guasparruolo that he has done so, and she acknowledges that 'tis true. novel ii. the priest of varlungo lies with monna belcolore: he leaves with her his cloak by way of pledge, and receives from her a mortar. he returns the mortar, and demands of her the cloak that he had left in pledge, which the good lady returns him with a gibe. novel iii. calandrino, bruno and buffalmacco go in quest of the heliotrope beside the mugnone. thinking to have found it, calandrino gets him home laden with stones. his wife chides him: whereat he waxes wroth, beats her, and tells his comrades what they know better than he. novel iv. the rector of fiesole loves a widow lady, by whom he is not loved, and thinking to lie with her, lies with her maid, with whom the lady's brothers cause him to be found by his bishop. novel v. three young men pull down the breeches of a judge from the marches, while he is administering justice on the bench. novel vi. bruno and buffalmacco steal a pig from calandrino, and induce him to essay its recovery by means of pills of ginger and vernaccia. of the said pills they give him two, one after the other, made of dog-ginger compounded with aloes; and it then appearing as if he had had the pig himself, they constrain him to buy them off, if he would not have them tell his wife. novel vii. a scholar loves a widow lady, who, being enamoured of another, causes him to spend a winter's night awaiting her in the snow. he afterwards by a stratagem causes her to stand for a whole day in july, naked upon a tower, exposed to the flies, the gadflies, and the sun. novel viii. two men keep with one another: the one lies with the other's wife: the other, being ware thereof, manages with the aid of his wife to have the one locked in a chest, upon which he then lies with the wife of him that is locked therein. novel ix. bruno and buffalmacco prevail upon master simone, a physician, to betake him by night to a certain place, there to be enrolled in a company that go the course. buffalmacco throws him into a foul ditch, and there they leave him. novel x. a sicilian woman cunningly conveys from a merchant that which he has brought to palermo; he, making a shew of being come back thither with far greater store of goods than before, borrows money of her, and leaves her in lieu thereof water and tow. ninth day novel i. madonna francesca, having two lovers, the one rinuccio, the other alessandro, by name, and loving neither of them, induces the one to simulate a corpse in a tomb, and the other to enter the tomb to fetch him out: whereby, neither satisfying her demands, she artfully rids herself of both. novel ii. an abbess rises in haste and in the dark, with intent to surprise an accused nun abed with her lover: thinking to put on her veil, she puts on instead the breeches of a priest that she has with her: the nun, espying her headgear, and doing her to wit thereof, is acquitted, and thenceforth finds it easier to forgather with her lover. novel iii. master simone, at the instance of bruno and buffalmacco and nello, makes calandrino believe that he is with child. calandrino, accordingly, gives them capons and money for medicines, and is cured without being delivered. novel iv. cecco, son of messer fortarrigo, loses his all at play at buonconvento, besides the money of cecco, son of messer angiulieri, whom, running after him in his shirt and crying out that he has robbed him, he causes to be taken by peasants: he then puts on his clothes, mounts his palfrey, and leaves him to follow in his shirt. novel v. calandrino being enamoured of a damsel, bruno gives him a scroll, averring that, if he but touch her therewith, she will go with him: he is found with her by his wife, who subjects him to a most severe and vexatious examination. novel vi. two young men lodge at an inn, of whom the one lies with the host's daughter, his wife by inadvertence lying with the other. he that lay with the daughter afterwards gets into her father's bed and tells him all, taking him to be his comrade. they bandy words: whereupon the good woman, apprehending the circumstances, gets her to bed with her daughter, and by divers apt words re-establishes perfect accord. novel vii. talano di molese dreams that a wolf tears and rends all the neck and face of his wife: he gives her warning thereof, which she heeds not, and the dream comes true. novel viii. biondello gulls ciacco in the matter of a breakfast: for which prank ciacco is cunningly avenged on biondello, causing him to be shamefully beaten. novel ix. two young men ask counsel of solomon; the one, how he is to make himself beloved, the other, how he is to reduce an unruly wife to order. the king bids the one to love, and the other to go to the bridge of geese. novel x. dom gianni at the instance of his gossip pietro uses an enchantment to transform pietro's wife into a mare; but, when he comes to attach the tail, gossip pietro, by saying that he will have none of the tail, makes the enchantment of no effect. tenth day novel i. a knight in the service of the king of spain deems himself ill requited. wherefore the king, by most cogent proof, shews him that the blame rests not with him, but with the knight's own evil fortune; after which, he bestows upon him a noble gift. novel ii. ghino di tacco, captures the abbot of cluny, cures him of a disorder of the stomach, and releases him. the abbot, on his return to the court of rome, reconciles ghino with pope boniface, and makes him prior of the hospital. novel iii. mitridanes, holding nathan in despite by reason of his courtesy, journey with intent to kill him, and falling in with him unawares, is advised by him how to compass his end. following his advice, he finds him in a copse, and recognizing him, is shame-stricken, and becomes his friend. novel iv. messer gentile de' carisendi, being come from modena, disinters a lady that he loves, who has been buried for dead. she, being reanimated, gives birth to a male child; and messer gentile restores her, with her son, to niccoluccio caccianimico, her husband. novel v. madonna dianora craves of messer ansaldo a garden that shall be as fair in january as in may. messer ansaldo binds himself to a necromancer, and thereby gives her the garden. her husband gives her leave to do messer ansaldo's pleasure: he, being apprised of her husband's liberality, releases her from her promise; and the necromancer releases messer ansaldo from his bond, and will tale nought of his. novel vi. king charles the old, being conqueror, falls in love with a young maiden, and afterward growing ashamed of his folly bestows her and her sister honourably in marriage. novel vii. king pedro, being apprised of the fervent love borne him by lisa, who thereof is sick, comforts her, and forthwith gives her in marriage to a young gentleman, and having kissed her on the brow, ever after professes himself her knight. novel viii. sophronia, albeit she deems herself wife to gisippus, is wife to titus quintius fulvus, and goes with him to rome, where gisippus arrives in indigence, and deeming himself scorned by titus, to compass his own death, avers that he has slain a man. titus recognizes him, and to save his life, alleges that 'twas he that slew the man: whereof he that did the deed being witness, he discovers himself as the murderer. whereby it comes to pass that they are all three liberated by octavianus; and titus gives gisippus his sister to wife, and shares with him all his substance. novel ix. saladin, in guise of a merchant, is honourably entreated by messer torello. the crusade ensuing, messer torello appoints a date, after which his wife may marry again: he is taken prisoner, and by training hawks comes under the soldan's notice. the soldan recognizes him, makes himself known to him, and entreats him with all honour. messer torello falls sick, and by magic arts is transported in a single night to pavia, where his wife's second marriage is then to be solemnized, and being present thereat, is recognized by her, and returns with her to his house. novel x. the marquis of saluzzo, overborne by the entreaties of his vassals, consents to take a wife, but, being minded to please himself in the choice of her, takes a husbandman's daughter. he has two children by her, both of whom he makes her believe that he has put to death. afterward, feigning to be tired of her, and to have taken another wife, he turns her out of doors in her shift, and brings his daughter into the house in guise of his bride; but, finding her patient under it all, he brings her home again, and shews her her children, now grown up, and honours her, and causes her to be honoured, as marchioness. illustrations to the decameron volume ii pietro and agnolella (fifth day, third story) gianni and restituta (fifth day, sixth story) calandrino singing (ninth day, fifth story) titus, gisippus, and sophronia (tenth day, eighth story) -endeth here the fourth day of the decameron, beginneth the fifth, in which under the rule of fiammetta discourse is had of good fortune befalling lovers after divers direful or disastrous adventures. -all the east was white, nor any part of our hemisphere unillumined by the rising beams, when the carolling of the birds that in gay chorus saluted the dawn among the boughs induced fiammetta to rise and rouse the other ladies and the three gallants; with whom adown the hill and about the dewy meads of the broad champaign she sauntered, talking gaily of divers matters, until the sun had attained some height. then, feeling his rays grow somewhat scorching, they retraced their steps, and returned to the villa; where, having repaired their slight fatigue with excellent wines and comfits, they took their pastime in the pleasant garden until the breakfast hour; when, all things being made ready by the discreet seneschal, they, after singing a stampita,(1) and a balladette or two, gaily, at the queen's behest, sat them down to eat. meetly ordered and gladsome was the meal, which done, heedful of their rule of dancing, they trod a few short measures with accompaniment of music and song. thereupon, being all dismissed by the queen until after the siesta, some hied them to rest, while others tarried taking their pleasure in the fair garden. but shortly after none, all, at the queen's behest, reassembled, according to their wont, by the fountain; and the queen, having seated herself on her throne, glanced towards pamfilo, and bade him with a smile lead off with the stories of good fortune. whereto pamfilo gladly addressed himself, and thus began. (1) a song accompanied by music, but without dancing. novel i. -cimon, by loving, waxes wise, wins his wife iphigenia by capture on the high seas, and is imprisoned at rhodes. he is delivered by lysimachus; and the twain capture cassandra and recapture iphigenia in the hour of their marriage. they flee with their ladies to crete, and having there married them, are brought back to their homes. -many stories, sweet my ladies, occur to me as meet for me to tell by way of ushering in a day so joyous as this will be: of which one does most commend itself to my mind, because not only has it, one of those happy endings of which to-day we are in quest, but 'twill enable you to understand how holy, how mighty and how salutary are the forces of love, which not a few, witting not what they say, do most unjustly reprobate and revile: which, if i err not, should to you, for that i take you to be enamoured, be indeed welcome. once upon a time, then, as we have read in the ancient histories of the cypriotes, there was in the island of cyprus a very great noble named aristippus, a man rich in all worldly goods beyond all other of his countrymen, and who might have deemed himself incomparably blessed, but for a single sore affliction that fortune had allotted him. which was that among his sons he had one, the best grown and handsomest of them all, that was well-nigh a hopeless imbecile. his true name was galesus; but, as neither his tutor's pains, nor his father's coaxing or chastisement, nor any other method had availed to imbue him with any tincture of letters or manners, but he still remained gruff and savage of voice, and in his bearing liker to a beast than to a man, all, as in derision, were wont to call him cimon, which in their language signifies the same as "bestione" (brute)(1) in ours. the father, grieved beyond measure to see his son's life thus blighted, and having abandoned all hope of his recovery, nor caring to have the cause of his mortification ever before his eyes, bade him betake him to the farm, and there keep with his husbandmen. to cimon the change was very welcome, because the manners and habits of the uncouth hinds were more to his taste than those of the citizens. so to the farm cimon hied him, and addressed himself to the work thereof; and being thus employed, he chanced one afternoon as he passed, staff on shoulder, from one domain to another, to enter a plantation, the like of which for beauty there was not in those parts, and which was then--for 'twas the month of may--a mass of greenery; and, as he traversed it, he came, as fortune was pleased to guide him, to a meadow girt in with trees exceeding tall, and having in one of its corners a fountain most fair and cool, beside which he espied a most beautiful girl lying asleep on the green grass, clad only in a vest of such fine stuff that it scarce in any measure veiled the whiteness of her flesh, and below the waist nought but an apron most white and fine of texture; and likewise at her feet there slept two women and a man, her slaves. no sooner did cimon catch sight of her, than, as if he had never before seen form of woman, he stopped short, and leaning on his cudgel, regarded her intently, saying never a word, and lost in admiration. and in his rude soul, which, despite a thousand lessons, had hitherto remained impervious to every delight that belongs to urbane life, he felt the awakening of an idea, that bade his gross and coarse mind acknowledge, that this girl was the fairest creature that had ever been seen by mortal eye. and thereupon he began to distinguish her several parts, praising her hair, which shewed to him as gold, her brow, her nose and mouth, her throat and arms, and above all her bosom, which was as yet but in bud, and as he gazed, he changed of a sudden from a husbandman into a judge of beauty, and desired of all things to see her eyes, which the weight of her deep slumber kept close shut, and many a time he would fain have awakened her, that he might see them. but so much fairer seemed she to him than any other woman that he had seen, that he doubted she must be a goddess; and as he was not so devoid of sense but that he deemed things divine more worthy of reverence than things mundane, he forbore, and waited until she should awake of her own accord; and though he found the delay overlong, yet, enthralled by so unwonted a delight, he knew not how to be going. however, after he had tarried a long while, it so befell that iphigenia--such was the girl's name--her slaves still sleeping, awoke, and raised her head, and opened her eyes, and seeing cimon standing before her, leaning on his staff, was not a little surprised, and said:--"cimon, what seekest thou in this wood at this hour?" for cimon she knew well, as indeed did almost all the country-side, by reason alike of his uncouth appearance as of the rank and wealth of his father. to iphigenia's question he answered never a word; but as soon as her eyes were open, nought could he do but intently regard them, for it seemed to him that a soft influence emanated from them, which filled his soul with a delight that he had never before known. which the girl marking began to misdoubt that by so fixed a scrutiny his boorish temper might be prompted to some act that should cause her dishonour: wherefore she roused her women, and got up, saying:--"keep thy distance, cimon, in god's name." whereto cimon made answer:--"i will come with thee." and, albeit the girl refused his escort, being still in fear of him, she could not get quit of him; but he attended her home; after which he hied him straight to his father's house, and announced that he was minded on no account to go back to the farm: which intelligence was far from welcome to his father and kinsmen; but nevertheless they suffered him to stay, and waited to see what might be the reason of his change of mind. so cimon, whose heart, closed to all teaching, love's shaft, sped by the beauty of iphigenia, had penetrated, did now graduate in wisdom with such celerity as to astonish his father and kinsmen, and all that knew him. he began by requesting his father to let him go clad in the like apparel, and with, in all respects, the like personal equipment as his brothers: which his father very gladly did. mixing thus with the gallants, and becoming familiar with the manners proper to gentlemen, and especially to lovers, he very soon, to the exceeding great wonder of all, not only acquired the rudiments of letters, but waxed most eminent among the philosophic wits. after which (for no other cause than the love he bore to iphigenia) he not only modulated his gruff and boorish voice to a degree of smoothness suitable to urbane life, but made himself accomplished in singing and music; in riding also and in all matters belonging to war, as well by sea as by land, he waxed most expert and hardy. and in sum (that i go not about to enumerate each of his virtues in detail) he had not completed the fourth year from the day of his first becoming enamoured before he was grown the most gallant, and courteous, ay, and the most perfect in particular accomplishments, of the young cavaliers that were in the island of cyprus. what then, gracious ladies, are we to say of cimon? verily nought else but that the high faculties, with which heaven had endowed his noble soul, invidious fortune had bound with the strongest of cords, and circumscribed within a very narrow region of his heart; all which cords love, more potent than fortune, burst and brake in pieces; and then with the might, wherewith he awakens dormant powers, he brought them forth of the cruel obfuscation, in which they lay, into clear light, plainly shewing thereby, whence he may draw, and whither he may guide, by his beams the souls that are subject to his sway. now, albeit by his love for iphigenia cimon was betrayed, as young lovers very frequently are, into some peccadillos, yet aristippus, reflecting that it had turned him from a booby into a man, not only bore patiently with him, but exhorted him with all his heart to continue steadfast in his love. and cimon, who still refused to be called galesus, because 'twas as cimon that iphigenia had first addressed him, being desirous to accomplish his desire by honourable means, did many a time urge his suit upon her father, cipseus, that he would give her him to wife: whereto cipseus always made the same answer, to wit, that he had promised her to pasimondas, a young rhodian noble, and was not minded to break faith with him. however, the time appointed for iphigenia's wedding being come, and the bridegroom having sent for her, cimon said to himself:--'tis now for me to shew thee, o iphigenia, how great is my love for thee: 'tis by thee that i am grown a man, nor doubt i, if i shall have thee, that i shall wax more glorious than a god, and verily thee will i have, or die. having so said, he privily enlisted in his cause certain young nobles that were his friends, and secretly fitted out a ship with all equipment meet for combat, and put to sea on the look-out for the ship that was to bear iphigenia to rhodes and her husband. and at length, when her father had done lavishing honours upon her husband's friends, iphigenia embarked, and, the mariners shaping their course for rhodes, put to sea. cimon was on the alert, and overhauled them the very next day, and standing on his ship's prow shouted amain to those that were aboard iphigenia's ship:--"bring to; strike sails, or look to be conquered and sunk in the sea." then, seeing that the enemy had gotten their arms above deck, and were making ready to make a fight of it, he followed up his words by casting a grapnel upon the poop of the rhodians, who were making great way; and having thus made their poop fast to his prow, he sprang, fierce as a lion, reckless whether he were followed or no, on to the rhodians' ship, making, as it were, no account of them, and animated by love, hurled himself, sword in hand, with prodigious force among the enemy, and cutting and thrusting right and left, slaughtered them like sheep; insomuch that the rhodians, marking the fury of his onset, threw down their arms, and as with one voice did all acknowledge themselves his prisoners. to whom cimon:--"gallants," quoth he, "'twas neither lust of booty nor enmity to you that caused me to put out from cyprus to attack you here with force of arms on the high seas. moved was i thereto by that which to gain is to me a matter great indeed, which peaceably to yield me is to you but a slight matter; for 'tis even iphigenia, whom more than aught else i love; whom, as i might not have her of her father in peaceable and friendly sort, love has constrained me to take from you in this high-handed fashion and by force of arms; to whom i mean to be even such as would have been your pasimondas: wherefore give her to me, and go your way, and god's grace go with you." yielding rather to force than prompted by generosity, the rhodians surrendered iphigenia, all tears, to cimon; who, marking her tears, said to her:--"grieve not, noble lady; thy cimon am i, who, by my long love, have established a far better right to thee than pasimondas by the faith that was plighted to him." so saying, he sent her aboard his ship, whither he followed her, touching nought that belonged to the rhodians, and suffering them to go their way. to have gotten so dear a prize made him the happiest man in the world, but for a time 'twas all he could do to assuage her grief: then, after taking counsel with his comrades, he deemed it best not to return to cyprus for the present: and so, by common consent they shaped their course for crete, where most of them, and especially cimon, had alliances of old or recent date, and friends not a few, whereby they deemed that there they might tarry with iphigenia in security. but fortune, that had accorded cimon so gladsome a capture of the lady, suddenly proved fickle, and converted the boundless joy of the enamoured gallant into woeful and bitter lamentation. 'twas not yet full four hours since cimon had parted from the rhodians, when with the approach of night, that night from which cimon hoped such joyance as he had never known, came weather most turbulent and tempestuous, which wrapped the heavens in cloud, and swept the sea with scathing blasts; whereby 'twas not possible for any to see how the ship was to be worked or steered, or to steady himself so as to do any duty upon her deck. whereat what grief was cimon's, it boots not to ask. indeed it seemed to him that the gods had granted his heart's desire only that it might be harder for him to die, which had else been to him but a light matter. not less downcast were his comrades; but most of all iphigenia, who, weeping bitterly and shuddering at every wave that struck the ship, did cruelly curse cimon's love and censure his rashness, averring that this tempest was come upon them for no other cause than that the gods had decreed, that, as 'twas in despite of their will that he purposed to espouse her, he should be frustrate of his presumptuous intent, and having lived to see her expire, should then himself meet a woeful death. while thus and yet more bitterly they bewailed them, and the mariners were at their wits' end, as the gale grew hourly more violent, nor knew they, nor might conjecture, whither they went, they drew nigh the island of rhodes, albeit that rhodes it was they wist not, and set themselves, as best and most skilfully they might, to run the ship aground. in which enterprise fortune favoured them, bringing them into a little bay, where, shortly before them, was arrived the rhodian ship that cimon had let go. nor were they sooner ware that 'twas rhodes they had made, than day broke, and, the sky thus brightening a little, they saw that they were about a bow-shot from the ship that they had released on the preceding day. whereupon cimon, vexed beyond measure, being apprehensive of that which in fact befell them, bade make every effort to win out of the bay, and let fortune carry them whither she would, for nowhere might they be in worse plight than there. so might and main they strove to bring the ship out, but all in vain: the violence of the gale thwarted them to such purpose as not only to preclude their passage out of the bay but to drive them, willing nilling, ashore. whither no sooner were they come, than they were recognized by the rhodian mariners, who were already landed. of whom one ran with all speed to a farm hard by, whither the rhodian gallants were gone, and told them that fortune had brought cimon and iphigenia aboard their ship into the same bay to which she had guided them. whereat the gallants were overjoyed, and taking with them not a few of the farm-servants, hied them in hot haste to the shore, where, cimon and his men being already landed with intent to take refuge in a neighbouring wood, they took them all (with iphigenia) and brought them to the farm. whence, pursuant to an order of the senate of rhodes, to which, so soon as he received the news, pasimondas made his complaint, cimon and his men were all marched off to prison by lysimachus, chief magistrate of the rhodians for that year, who came down from the city for the purpose with an exceeding great company of men at arms. on such wise did our hapless and enamoured cimon lose his so lately won iphigenia before he had had of her more than a kiss or two. iphigenia was entertained and comforted of the annoy, occasioned as well by her recent capture as by the fury of the sea, by not a few noble ladies of rhodes, with whom she tarried until the day appointed for her marriage. in recompense of the release of the rhodian gallants on the preceding day the lives of cimon and his men were spared, notwithstanding that pasimondas pressed might and main for their execution; and instead they were condemned to perpetual imprisonment: wherein, as may be supposed, they abode in dolorous plight, and despaired of ever again knowing happiness. however, it so befell that, pasimondas accelerating his nuptials to the best of his power, fortune, as if repenting her that in her haste she had done cimon so evil a turn, did now by a fresh disposition of events compass his deliverance. pasimondas had a brother, by name hormisdas, his equal in all respects save in years, who had long been contract to marry cassandra, a fair and noble damsel of rhodes, of whom lysimachus was in the last degree enamoured; but owing to divers accidents the marriage had been from time to time put off. now pasimondas, being about to celebrate his nuptials with exceeding great pomp, bethought him that he could not do better than, to avoid a repetition of the pomp and expense, arrange, if so he might, that his brother should be wedded on the same day with himself. so, having consulted anew with cassandra's kinsfolk, and come to an understanding with them, he and his brother and they conferred together, and agreed that on the same day that pasimondas married iphigenia, hormisdas should marry cassandra. lysimachus, getting wind of this arrangement, was mortified beyond measure, seeing himself thereby deprived of the hope which he cherished of marrying cassandra himself, if hormisdas should not forestall him. but like a wise man he concealed his chagrin, and cast about how he might frustrate the arrangement: to which end he saw no other possible means but to carry cassandra off. it did not escape him that the office which he held would render this easily feasible, but he deemed it all the more dishonourable than if he had not held the office; but, in short, after much pondering, honour yielded place to love, and he made up his mind that, come what might, he would carry cassandra off. then, as he took thought what company he should take with him, and how he should go about the affair, he remembered cimon, whom he had in prison with his men, and it occurred to him that he could not possibly have a better or more trusty associate in such an enterprise than cimon. wherefore the same night he caused cimon to be brought privily to him in his own room, and thus addressed him:--"cimon, as the gods are most generous and liberal to bestow their gifts on men, so are they also most sagacious to try their virtue; and those whom they find to be firm and steadfast in all circumstances they honour, as the most worthy, with the highest rewards. they have been minded to be certified of thy worth by better proofs than thou couldst afford them, as long as thy life was bounded by thy father's house amid the superabundant wealth which i know him to possess: wherefore in the first place they so wrought upon thee with the shrewd incitements of love that from an insensate brute, as i have heard, thou grewest to be a man; since when, it has been and is their intent to try whether evil fortune and harsh imprisonment may avail to change thee from the temper that was thine when for a short while thou hadst joyance of the prize thou hadst won. and so thou prove the same that thou wast then, they have in store for thee a boon incomparably greater than aught that they vouchsafed thee before: what that boon is, to the end thou mayst recover heart and thy wonted energies, i will now explain to thee. pasimondas, exultant in thy misfortune and eager to compass thy death, hastens to the best of his power his nuptials with thy iphigenia; that so he may enjoy the prize that fortune, erstwhile smiling, gave thee, and forthwith, frowning, reft from thee. whereat how sore must be thy grief, if rightly i gauge thy love, i know by my own case, seeing that his brother hormisdas addresses himself to do me on the same day a like wrong in regard of cassandra, whom i love more than aught else in the world. nor see i that fortune has left us any way of escape from this her unjust and cruel spite, save what we may make for ourselves by a resolved spirit and the might of our right hands: take we then the sword, and therewith make we, each, prize of his lady, thou for the second, i for the first time: for so thou value the recovery, i say not of thy liberty, for without thy lady i doubt thou wouldst hold it cheap, but of thy lady, the gods have placed it in thine own hands, if thou art but minded to join me in my enterprise." these words restored to cimon all that he had lost of heart and hope, nor pondered he long, before he replied:--"lysimachus, comrade stouter or more staunch than i thou mightst not have in such an enterprise, if such indeed it be as thou sayst: wherefore lay upon me such behest as thou shalt deem meet, and thou shalt marvel to witness the vigour of my performance." whereupon lysimachus:--"on the third day from now," quoth he, "their husbands' houses will be newly entered by the brides, and on the same day at even we too will enter them in arms, thou with thy men, and i with some of mine, in whom i place great trust, and forcing our way among the guests and slaughtering all that dare to oppose us, will bear the ladies off to a ship which i have had privily got ready." cimon approved the plan, and kept quiet in prison until the appointed time; which being come, the nuptials were celebrated with great pomp and magnificence, that filled the houses of the two brothers with festal cheer. then lysimachus having made ready all things meet, and fired cimon and his men and his own friends for the enterprise by a long harangue, disposed them in due time, all bearing arms under their cloaks, in three companies; and having privily despatched one company to the port, that, when the time should come to embark, he might meet with no let, he marched with the other two companies to the house of pasimondas, posted the one company at the gate, that, being entered, they might not be shut in or debarred their egress, and, with the other company and cimon, ascended the stairs, and gained the saloon, where the brides and not a few other ladies were set at several tables to sup in meet order: whereupon in they rushed, and overthrew the tables and seized each his own lady, and placed them in charge of their men, whom they bade bear them off forthwith to the ship that lay ready to receive them. whereupon the brides and the other ladies and the servants with one accord fell a sobbing and shrieking, insomuch that a confused din and lamentation filled the whole place. cimon, lysimachus and their band, none withstanding, but all giving way before them, gained the stairs, which they were already descending when they encountered pasimondas, who, carrying a great staff in his hand, was making in the direction of the noise; but one doughty stroke of cimon's sword sufficed to cleave his skull in twain, and lay him dead at cimon's feet, and another stroke disposed of hapless hormisdas, as he came running to his brother's aid. some others who ventured to approach them were wounded and beaten off by the retinue. so forth of the house, that reeked with blood and resounded with tumult and lamentation and woe, sped simon and lysimachus with all their company, and without any let, in close order, with their fair booty in their midst, made good their retreat to the ship; whereon with the ladies they one and all embarked, for the shore was now full of armed men come to rescue the ladies, and, the oarsmen giving way, put to sea elate. arrived at crete, they met with a hearty welcome on the part of their many friends and kinsfolk; and, having married their ladies, they made greatly merry, and had gladsome joyance of their fair booty. their doings occasioned, both in cyprus and in rhodes, no small stir and commotion, which lasted for a long while: but in the end, by the good offices of their friends and kinsfolk in both islands, 'twas so ordered as that after a certain term of exile cimon returned with iphigenia to cyprus, and in like manner lysimachus returned with cassandra to rhodes; and long and blithely thereafter lived they, each well contented with his own wife in his own land. (1) one of the augmentative forms of bestia. novel ii. -gostanza loves martuccio gomito, and hearing that he is dead, gives way to despair, and hies her alone aboard a boat, which is wafted by the wind to susa. she finds him alive in tunis, and makes herself known to him, who, having by his counsel gained high place in the king's favour, marries her, and returns with her wealthy to lipari. -pamfilo's story being ended, the queen, after commending it not a little, called for one to follow from emilia; who thus began:-meet and right it is that one should rejoice when events so fall out that passion meets with its due reward: and as love merits in the long run rather joy than suffering, far gladlier obey i the queen's than i did the king's behest, and address myself to our present theme. you are to know then, dainty ladies, that not far from sicily there is an islet called lipari, in which, no great while ago, there dwelt a damsel, gostanza by name, fair as fair could be, and of one of the most honourable families in the island. and one martuccio gomito, who was also of the island, a young man most gallant and courteous, and worthy for his condition, became enamoured of gostanza; who in like manner grew so afire for him that she was ever ill at ease, except she saw him. martuccio, craving her to wife, asked her of her father, who made answer that, martuccio being poor, he was not minded to give her to him. mortified to be thus rejected by reason of poverty, martuccio took an oath in presence of some of his friends and kinsfolk that lipari should know him no more, until he was wealthy. so away he sailed, and took to scouring the seas as a rover on the coast of barbary, preying upon all whose force matched not his own. in which way of life he found fortune favourable enough, had he but known how to rest and be thankful: but 'twas not enough that he and his comrades in no long time waxed very wealthy; their covetousness was inordinate, and, while they sought to gratify it, they chanced in an encounter with certain saracen ships to be taken after a long defence, and despoiled, and, most part of them, thrown into the sea by their captors, who, after sinking his ship, took martuccio with them to tunis, and clapped him in prison, and there kept him a long time in a very sad plight. meanwhile, not by one or two, but by divers and not a few persons, tidings reached lipari that all that were with martuccio aboard his bark had perished in the sea. the damsel, whose grief on martuccio's departure had known no bounds, now hearing that he was dead with the rest, wept a great while, and made up her mind to have done with life; but, lacking the resolution to lay violent hands upon herself, she bethought her how she might devote herself to death by some novel expedient. so one night she stole out of her father's house, and hied her to the port, and there by chance she found, lying a little apart from the other craft, a fishing boat, which, as the owners had but just quitted her, was still equipped with mast and sails and oars. aboard which boat she forthwith got, and being, like most of the women of the island, not altogether without nautical skill, she rowed some distance out to sea, and then hoisted sail, and cast away oars and tiller, and let the boat drift, deeming that a boat without lading or steersman would certainly be either capsized by the wind or dashed against some rock and broken in pieces, so that escape she could not, even if she would, but must perforce drown. and so, her head wrapped in a mantle, she stretched herself weeping on the floor of the boat. but it fell out quite otherwise than she had conjectured: for, the wind being from the north, and very equable, with next to no sea, the boat kept an even keel, and next day about vespers bore her to land hard by a city called susa, full a hundred miles beyond tunis. to the damsel 'twas all one whether she were at sea or ashore, for, since she had been aboard, she had never once raised, nor, come what might, meant she ever to raise, her head. now it so chanced, that, when the boat grounded, there was on the shore a poor woman that was in the employ of some fishermen, whose nets she was just taking out of the sunlight. seeing the boat under full sail, she marvelled how it should be suffered to drive ashore, and conjectured that the fishermen on board were asleep. so to the boat she hied her, and finding therein only the damsel fast asleep, she called her many times, and at length awakened her; and perceiving by her dress that she was a christian, she asked her in latin how it was that she was come thither all alone in the boat. hearing the latin speech, the damsel wondered whether the wind had not shifted, and carried her back to lipari: so up she started, gazed about her, and finding herself ashore and the aspect of the country strange, asked the good woman where she was. to which the good woman made answer:--"my daughter, thou art hard by susa in barbary." whereupon the damsel, sorrowful that god had not seen fit to accord her the boon of death, apprehensive of dishonour, and at her wits' end, sat herself down at the foot of her boat, and burst into tears. which the good woman saw not without pity, and persuaded her to come with her into her hut, and there by coaxing drew from her how she was come thither; and knowing that she could not but be fasting, she set before her her own coarse bread and some fish and water, and prevailed upon her to eat a little. gostanza thereupon asked her, who she was that thus spoke latin; whereto she answered that her name was carapresa, and that she was from trapani, where she had served some christian fishermen. to the damsel, sad indeed though she was, this name carapresa, wherefore she knew not, seemed to be of happy augury, so that she began to take hope, she knew not why, and to grow somewhat less fain of death: wherefore without disclosing who or whence she was, she earnestly besought the good woman for the love of god to have pity on her youth, and advise her how best to avoid insult. whereupon carapresa, good woman that she was, left her in her hut, while with all speed she picked up her nets; and on her return she wrapped her in her own mantle, and led her to susa. arrived there, she said to her:--"gostanza, i shall bring thee to the house of an excellent saracen lady, for whom i frequently do bits of work, as she has occasion: she is an old lady and compassionate: i will commend thee to her care as best i may, and i doubt not she will right gladly receive thee, and entreat thee as her daughter: and thou wilt serve her, and, while thou art with her, do all thou canst to gain her favour, until such time as god may send thee better fortune;" and as she said, so she did. the old lady listened, and then, gazing steadfastly in the damsel's face, shed tears, and taking her hand, kissed her forehead, and led her into the house, where she and some other women dwelt quite by themselves, doing divers kinds of handiwork in silk and palm leaves and leather. wherein the damsel in a few days acquired some skill, and thenceforth wrought together with them; and rose wondrous high in the favour and good graces of all the ladies, who soon taught her their language. now while the damsel, mourned at home as lost and dead, dwelt thus at susa, it so befell that, mariabdela being then king of tunis, a young chieftain in granada, of great power, and backed by mighty allies, gave out that the realm of tunis belonged to him, and having gathered a vast army, made a descent upon tunis with intent to expel the king from the realm. martuccio gomito, who knew the language of barbary well, heard the tidings in prison, and learning that the king of tunis was mustering a mighty host for the defence of his kingdom, said to one of the warders that were in charge of him and his comrades:--"if i might have speech of the king, i am confident that the advice that i should give him would secure him the victory." the warder repeated these words to his chief, who forthwith carried them to the king. wherefore by the king's command martuccio was brought before him, and being asked by him what the advice, of which he had spoken, might be, answered on this wise:--"sire, if in old days, when i was wont to visit this country of yours, i duly observed the manner in which you order your battle, methinks you place your main reliance upon archers; and therefore, if you could contrive that your enemy's supply of arrows should give out and your own continue plentiful, i apprehend that you would win the battle." "ay indeed," replied the king, "i make no doubt that, could i but accomplish that, i should conquer." "nay but, sire," returned martuccio, "you may do it, if you will. listen, and i will tell you how. you must fit the bows of your archers with strings much finer than those that are in common use, and match them with arrows, the notches of which will not admit any but these fine strings; and this you must do so secretly that your enemy may not know it, else he will find means to be even with you. which counsel i give you for the following reason:--when your and your enemy's archers have expended all their arrows, you wot that the enemy will fall to picking up the arrows that your men have shot during the battle, and your men will do the like by the enemy's arrows; but the enemy will not be able to make use of your men's arrows, by reason that their fine notches will not suffice to admit the stout strings, whereas your men will be in the contrary case in regard of the enemy's arrows, for the fine string will very well receive the large-notched arrow, and so your men will have an abundant supply of arrows, while the enemy will be at a loss for them." the king, who lacked not sagacity, appreciated martuccio's advice, and gave full effect to it; whereby he came out of the war a conqueror, and martuccio, being raised to the chief place in his favour, waxed rich and powerful. which matters being bruited throughout the country, it came to the ears of gostanza that martuccio gomito, whom she had long supposed to be dead, was alive; whereby her love for him, some embers of which still lurked in her heart, burst forth again in sudden flame, and gathered strength, and revived her dead hope. wherefore she frankly told all her case to the good lady with whom she dwelt, saying that she would fain go to tunis, that her eyes might have assurance of that which the report received by her ears had made them yearn to see. the lady fell heartily in with the girl's desire, and, as if she had been her mother, embarked with her for tunis, where on their arrival they were honourably received in the house of one of her kinswomen. carapresa, who had attended her, being sent to discover what she might touching martuccio, brought back word that he was alive, and high in honour and place. the gentlewoman was minded that none but herself should apprise martuccio of the arrival of his gostanza: wherefore she hied her one day to martuccio, and said:--"martuccio, there is come to my house a servant of thine from lipari, who would fain speak with thee here privily, and for that he would not have me trust another, i am come hither myself to deliver his message." martuccio thanked her, and forthwith hied him with her to her house: where no sooner did the girl see him than she all but died for joy, and carried away by her feelings, fell upon his neck with open arms and embraced him, and, what with sorrow of his past woes and her present happiness, said never a word, but softly wept. martuccio regarded her for a while in silent wonder; then, heaving a sigh, he said:--"thou livest then, my gostanza? long since i heard that thou wast lost; nor was aught known of thee at home." which said, he tenderly and with tears embraced her. gostanza told him all her adventures, and how honourably she had been entreated by the gentlewoman with whom she had dwelt. and so long time they conversed, and then martuccio parted from her, and hied him back to his lord the king, and told him all, to wit, his own adventures and those of the girl, adding that with his leave he was minded to marry her according to our law. which matters the king found passing strange; and having called the girl to him, and learned from her that 'twas even as martuccio had said:--"well indeed," quoth he, "hast thou won thy husband." then caused he gifts most ample and excellent to be brought forth, part of which he gave to gostanza, and part to martuccio, leaving them entirely to their own devices in regard of one another. then martuccio, in terms most honourable, bade farewell to the old lady with whom gostanza had dwelt, thanking her for the service she had rendered to gostanza, and giving her presents suited to her condition, and commending her to god, while gostanza shed many a tear: after which, by leave of the king, they went aboard a light bark, taking with them carapresa, and, sped by a prosperous breeze, arrived at lipari, where they were received with such cheer as 'twere vain to attempt to describe. there were martuccio and gostanza wedded with all pomp and splendour; and there long time in easeful peace they had joyance of their love. novel iii. -pietro boccamazza runs away with agnolella, and encounters a gang of robbers: the girl takes refuge in a wood, and is guided to a castle. pietro is taken, but escapes out of the hands of the robbers, and after some adventures arrives at the castle where agnolella is, marries her, and returns with her to rome. -ended emilia's story, which none of the company spared to commend, the queen, turning to elisa, bade her follow suit; and she, with glad obedience, thus began:-'tis a story, sweet ladies, of a woeful night passed by two indiscreet young lovers that i have in mind; but, as thereon ensued not a few days of joy, 'tis not inapposite to our argument, and shall be narrated. 'tis no long time since at rome, which, albeit now the tail,(1) was of yore the head, of the world, there dwelt a young man, pietro boccamazza by name, a scion of one of the most illustrious of the roman houses, who became enamoured of a damsel exceeding fair, and amorous withal--her name agnolella--the daughter of one gigliuozzo saullo, a plebeian, but in high repute among the romans. nor, loving thus, did pietro lack the address to inspire in agnolella a love as ardent as his own. wherefore, overmastered by his passion, and minded no longer to endure the sore suffering that it caused him, he asked her in marriage. whereof his kinsfolk were no sooner apprised, than with one accord they came to him and strongly urged him to desist from his purpose: they also gave gigliuozzo saullo to understand that he were best to pay no sort of heed to pietro's words, for that, if he so did, they would never acknowledge him as friend or relative. thus to see himself debarred of the one way by which he deemed he might attain to his desire, pietro was ready to die for grief, and, all his kinsfolk notwithstanding, he would have married gigliuozzo's daughter, had but the father consented. wherefore at length he made up his mind that, if the girl were willing, nought should stand in the way; and having through a common friend sounded the damsel and found her apt, he brought her to consent to elope with him from rome. the affair being arranged, pietro and she took horse betimes one morning, and sallied forth for anagni, where pietro had certain friends, in whom he placed much trust; and as they rode, time not serving for full joyance of their love, for they feared pursuit, they held converse thereof, and from time to time exchanged a kiss. now it so befell, that, the way being none too well known to pietro, when, perhaps eight miles from rome, they should have turned to the right, they took instead a leftward road. whereon when they had ridden but little more than two miles, they found themselves close to a petty castle, whence, so soon as they were observed, there issued some dozen men at arms; and, as they drew near, the damsel, espying them, gave a cry, and said:--"we are attacked, pietro, let us flee;" and guiding her nag as best she knew towards a great forest, she planted the spurs in his sides, and so, holding on by the saddle-bow, was borne by the goaded creature into the forest at a gallop. pietro, who had been too engrossed with her face to give due heed to the way, and thus had not been ware, as soon as she, of the approach of the men at arms, was still looking about to see whence they were coming, when they came up with him, and took him prisoner, and forced him to dismount. then they asked who he was, and, when he told them, they conferred among themselves, saying:--"this is one of the friends of our enemies: what else can we do but relieve him of his nag and of his clothes, and hang him on one of these oaks in scorn of the orsini?" to which proposal all agreeing, they bade pietro strip himself: but while, already divining his fate, he was so doing, an ambuscade of full five-and-twenty men at arms fell suddenly upon them, crying:--"death, death!" thus surprised, they let pietro go, and stood on the defensive; but, seeing that the enemy greatly outnumbered them, they took to their heels, the others giving chase. whereupon pietro hastily resumed his clothes, mounted his nag, and fled with all speed in the direction which he had seen the damsel take. but finding no road or path through the forest, nor discerning any trace of a horse's hooves, he was--for that he found not the damsel--albeit he deemed himself safe out of the clutches of his captors and their assailants, the most wretched man alive, and fell a weeping and wandering hither and thither about the forest, uttering agnolella's name. none answered; but turn back he dared not: so on he went, not knowing whither he went; besides which, he was in mortal dread of the wild beasts that infest the forest, as well on account of himself as of the damsel, whom momently he seemed to see throttled by some bear or wolf. thus did our unfortunate pietro spend the whole day, wandering about the forest, making it to resound with his cries of agnolella's name, and harking at times back, when he thought to go forward; until at last, what with his cries and his tears and his fears and his long fasting, he was so spent that he could go no further. 'twas then nightfall, and, as he knew not what else to do, he dismounted at the foot of an immense oak, and having tethered his nag to the trunk, climbed up into the branches, lest he should be devoured by the wild beasts during the night. shortly afterwards the moon rose with a very clear sky, and pietro, who dared not sleep, lest he should fall, and indeed, had he been secure from that risk, his misery and his anxiety on account of the damsel would not have suffered him to sleep, kept watch, sighing and weeping and cursing his evil luck. now the damsel, who, as we said before, had fled she knew not whither, allowing her nag to carry her whithersoever he would, strayed so far into the forest that she lost sight of the place where she had entered it, and spent the whole day just as pietro had done, wandering about the wilderness, pausing from time to time, and weeping, and uttering his name, and bewailing her evil fortune. at last, seeing that 'twas now the vesper hour and pietro came not, she struck into a path, which the nag followed, until, after riding some two miles, she espied at some distance a cottage, for which she made with all speed, and found there a good man, well stricken in years, with his wife, who was likewise aged. seeing her ride up alone, they said:--"daughter, wherefore ridest thou thus alone at this hour in these parts?" weeping, the damsel made answer that she had lost her companion in the forest, and asked how far might anagni be from there? "my daughter," returned the good man, "this is not the road to anagni; 'tis more than twelve miles away." "and how far off," inquired the damsel, "are the nearest houses in which one might find lodging for the night?" "there are none so near," replied the good man, "that thou canst reach them to-day." "then, so please you," said the damsel, "since go elsewhither i cannot, for god's sake let me pass the night here with you." whereto the good man made answer:--"damsel, welcome art thou to tarry the night with us; but still thou art to know that these parts are infested both by day and by night by bands, which, be they friends or be they foes, are alike ill to meet with, and not seldom do much despite and mischief, and if by misadventure one of these bands should visit us while thou wert here, and marking thy youth and beauty should do thee despite and dishonour, we should be unable to afford thee any succour. this we would have thee know, that if it should so come to pass, thou mayst not have cause to reproach us." the damsel heard not the old man's words without dismay; but, seeing that the hour was now late, she answered:--"god, if he be so pleased, will save both you and me from such molestation, and if not, 'tis a much lesser evil to be maltreated by men than to be torn in pieces by the wild beasts in the forest." so saying, she dismounted, and entered the cottage, where, having supped with the poor man and his wife on such humble fare as they had, she laid herself in her clothes beside them in their bed. she slept not, however; for her own evil plight and that of pietro, for whom she knew not how to augur aught but evil, kept her sighing and weeping all night long. and towards matins she heard a great noise as of men that marched; so up she got and hied her into a large courtyard that was in rear of the cottage, and part of which was covered with a great heap of hay, which she espying, hid herself therein, that, if the men came there, they might not so readily find her. scarce had she done so than the men, who proved to be a strong company of marauders, were at the door of the cottage, which they forced open; and having entered, and found the damsel's nag, still saddled, they asked who was there. the damsel being out of sight, the good man answered:--"there is none here but my wife and i; but this nag, which has given some one the slip, found his way hither last night, and we housed him, lest he should be devoured by the wolves." "so!" said the chief of the band, "as he has no owner, he will come in very handy for us." whereupon, in several parties, they ransacked the cottage from top to bottom; and one party went out into the courtyard, where, as they threw aside their lances and targets, it so befell that one of them, not knowing where else to bestow his lance, tossed it into the hay, and was within an ace of killing the damsel that lay hid there, as likewise she of betraying her whereabouts, for the lance all but grazing her left breast, insomuch that the head tore her apparel, she doubted she was wounded, and had given a great shriek, but that, remembering where she was, she refrained for fear. by and by the company cooked them a breakfast of kid's and other meat, and having eaten and drunken, dispersed in divers directions, as their affairs required, taking the girl's nag with them. and when they were gotten some little way off, the good man asked his wife:--"what became of the damsel, our guest of last night, that i have not seen her since we rose?" the good woman answered that she knew not where the damsel was, and went to look for her. the damsel, discovering that the men were gone, came forth of the hay, and the good man, seeing her, was overjoyed that she had not fallen into the hands of the ruffians, and, as day was breaking, said to her:--"now that day is at hand, we will, so it like thee, escort thee to a castle, some five miles hence, where thou wilt be in safety; but thou must needs go afoot, because these villains, that are but just gone, have taken thy nag with them." the damsel, resigning herself to her loss, besought them for god's sake to take her to the castle: whereupon they set forth, and arrived there about half tierce. now the castle belonged to one of the orsini, liello di campo di fiore by name, whose wife, as it chanced, was there. a most kindly and good woman she was, and, recognizing the damsel as soon as she saw her, gave her a hearty welcome and would fain have from her a particular account of how she came there. so the damsel told her the whole story. the lady, to whom pietro was also known, as being a friend of her husband, was distressed to hear of his misadventure, and being told where he was taken, gave him up for dead. so she said to the damsel:--"since so it is that thou knowest not how pietro has fared, thou shalt stay here with me until such time as i may have opportunity to send thee safely back to rome." meanwhile pietro, perched on his oak in as woeful a plight as might be, had espied, when he should have been in his first sleep, a full score of wolves, that, as they prowled, caught sight of the nag, and straightway were upon him on all sides. the horse, as soon as he was ware of their approach, strained on the reins till they snapped, and tried to make good his escape; but, being hemmed in, was brought to bay, and made a long fight of it with his teeth and hooves; but in the end they bore him down and throttled him and forthwith eviscerated him, and, the whole pack falling upon him, devoured him to the bone before they had done with him. whereat pietro, who felt that in the nag he had lost a companion and a comfort in his travail, was sorely dismayed, and began to think that he should never get out of the forest. but towards dawn, he, perched there in the oak, almost dead with cold, looking around him as he frequently did, espied about a mile off a huge fire. wherefore, as soon as 'twas broad day, he got down, not without trepidation, from the oak, and bent his steps towards the fire; and being come to it, he found, gathered about it, a company of shepherds, eating and making merry, who took pity on him and made him welcome. and when he had broken his fast and warmed himself, he told them the mishap that had befallen him, and how it was that he was come there alone, and asked them if there was a farm or castle in those parts, whither he might betake him. the shepherds said that about three miles away there was a castle belonging to liello di campo di fiore, where his lady was then tarrying. pietro, much comforted, requested to be guided thither by some of their company; whereupon two of them right gladly escorted him. so pietro arrived at the castle, where he found some that knew him; and while he was endeavouring to set on foot a search for the damsel in the forest, the lady summoned him to her presence, and he, forthwith obeying, and seeing agnolella with her, was the happiest man that ever was. he yearned till he all but swooned to go and embrace her, but refrained, for bashfulness, in the lady's presence. and overjoyed as he was, the joy of the damsel was no less. the lady received him with great cheer, and though, when she had heard the story of his adventures from his own lips, she chid him not a little for having set at nought the wishes of his kinsfolk; yet, seeing that he was still of the same mind, and that the damsel was also constant, she said to herself:--to what purpose give i myself all this trouble? they love one another, they know one another; they love with equal ardour; their love is honourable, and i doubt not is well pleasing to god, seeing that the one has escaped the gallows and the other the lance, and both the wild beasts: wherefore be it as they would have it. then, turning to them, she said:--"if 'tis your will to be joined in wedlock as man and wife, mine jumps with it: here shall your nuptials be solemnized and at liello's charges, and for the rest i will see that your peace is made with your kinsfolk." so in the castle the pair were wedded, pietro only less blithe than agnolella, the lady ordering the nuptials as honourably as might be in her mountain-home, and there they had most sweet joyance of the first fruits of their love. so some days they tarried there, and then accompanied by the lady with a strong escort, they took horse and returned to rome, where, very wroth though she found pietro's kinsfolk for what he had done, the lady re-established solid peace between him and them; and so at rome pietro and agnolella lived together to a good old age in great tranquillity and happiness. (1) in reference to the forlorn condition of the city while the seat of the papacy was at avignon, 1308-1377. novel iv. -ricciardo manardi is found by messer lizio da valbona with his daughter, whom he marries, and remains at peace with her father. -in silence elisa received the praise bestowed on her story by her fair companions; and then the queen called for a story from filostrato, who with a laugh began on this wise:--chidden have i been so often and by so many of you for the sore burden, which i laid upon you, of discourse harsh and meet for tears, that, as some compensation for such annoy, i deem myself bound to tell you somewhat that may cause you to laugh a little: wherefore my story, which will be of the briefest, shall be of a love, the course whereof, save for sighs and a brief passage of fear mingled with shame, ran smooth to a happy consummation. know then, noble ladies, that 'tis no long time since there dwelt in romagna a right worthy and courteous knight, messer lizio da valbona by name, who was already verging upon old age, when, as it happened, there was born to him of his wife, madonna giacomina, a daughter, who, as she grew up, became the fairest and most debonair of all the girls of those parts, and, for that she was the only daughter left to them, was most dearly loved and cherished by her father and mother, who guarded her with most jealous care, thinking to arrange some great match for her. now there was frequently in messer lizio's house, and much in his company, a fine, lusty young man, one ricciardo de' manardi da brettinoro, whom messer lizio and his wife would as little have thought of mistrusting as if he had been their own son: who, now and again taking note of the damsel, that she was very fair and graceful, and in bearing and behaviour most commendable, and of marriageable age, fell vehemently in love with her, which love he was very careful to conceal. the damsel detected it, however, and in like manner plunged headlong into love with him, to ricciardo's no small satisfaction. again and again he was on the point of speaking to her, but refrained for fear; at length, however, he summoned up his courage, and seizing his opportunity, thus addressed her:--"caterina, i implore thee, suffer me not to die for love of thee." whereto the damsel forthwith responded:--"nay, god grant that it be not rather that i die for love of thee." greatly exhilarated and encouraged, ricciardo made answer:--"'twill never be by default of mine that thou lackest aught that may pleasure thee; but it rests with thee to find the means to save thy life and mine." then said the damsel:--"thou seest, ricciardo, how closely watched i am, insomuch that i see not how 'twere possible for thee to come to me; but if thou seest aught that i may do without dishonour, speak the word, and i will do it." ricciardo was silent a while, pondering many matters: then, of a sudden, he said:--"sweet my caterina, there is but one way that i can see, to wit, that thou shouldst sleep either on or where thou mightst have access to the terrace by thy father's garden, where, so i but knew that thou wouldst be there at night, i would without fail contrive to meet thee, albeit 'tis very high." "as for my sleeping there," replied caterina, "i doubt not that it may be managed, if thou art sure that thou canst join me." ricciardo answered in the affirmative. whereupon they exchanged a furtive kiss, and parted. on the morrow, it being now towards the close of may, the damsel began complaining to her mother that by reason of the excessive heat she had not been able to get any sleep during the night. "daughter," said the lady, "what heat was there? nay, there was no heat at all." "had you said, 'to my thinking,' mother," rejoined caterina, "you would perhaps have said sooth; but you should bethink you how much more heat girls have in them than ladies that are advanced in years." "true, my daughter," returned the lady, "but i cannot order that it shall be hot and cold, as thou perchance wouldst like; we must take the weather as we find it, and as the seasons provide it: perchance to-night it will be cooler, and thou wilt sleep better." "god grant it be so," said caterina, "but 'tis not wonted for the nights to grow cooler as the summer comes on." "what then," said the lady, "wouldst thou have me do?" "with your leave and my father's," answered caterina, "i should like to have a little bed made up on the terrace by his room and over his garden, where, hearing the nightingales sing, and being in a much cooler place, i should sleep much better than in your room." whereupon:--"daughter, be of good cheer," said the mother; "i will speak to thy father, and we will do as he shall decide." so the lady told messer lizio what had passed between her and the damsel; but he, being old and perhaps for that reason a little morose, said:--"what nightingale is this, to whose chant she would fain sleep? i will see to it that the cicalas shall yet lull her to sleep." which speech, coming to caterina's ears, gave her such offence, that for anger, rather than by reason of the heat, she not only slept not herself that night, but suffered not her mother to sleep, keeping up a perpetual complaint of the great heat. wherefore her mother hied her in the morning to messer lizio, and said to him:--"sir, you hold your daughter none too dear; what difference can it make to you that she lie on the terrace? she has tossed about all night long by reason of the heat; and besides, can you wonder that she, girl that she is, loves to hear the nightingale sing? young folk naturally affect their likes." whereto messer lizio made answer:--"go, make her a bed there to your liking, and set a curtain round it, and let her sleep there, and hear the nightingale sing to her heart's content." which the damsel no sooner learned, than she had a bed made there with intent to sleep there that same night; wherefore she watched until she saw ricciardo, whom by a concerted sign she gave to understand what he was to do. messer lizio, as soon as he had heard the damsel go to bed, locked a door that led from his room to the terrace, and went to sleep himself. when all was quiet, ricciardo with the help of a ladder got upon a wall, and standing thereon laid hold of certain toothings of another wall, and not without great exertion and risk, had he fallen, clambered up on to the terrace, where the damsel received him quietly with the heartiest of cheer. many a kiss they exchanged; and then got them to bed, where well-nigh all night long they had solace and joyance of one another, and made the nightingale sing not a few times. but, brief being the night and great their pleasure, towards dawn, albeit they wist it not, they fell asleep, caterina's right arm encircling ricciardo's neck, while with her left hand she held him by that part of his person which your modesty, my ladies, is most averse to name in the company of men. so, peacefully they slept, and were still asleep when day broke and messer lizio rose; and calling to mind that his daughter slept on the terrace, softly opened the door, saying to himself:--let me see what sort of night's rest the nightingale has afforded our caterina? and having entered, he gently raised the curtain that screened the bed, and saw ricciardo asleep with her and in her embrace as described, both being quite naked and uncovered; and having taken note of ricciardo, he went away, and hied him to his lady's room, and called her, saying:--"up, up, wife, come and see; for thy daughter has fancied the nightingale to such purpose that she has caught him, and holds him in her hand." "how can this be?" said the lady. "come quickly, and thou shalt see," replied messer lizio. so the lady huddled on her clothes, and silently followed messer lizio, and when they were come to the bed, and had raised the curtain, madonna giacomina saw plainly enough how her daughter had caught, and did hold the nightingale, whose song she had so longed to hear. whereat the lady, deeming that ricciardo had played her a cruel trick, would have cried out and upbraided him; but messer lizio said to her:--"wife, as thou valuest my love, say not a word; for in good sooth, seeing that she has caught him, he shall be hers. ricciardo is a gentleman and wealthy; an alliance with him cannot but be to our advantage: if he would part from me on good terms, he must first marry her, so that the nightingale shall prove to have been put in his own cage and not in that of another." whereby the lady was reassured, seeing that her husband took the affair so quietly, and that her daughter had had a good night, and was rested, and had caught the nightingale. so she kept silence; nor had they long to wait before ricciardo awoke; and, seeing that 'twas broad day, deemed that 'twas as much as his life was worth, and aroused caterina, saying:--"alas! my soul, what shall we do, now that day has come and surprised me here?" which question messer lizio answered by coming forward, and saying:--"we shall do well." at sight of him ricciardo felt as if his heart were torn out of his body, and sate up in the bed, and said:--"my lord, i cry you mercy for god's sake. i wot that my disloyalty and delinquency have merited death; wherefore deal with me even as it may seem best to you: however, i pray you, if so it may be, to spare my life, that i die not." "ricciardo," replied messer lizio, "the love i bore thee, and the faith i reposed in thee, merited a better return; but still, as so it is, and youth has seduced thee into such a transgression, redeem thy life, and preserve my honour, by making caterina thy lawful spouse, that thine, as she has been for this past night, she may remain for the rest of her life. in this way thou mayst secure my peace and thy safety; otherwise commend thy soul to god." pending this colloquy, caterina let go the nightingale, and having covered herself, began with many a tear to implore her father to forgive ricciardo, and ricciardo to do as messer lizio required, that thereby they might securely count upon a long continuance of such nights of delight. but there needed not much supplication; for, what with remorse for the wrong done, and the wish to make amends, and the fear of death, and the desire to escape it, and above all ardent love, and the craving to possess the beloved one, ricciardo lost no time in making frank avowal of his readiness to do as messer lizio would have him. wherefore messer lizio, having borrowed a ring from madonna giacomina, ricciardo did there and then in their presence wed caterina. which done, messer lizio and the lady took their leave, saying:--"now rest ye a while; for so perchance 'twere better for you than if ye rose." and so they left the young folks, who forthwith embraced, and not having travelled more than six miles during the night, went two miles further before they rose, and so concluded their first day. when they were risen, ricciardo and messer lizio discussed the matter with more formality; and some days afterwards ricciardo, as was meet, married the damsel anew in presence of their friends and kinsfolk, and brought her home with great pomp, and celebrated his nuptials with due dignity and splendour. and so for many a year thereafter he lived with her in peace and happiness, and snared the nightingales day and night to his heart's content. novel v. -guidotto da cremona dies leaving a girl to giacomino da pavia. she has two lovers in faenza, to wit, giannole di severino and minghino di mingole, who fight about her. she is discovered to be giannole's sister, and is given to minghino to wife. -all the ladies laughed so heartily over the story of the nightingale, that, even when filostrato had finished, they could not control their merriment. however, when the laughter was somewhat abated, the queen said:--"verily if thou didst yesterday afflict us, to-day thou hast tickled us to such purpose that none of us may justly complain of thee." then, as the turn had now come round to neifile, she bade her give them a story. and thus, blithely, neifile began:--as filostrato went to romagna for the matter of his discourse, i too am fain to make a short journey through the same country in what i am about to relate to you. i say, then, that there dwelt of yore in the city of fano two lombards, the one ycleped guidotto da cremona and the other giacomino da pavia, men advanced in life, who, being soldiers, had spent the best part of their youth in feats of arms. now guidotto, being at the point of death, and having no son or any friend or kinsman in whom he placed more trust than in giacomino, left him a girl of about ten years, and all that he had in the world, and so, having given him to know not a little of his affairs, he died. about the same time the city of faenza, which had long been at war and in a most sorry plight, began to recover some measure of prosperity; and thereupon liberty to return thither on honourable terms was accorded to all that were so minded. whither, accordingly, giacomino, who had dwelt there aforetime, and liked the place, returned with all his goods and chattels, taking with him the girl left him by guidotto, whom he loved and entreated as his daughter. the girl grew up as beautiful a maiden as was to be found in the city; and no less debonair and modest was she than fair. wherefore she lacked not admirers; but above all two young men, both very gallant and of equal merit, the one giannole di severino, the other minghino di mingole, affected her with so ardent a passion, that, growing jealous, they came to hate one another with an inordinate hatred. right gladly would each have espoused her, she being now fifteen years old, but that his kinsmen forbade it; wherefore seeing that neither might have her in an honourable way, each determined to compass his end as best he might. now giacomino had in his house an ancient maid, and a man, by name crivello, a very pleasant and friendly sort of fellow, with whom giannole grew familiar, and in due time confided to him all his love, praying him to further the attainment of his desire, and promising to reward him handsomely, if he did so. crivello made answer:--"thou must know that there is but one way in which i might be of service to thee in this affair: i might contrive that thou shouldst be where she is when giacomino is gone off to supper; but, were i to presume to say aught to her on thy behalf, she would never listen to me. this, if it please thee, i promise to do for thee, and will be as good as my word; and then thou canst do whatever thou mayst deem most expedient." giannole said that he asked no more; and so 'twas arranged. meanwhile minghino on his part had made friends with the maid, on whom he had so wrought that she had carried several messages to the girl, and had gone far to kindle her to his love, and furthermore had promised to contrive that he should meet her when for any cause giacomino should be from home in the evening. and so it befell that no long time after these parleys, giacomino, by crivello's management, was to go sup at the house of a friend, and by preconcert between crivello and giannole, upon signal given, giannole was to come to giacomino's house and find the door open. the maid, on her part, witting nought of the understanding between crivello and giannole, let minghino know that giacomino would not sup at home, and bade him be near the house, so that he might come and enter it on sight of a signal from her. the evening came; neither of the lovers knew aught of what the other was about; but, being suspicious of one another, they came to take possession, each with his own company of armed friends. minghino, while awaiting the signal, rested with his company in the house of one of his friends hard by the girl's house: giannole with his company was posted a little farther off. crivello and the maid, when giacomino was gone, did each their endeavour to get the other out of the way. crivello said to the maid:--"how is it thou takest not thyself off to bed, but goest still hither and thither about the house?" and the maid said to crivello:--"nay, but why goest thou not after thy master? thou hast supped; what awaitest thou here?" and so, neither being able to make the other quit the post, crivello, the hour concerted with giannole being come, said to himself:--what care i for her? if she will not keep quiet, 'tis like to be the worse for her. whereupon he gave the signal, and hied him to the door, which he had no sooner opened, than giannole entered with two of his companions, and finding the girl in the saloon, laid hands on her with intent to carry her off. the girl struggled, and shrieked amain, as did also the maid. minghino, fearing the noise, hasted to the spot with his companions; and, seeing that the girl was already being borne across the threshold, they drew their swords, and cried out in chorus:--"ah! traitors that ye are, ye are all dead men! 'twill go otherwise than ye think for. what means this force?" which said, they fell upon them with their swords, while the neighbours, alarmed by the noise, came hurrying forth with lights and arms, and protested that 'twas an outrage, and took minghino's part. so, after a prolonged struggle, minghino wrested the girl from giannole, and set her again in giacomino's house. nor were the combatants separated before the officers of the governor of the city came up and arrested not a few of them; among them minghino and giannole and crivello, whom they marched off to prison. however, peace being restored and giacomino returned, 'twas with no little chagrin that he heard of the affair; but finding upon investigation that the girl was in no wise culpable, he was somewhat reassured; and determined, lest the like should again happen, to bestow the girl in marriage as soon as might be. on the morrow the kinsfolk of the two lovers, having learned the truth of the matter, and knowing what evil might ensue to the captives, if giacomino should be minded to take the course which he reasonably might, came and gave him good words, beseeching him to let the kindly feeling, the love, which they believed he bore to them, his suppliants, count for more with him than the wrong that the hare-brained gallants had done him, and on their part and their own offering to make any amend that he might require. giacomino, who had seen many things in his time, and lacked not sound sense, made answer briefly:--"gentlemen, were i in my own country, as i am in yours, i hold myself in such sort your friend that nought would i do in this matter, or in any other, save what might be agreeable to you: besides which, i have the more reason to consider your wishes, because 'tis against you yourselves that you have offended, inasmuch as this damsel, whatever many folk may suppose, is neither of cremona nor of pavia, but is of faenza, albeit neither i nor she, nor he from whom i had her, did ever wot whose daughter she was: wherefore, touching that you ask of me, i will even do just as you bid me." the worthy men found it passing strange that the girl should be of faenza; and having thanked giacomino for his handsome answer, they besought him that he would be pleased to tell them how she had come into his hands, and how he knew that she was of faenza. to whom giacomino replied on this wise:--"a comrade and friend i had, guidotto da cremona, who, being at the point of death, told me that, when this city of faenza was taken by the emperor frederic, he and his comrades, entering one of the houses during the sack, found there good store of booty, and never a soul save this girl, who, being two years old or thereabouts, greeted him as father as he came up the stairs; wherefore he took pity on her, and carried her with whatever else was in the house away with him to fano; where on his deathbed he left her to me, charging me in due time to bestow her in marriage, and give her all his goods and chattels by way of dowry: but, albeit she is now of marriageable age, i have not been able to provide her with a husband to my mind; though right glad should i be to do so, that nought like the event of yesterday may again befall me." now among the rest of those present was one guglielmo da medicina, who had been with guidotto on that occasion, and knew well whose house it was that guidotto had sacked; and seeing the owner there among the rest, he went up to him, and said:--"dost hear, bernabuccio, what giacomino says?" "ay," answered bernabuccio, "and i gave the more heed thereto, for that i call to mind that during those disorders i lost a little daughter of just the age that giacomino speaks of." "'tis verily she then," said guglielmo, "for once when i was with guidotto i heard him describe what house it was that he had sacked, and i wist that 'twas thine. wherefore search thy memory if there be any sign by which thou thinkest to recognize her, and let her be examined that thou mayst be assured that she is thy daughter." so bernabuccio pondered a while, and then recollected that she ought to have a scar, shewing like a tiny cross, above her left ear, being where he had excised a tumour a little while before that affair: wherefore without delay he went up to giacomino, who was still there, and besought him to let him go home with him and see the damsel. giacomino gladly did so, and no sooner was the girl brought into bernabuccio's presence, than, as he beheld her, 'twas as if he saw the face of her mother, who was still a beautiful woman. however, he would not rest there, but besought giacomino of his grace to permit him to lift a lock or two of hair above her left ear; whereto giacomino consented. so bernabuccio approached her where she stood somewhat shamefast, and with his right hand lifted her locks, and, seeing the cross, wist that in very truth she was his daughter, and tenderly wept and embraced her, albeit she withstood him; and then, turning to giacomino, he said:--"my brother, the girl is my daughter; 'twas my house that guidotto sacked, and so sudden was the assault that my wife, her mother, forgot her, and we have always hitherto supposed, that, my house being burned that same day, she perished in the flames." catching his words, and seeing that he was advanced in years, the girl inclined to believe him, and impelled by some occult instinct, suffered his embraces, and melting, mingled her tears with his. bernabuccio forthwith sent for her mother and her sisters and other kinswomen and her brothers, and having shewn her to them all, and told the story, after they had done her great cheer and embraced her a thousand times, to giacomino's no small delight, he brought her home with him. which coming to the ears of the governor of the city, the worthy man, knowing that giannole, whom he had in ward, was bernabuccio's son and the girl's brother, made up his mind to deal leniently with giannole: wherefore he took upon himself the part of mediator in the affair, and having made peace between bernabuccio and giacomino and giannole and minghino, gave agnesa--such was the damsel's name--to minghino to wife, to the great delight of all minghino's kinsfolk, and set at liberty not only giannole and minghino but crivello, and the others their confederates in the affair. whereupon minghino with the blithest of hearts wedded agnesa with all due pomp and circumstance, and brought her home, where for many a year thereafter he lived with her in peace and prosperity. novel vi. -gianni di procida, being found with a damsel that he loves, and who had been given to king frederic, is bound with her to a stake, so to be burned. he is recognized by ruggieri dell' oria, is delivered, and marries her. -neifile's story, with which the ladies were greatly delighted, being ended, the queen called for one from pampinea; who forthwith raised her noble countenance, and thus began:--mighty indeed, gracious ladies, are the forces of love, and great are the labours and excessive and unthought of the perils which they induce lovers to brave; as is manifest enough by what we have heard to-day and on other occasions: howbeit i mean to shew you the same once more by a story of an enamoured youth. hard by naples is the island of ischia, in which there dwelt aforetime with other young damsels one, restituta by name, daughter of one marin bolgaro, a gentleman of the island. very fair was she, and blithe of heart, and by a young gallant, gianni by name, of the neighbouring islet of procida, was beloved more dearly than life, and in like measure returned his love. now, not to mention his daily resort to ischia to see her, there were times not a few when gianni, not being able to come by a boat, would swim across from procida by night, that he might have sight, if of nought else, at least of the walls of her house. and while their love burned thus fervently, it so befell that one summer's day, as the damsel was all alone on the seashore, picking her way from rock to rock, detaching, as she went, shells from their beds with a knife, she came to a recess among the rocks, where for the sake, as well of the shade as of the comfort afforded by a spring of most cool water that was there, some sicilian gallants, that were come from naples, had put in with their felucca. who, having taken note of the damsel, that she was very fair, and that she was not yet ware of them, and was alone, resolved to capture her, and carry her away; nor did they fail to give effect to their resolve; but, albeit she shrieked amain, they laid hands on her, and set her aboard their boat, and put to sea. arrived at calabria, they fell a wrangling as to whose the damsel should be, and in brief each claimed her for his own: wherefore, finding no means of coming to an agreement, and fearing that worse might befall them, and she bring misfortune upon them, they resolved with one accord to give her to frederic, king of sicily, who was then a young man, and took no small delight in commodities of that quality; and so, being come to palermo, they did. marking her beauty, the king set great store by her; but as she was somewhat indisposed, he commanded that, till she was stronger, she should be lodged and tended in a very pretty villa that was in one of his gardens, which he called cuba; and so 'twas done. the purloining of the damsel caused no small stir in ischia, more especially because 'twas impossible to discover by whom she had been carried off. but gianni, more concerned than any other, despairing of finding her in ischia, and being apprised of the course the felucca had taken, equipped one himself, and put to sea, and in hot haste scoured the whole coast from minerva to scalea in calabria, making everywhere diligent search for the damsel, and in scalea learned that she had been taken by sicilian mariners to palermo. whither, accordingly, he hied him with all speed; and there after long search discovering that she had been given to the king, who kept her at cuba, he was sore troubled, insomuch that he now scarce ventured to hope that he should ever set eyes on her, not to speak of having her for his own, again. but still, holden by love, and seeing that none there knew him, he sent the felucca away, and tarried there, and frequently passing by cuba, he chanced one day to catch sight of her at a window, and was seen of her, to their great mutual satisfaction. and gianni, taking note that the place was lonely, made up to her, and had such speech of her as he might, and being taught by her after what fashion he must proceed, if he would have further speech of her, he departed, but not till he had made himself thoroughly acquainted with the configuration of the place; and having waited until night was come and indeed far spent, he returned thither, and though the ascent was such that 'twould scarce have afforded lodgment to a woodpecker, won his way up and entered the garden, where, finding a pole, he set it against the window which the damsel had pointed out as hers, and thereby swarmed up easily enough. the damsel had aforetime shewn herself somewhat distant towards him, being careful of her honour, but now deeming it already lost, she had bethought her that there was none to whom she might more worthily give herself than to him; and reckoning upon inducing him to carry her off, she had made up her mind to gratify his every desire; and to that end had left the window open that his ingress might be unimpeded. so, finding it open, gianni softly entered, lay down beside the damsel, who was awake, and before they went further, opened to him all her mind, beseeching him most earnestly to take her thence, and carry her off. gianni replied that there was nought that would give him so much pleasure, and that without fail, upon leaving her, he would make all needful arrangements for bringing her away when he next came. whereupon with exceeding great delight they embraced one another, and plucked that boon than which love has no greater to bestow; and having so done divers times, they unwittingly fell asleep in one another's arms. now towards daybreak the king, who had been greatly charmed with the damsel at first sight, happened to call her to mind, and feeling himself fit, resolved, notwithstanding the hour, to go lie with her a while; and so, attended by a few of his servants, he hied him privily to cuba. having entered the house, he passed (the door being softly opened) into the room in which he knew the damsel slept. a great blazing torch was borne before him, and so, as he bent his glance on the bed, he espied the damsel and gianni lying asleep, naked and in one another's arms. whereat he was seized with a sudden and vehement passion of wrath, insomuch that, albeit he said never a word, he could scarce refrain from slaying both of them there and then with a dagger that he had with him. then, bethinking him that 'twere the depth of baseness in any man--not to say a king--to slay two naked sleepers, he mastered himself, and determined to do them to death in public and by fire. wherefore, turning to a single companion that he had with him, he said:--"what thinkest thou of this base woman, in whom i had placed my hope?" and then he asked whether he knew the gallant, that had presumed to enter his house to do him such outrage and despite. whereto the other replied that he minded not ever to have seen him. thereupon the king hied him out of the room in a rage, and bade take the two lovers, naked as they were, and bind them, and, as soon as 'twas broad day, bring them to palermo, and bind them back to back to a stake in the piazza, there to remain until tierce, that all might see them, after which they were to be burned, as they had deserved. and having so ordered, he went back to palermo, and shut himself up in his room, very wroth. no sooner was he gone than there came unto the two lovers folk not a few, who, having awakened them, did forthwith ruthlessly take and bind them: whereat, how they did grieve and tremble for their lives, and weep and bitterly bewail their fate, may readily be understood. pursuant to the king's commandment they were brought to palermo, and bound to a stake in the piazza; and before their eyes faggots and fire were made ready to burn them at the hour appointed by the king. great was the concourse of the folk of palermo, both men and women, that came to see the two lovers, the men all agog to feast their eyes on the damsel, whom they lauded for shapeliness and loveliness, and no less did the women commend the gallant, whom in like manner they crowded to see, for the same qualities. meanwhile the two hapless lovers, both exceeding shamefast, stood with bent heads bitterly bewailing their evil fortune, and momently expecting their death by the cruel fire. so they awaited the time appointed by the king; but their offence being bruited abroad, the tidings reached the ears of ruggieri dell' oria, a man of peerless worth, and at that time the king's admiral, who, being likewise minded to see them, came to the place where they were bound, and after gazing on the damsel and finding her very fair, turned to look at the gallant, whom with little trouble he recognized, and drawing nearer to him, he asked him if he were gianni di procida. gianni raised his head, and recognizing the admiral, made answer:--"my lord, he, of whom you speak, i was; but i am now as good as no more." the admiral then asked him what it was that had brought him to such a pass. whereupon:--"love and the king's wrath," quoth gianni. the admiral induced him to be more explicit, and having learned from him exactly how it had come about, was turning away, when gianni called him back, saying:--"oh! my lord, if so it may be, procure me one favour of him by whose behest i thus stand here." "what favour?" demanded ruggieri. "i see," returned gianni, "that die i must, and that right soon. i crave, then, as a favour, that, whereas this damsel and i, that have loved one another more dearly than life, are here set back to back, we may be set face to face, that i may have the consolation of gazing on her face as i depart." ruggieri laughed as he replied:--"with all my heart. i will so order it that thou shalt see enough of her to tire of her." he then left him and charged the executioners to do nothing more without further order of the king; and being assured of their obedience, he hied him forthwith to the king, to whom, albeit he found him in a wrathful mood, he spared not to speak his mind, saying:--"sire, wherein have they wronged thee, those two young folk, whom thou hast ordered to be burned down there in the piazza?" the king told him. whereupon ruggieri continued:--"their offence does indeed merit such punishment, but not at thy hands, and if misdeeds should not go unpunished, services should not go unrewarded; nay, may warrant indulgence and mercy. knowest thou who they are whom thou wouldst have burned?" the king signified that he did not. whereupon ruggieri:--"but i," quoth he, "am minded that thou shouldst know them, to the end that thou mayst know with what discretion thou surrenderest thyself to a transport of rage. the young man is the son of landolfo di procida, brother of messer gianni di procida, to whom thou owest it that thou art lord and king of this island. the damsel is a daughter of marin bolgaro, whose might alone to-day prevents ischia from throwing off thy yoke. moreover, these young folk have long been lovers, and 'tis for that the might of love constrained them, and not that they would do despite to thy lordship, that they have committed this offence, if indeed 'tis meet to call that an offence which young folk do for love's sake. wherefore, then, wouldst thou do them to death, when thou shouldst rather do them all cheer, and honour them with lordly gifts?" the king gave ear to ruggieri's words, and being satisfied that he spoke sooth, repented him, not only of his evil purpose, but of what he had already done, and forthwith gave order to loose the two young folk from the stake, and bring them before him; and so 'twas done. and having fully apprised himself of their case, he saw fit to make them amends of the wrong he had done them with honours and largess. wherefore he caused them to be splendidly arrayed, and being assured that they were both minded to wed, he himself gave gianni his bride, and loading them with rich presents, sent them well content back to ischia, where they were welcomed with all festal cheer, and lived long time thereafter to their mutual solace and delight. novel vii. -teodoro, being enamoured of violante, daughter of messer amerigo, his lord, gets her with child, and is sentenced to the gallows; but while he is being scourged thither, he is recognized by his father, and being set at large, takes violante to wife. -while they doubted whether the two lovers would be burned, the ladies were all fear and suspense; but when they heard of their deliverance, they all with one accord put on a cheerful countenance, praising god. the story ended, the queen ordained that the next should be told by lauretta, who blithely thus began:-fairest ladies, what time good king guglielmo ruled sicily there dwelt on the island a gentleman, messer amerigo abate da trapani by name, who was well provided, as with other temporal goods, so also with children. for which cause being in need of servants, he took occasion of the appearance in trapani waters of certain genoese corsairs from the levant, who, scouring the coast of armenia, had captured not a few boys, to purchase of them some of these youngsters, supposing them to be turks; among whom, albeit most shewed as mere shepherd boys, there was one, teodoro, by name, whose less rustic mien seemed to betoken gentle blood. who, though still treated as a slave, was suffered to grow up in the house with messer amerigo's children, and, nature getting the better of circumstance, bore himself with such grace and dignity that messer amerigo gladly gave him his freedom, and still deeming him to be a turk, had him baptized and named pietro, and made him his majordomo, and placed much trust in him. now among the other children that grew up in messer amerigo's house was his fair and dainty daughter, violante; and, as her father was in no hurry to give her in marriage, it so befell that she became enamoured of pietro, but, for all her love and the great conceit she had of his qualities and conduct, she nevertheless was too shamefast to discover her passion to him. however, love spared her the pains, for pietro had cast many a furtive glance in her direction, and had grown so enamoured of her that 'twas never well with him except he saw her; but great was his fear lest any should detect his passion, for he deemed 'twould be the worse for him. the damsel, who was fain indeed of the sight of him, understood his case; and to encourage him dissembled not her exceeding great satisfaction. on which footing they remained a great while, neither venturing to say aught to the other, much as both longed to do so. but, while they both burned with a mutual flame, fortune, as if their entanglement were of her preordaining, found means to banish the fear and hesitation that kept them tongue-tied. messer amerigo possessed, a mile or so from trapani, a goodly estate, to which he was wont not seldom to resort with his daughter and other ladies by way of recreation; and on one of these days, while there they tarried with pietro, whom they had brought with them, suddenly, as will sometimes happen in summer, the sky became overcast with black clouds, insomuch that the lady and her companions, lest the storm should surprise them there, set out on their return to trapani, making all the haste they might. but pietro and the girl being young, and sped perchance by love no less than by fear of the storm, completely outstripped her mother and the other ladies; and when they were gotten so far ahead as to be well-nigh out of sight of the lady and all the rest, the thunder burst upon them peal upon peal, hard upon which came a fall of hail very thick and close, from which the lady sought shelter in the house of a husbandman. pietro and the damsel, finding no more convenient refuge, betook them to an old, and all but ruinous, and now deserted, cottage, which, however, still had a bit of roof left, whereunder they both took their stand in such close quarters, owing to the exiguity of the shelter, that they perforce touched one another. which contact was the occasion that they gathered somewhat more courage to disclose their love; and so it was that pietro began on this wise:--"now would to god that this hail might never cease, that so i might stay here for ever!" "and well content were i," returned the damsel. and by and by their hands met, not without a tender pressure, and then they fell to embracing and so to kissing one another, while the hail continued. and not to dwell on every detail, the sky was not clear before they had known the last degree of love's felicity, and had taken thought how they might secretly enjoy one another in the future. the cottage being close to the city gate, they hied them thither, as soon as the storm was overpast, and having there awaited the lady, returned home with her. nor, using all discretion, did they fail thereafter to meet from time to time in secret, to their no small solace; and the affair went so far that the damsel conceived, whereby they were both not a little disconcerted; insomuch that the damsel employed many artifices to arrest the course of nature, but to no effect. wherefore pietro, being in fear of his life, saw nothing for it but flight, and told her so. whereupon:--"if thou leave me," quoth she, "i shall certainly kill myself." much as he loved her, pietro answered:--"nay but, my lady, wherefore wouldst thou have me tarry here? thy pregnancy will discover our offence: thou wilt be readily forgiven; but 'twill be my woeful lot to bear the penalty of thy sin and mine." "pietro," returned the damsel, "too well will they wot of my offence, but be sure that, if thou confess not, none will ever wot of thine." then quoth he:--"since thou givest me this promise, i will stay; but mind thou keep it." the damsel, who had done her best to keep her condition secret, saw at length by the increase of her bulk that 'twas impossible: wherefore one day most piteously bewailing herself, she made her avowal to her mother, and besought her to shield her from the consequences. distressed beyond measure, the lady chid her severely, and then asked her how it had come to pass. the damsel, to screen pietro, invented a story by which she put another complexion on the affair. the lady believed her, and, that her fall might not be discovered, took her off to one of their estates; where, the time of her delivery being come, and she, as women do in such a case, crying out for pain, it so befell that messer amerigo, whom the lady expected not, as indeed he was scarce ever wont, to come there, did so, having been out a hawking, and passing by the chamber where the damsel lay, marvelled to hear her cries, and forthwith entered, and asked what it meant. on sight of whom the lady rose and sorrowfully gave him her daughter's version of what had befallen her. but he, less credulous than his wife, averred that it could not be true that she knew not by whom she was pregnant, and was minded to know the whole truth: let the damsel confess and she might regain his favour; otherwise she must expect no mercy and prepare for death. the lady did all she could to induce her husband to rest satisfied with what she had told him; but all to no purpose. mad with rage, he rushed, drawn sword in hand, to his daughter's bedside (she, pending the parley, having given birth to a boy) and cried out:--"declare whose this infant is, or forthwith thou diest." overcome by fear of death, the damsel broke her promise to pietro, and made a clean breast of all that had passed between him and her. whereat the knight, grown fell with rage, could scarce refrain from slaying her. however, having given vent to his wrath in such words as it dictated, he remounted his horse and rode to trapani, and there before one messer currado, the king's lieutenant, laid information of the wrong done him by pietro, in consequence whereof pietro, who suspected nothing, was forthwith taken, and being put to the torture, confessed all. some days later the lieutenant sentenced him to be scourged through the city, and then hanged by the neck; and messer amerigo, being minded that one and the same hour should rid the earth of the two lovers and their son (for to have compassed pietro's death was not enough to appease his wrath), mingled poison and wine in a goblet, and gave it to one of his servants with a drawn sword, saying:--"get thee with this gear to violante, and tell her from me to make instant choice of one of these two deaths, either the poison or the steel; else, i will have her burned, as she deserves, in view of all the citizens; which done, thou wilt take the boy that she bore a few days ago, and beat his brains out against the wall, and cast his body for a prey to the dogs." hearing the remorseless doom thus passed by the angry father upon both his daughter and his grandson, the servant, prompt to do evil rather than good, hied him thence. now, as pietro in execution of his sentence was being scourged to the gallows by the serjeants, 'twas so ordered by the leaders of the band that he passed by an inn, where were three noblemen of armenia, sent by the king of that country as ambassadors to rome, to treat with the pope of matters of the highest importance, touching a crusade that was to be; who, having there alighted to rest and recreate them for some days, had received not a few tokens of honour from the nobles of trapani, and most of all from messer amerigo. hearing the tramp of pietro's escort, they came to a window to see what was toward; and one of them, an aged man, and of great authority, fineo by name, looking hard at pietro, who was stripped from the waist up, and had his hands bound behind his back, espied on his breast a great spot of scarlet, not laid on by art, but wrought in the skin by operation of nature, being such as the ladies here call a rose. which he no sooner saw, than he was reminded of a son that had been stolen from him by corsairs on the coast of lazistan some fifteen years before, nor had he since been able to hear tidings of him; and guessing the age of the poor wretch that was being scourged, he set it down as about what his son's would be, were he living, and, what with the mark and the age, he began to suspect that 'twas even his son, and bethought him that, if so, he would scarce as yet have forgotten his name or the speech of armenia. wherefore, as he was within earshot he called to him:--"teodoro!" at the word pietro raised his head: whereupon fineo, speaking in armenian, asked him:--"whence and whose son art thou?" the serjeants, that were leading him, paused in deference to the great man, and so pietro answered:--"of armenia was i, son of one fineo, brought hither by folk i wot not of, when i was but a little child." then fineo, witting that in very truth 'twas the boy that he had lost, came down with his companions, weeping; and, all the serjeants making way, he ran to him, and embraced him, and doffing a mantle of richest texture that he wore, he prayed the captain of the band to be pleased to tarry there until he should receive orders to go forward, and was answered by the captain that he would willingly so wait. fineo already knew, for 'twas bruited everywhere, the cause for which pietro was being led to the gallows; wherefore he straightway hied him with his companions and their retinue to messer currado, and said to him:--"sir, this lad, whom you are sending to the gallows like a slave, is freeborn, and my son, and is ready to take to wife her whom, as 'tis said, he has deflowered; so please you, therefore, delay the execution until such time as it may be understood whether she be minded to have him for husband, lest, should she be so minded, you be found to have broken the law." messer currado marvelled to hear that pietro was fineo's son, and not without shame, albeit 'twas not his but fortune's fault, confessed that 'twas even as fineo said: and having caused pietro to be taken home with all speed, and messer amerigo to be brought before him, told him the whole matter. messer amerigo, who supposed that by this time his daughter and grandson must be dead, was the saddest man in the world to think that 'twas by his deed, witting that, were the damsel still alive, all might very easily be set right: however, he sent post haste to his daughter's abode, revoking his orders, if they were not yet carried out. the servant, whom he had earlier despatched, had laid the sword and poison before the damsel, and, for that she was in no hurry to make her choice, was giving her foul words, and endeavouring to constrain her thereto, when the messenger arrived; but on hearing the injunction laid upon him by his lord, he desisted, and went back, and told him how things stood. whereupon messer amerigo, much relieved, hied him to fineo, and well-nigh weeping, and excusing himself for what had befallen, as best he knew how, craved his pardon, and professed himself well content to give teodoro, so he were minded to have her, his daughter to wife. fineo readily accepted his excuses, and made answer:--"'tis my will that my son espouse your daughter, and, so he will not, let thy sentence passed upon him be carried out." so fineo and messer amerigo being agreed, while teodoro still languished in fear of death, albeit he was glad at heart to have found his father, they questioned him of his will in regard of this matter. when he heard that, if he would, he might have violante to wife, teodoro's delight was such that he seemed to leap from hell to paradise, and said that, if 'twas agreeable to them all, he should deem it the greatest of favours. so they sent to the damsel to learn her pleasure: who, having heard how it had fared, and was now like to fare, with teodoro, albeit, saddest of women, she looked for nought but death, began at length to give some credence to their words, and to recover heart a little, and answered that, were she to follow the bent of her desire, nought that could happen would delight her more than to be teodoro's wife; but nevertheless she would do as her father bade her. so, all agreeing, the damsel was espoused with all pomp and festal cheer, to the boundless delight of all the citizens, and was comforted, and nurtured her little boy, and in no long time waxed more beautiful than ever before; and, her confinement being ended, she presented herself before fineo, who was then about to quit rome on his homeward journey, and did him such reverence as is due to a father. fineo, mighty well pleased to have so fair a daughter-in-law, caused celebrate her nuptials most bravely and gaily, and received, and did ever thereafter entreat, her as his daughter. and so he took her, not many days after the festivities were ended, with his son and little grandson, aboard a galley, and brought them to lazistan, and there thenceforth the two lovers dwelt with him in easeful and lifelong peace. novel viii. -nastagio degli onesti, loving a damsel of the traversari family, by lavish expenditure gains not her love. at the instance of his kinsfolk he hies him to chiassi, where he sees a knight hunt a damsel and slay her and cause her to be devoured by two dogs. he bids his kinsfolk and the lady that he loves to breakfast. during the meal the said damsel is torn in pieces before the eyes of the lady, who, fearing a like fate, takes nastagio to husband. -lauretta was no sooner silent than thus at the queen's behest began filomena:--sweet ladies, as in us pity has ever its meed of praise, even so divine justice suffers not our cruelty to escape severe chastisement: the which that i may shew you, and thereby dispose you utterly to banish that passion from your souls, i am minded to tell you a story no less touching than delightsome. in ravenna, that most ancient city of romagna, there dwelt of yore noblemen and gentlemen not a few, among whom was a young man, nastagio degli onesti by name, who by the death of his father and one of his uncles inherited immense wealth. being without a wife, nastagio, as 'tis the way with young men, became enamoured of a daughter of messer paolo traversaro, a damsel of much higher birth than his, whose love he hoped to win by gifts and the like modes of courting, which, albeit they were excellent and fair and commendable, not only availed him not, but seemed rather to have the contrary effect, so harsh and ruthless and unrelenting did the beloved damsel shew herself towards him; for whether it was her uncommon beauty or her noble lineage that puffed her up, so haughty and disdainful was she grown that pleasure she had none either in him or in aught that pleased him. the burden of which disdain nastagio found so hard to bear, that many a time, when he had made his moan, he longed to make away with himself. however he refrained therefrom, and many a time resolved to give her up altogether, or, if so he might, to hold her in despite, as she did him: but 'twas all in vain, for it seemed as if, the more his hope dwindled, the greater grew his love. and, as thus he continued, loving and spending inordinately, certain of his kinsfolk and friends, being apprehensive lest he should waste both himself and his substance, did many a time counsel and beseech him to depart ravenna, and go tarry for a time elsewhere, that so he might at once cool his flame and reduce his charges. for a long while nastagio answered their admonitions with banter; but as they continued to ply him with them, he grew weary of saying no so often, and promised obedience. whereupon he equipped himself as if for a journey to france or spain, or other distant parts, got on horseback and sallied forth of ravenna, accompanied by not a few of his friends, and being come to a place called chiassi, about three miles from ravenna, he halted, and having sent for tents and pavilions, told his companions that there he meant to stay, and they might go back to ravenna. so nastagio pitched his camp, and there commenced to live after as fine and lordly a fashion as did ever any man, bidding divers of his friends from time to time to breakfast or sup with him, as he had been wont to do. now it so befell that about the beginning of may, the season being very fine, he fell a brooding on the cruelty of his mistress, and, that his meditations might be the less disturbed, he bade all his servants leave him, and sauntered slowly, wrapt in thought, as far as the pinewood. which he had threaded for a good half-mile, when, the fifth hour of the day being well-nigh past, yet he recking neither of food nor of aught else, 'twas as if he heard a woman wailing exceedingly and uttering most piercing shrieks: whereat, the train of his sweet melancholy being broken, he raised his head to see what was toward, and wondered to find himself in the pinewood; and saw, moreover, before him running through a grove, close set with underwood and brambles, towards the place where he was, a damsel most comely, stark naked, her hair dishevelled, and her flesh all torn by the briers and brambles, who wept and cried piteously for mercy; and at her flanks he saw two mastiffs, exceeding great and fierce, that ran hard upon her track, and not seldom came up with her and bit her cruelly; and in the rear he saw, riding a black horse, a knight sadly accoutred, and very wrathful of mien, carrying a rapier in his hand, and with despiteful, blood-curdling words threatening her with death. whereat he was at once amazed and appalled, and then filled with compassion for the hapless lady, whereof was bred a desire to deliver her, if so he might, from such anguish and peril of death. wherefore, as he was unarmed, he ran and took in lieu of a cudgel a branch of a tree, with which he prepared to encounter the dogs and the knight. which the knight observing, called to him before he was come to close quarters, saying:--"hold off, nastagio, leave the dogs and me alone to deal with this vile woman as she has deserved." and, even as he spoke, the dogs gripped the damsel so hard on either flank that they arrested her flight, and the knight, being come up, dismounted. whom nastagio approached, saying:--"i know not who thou art, that knowest me so well, but thus much i tell thee: 'tis a gross outrage for an armed knight to go about to kill a naked woman, and set his dogs upon her as if she were a wild beast: rest assured that i shall do all i can to protect her." whereupon:--"nastagio," replied the knight, "of the same city as thou was i, and thou wast yet a little lad when i, messer guido degli anastagi by name, being far more enamoured of this damsel than thou art now of her of the traversari, was by her haughtiness and cruelty brought to so woeful a pass that one day in a fit of despair i slew myself with this rapier which thou seest in my hand; for which cause i am condemned to the eternal pains. nor was it long after my death that she, who exulted therein over measure, also died, and for that she repented her not of her cruelty and the joy she had of my sufferings, for which she took not blame to herself, but merit, was likewise condemned to the pains of hell. nor had she sooner made her descent, than for her pain and mine 'twas ordained, that she should flee before me, and that i, who so loved her, should pursue her, not as my beloved lady, but as my mortal enemy, and so, as often as i come up with her, i slay her with this same rapier with which i slew myself, and having ripped her up by the back, i take out that hard and cold heart, to which neither love nor pity had ever access, and therewith her other inward parts, as thou shalt forthwith see, and cast them to these dogs to eat. and in no long time, as the just and mighty god decrees, she rises even as if she had not died, and recommences her dolorous flight, i and the dogs pursuing her. and it so falls out that every friday about this hour i here come up with her, and slaughter her as thou shalt see; but ween not that we rest on other days; for there are other places in which i overtake her, places in which she used, or devised how she might use, me cruelly; on which wise, changed as thou seest from her lover into her foe, i am to pursue her for years as many as the months during which she shewed herself harsh to me. wherefore leave me to execute the decree of the divine justice, and presume not to oppose that which thou mayst not avail to withstand." affrighted by the knight's words, insomuch that there was scarce a hair on his head but stood on end, nastagio shrank back, still gazing on the hapless damsel, and waited all a tremble to see what the knight would do. nor had he long to wait; for the knight, as soon as he had done speaking, sprang, rapier in hand, like a mad dog upon the damsel, who, kneeling, while the two mastiffs gripped her tightly, cried him mercy; but the knight, thrusting with all his force, struck her between the breasts, and ran her clean through the body. thus stricken, the damsel fell forthwith prone on the ground sobbing and shrieking: whereupon the knight drew forth a knife, and having therewith opened her in the back, took out the heart and all the circumjacent parts, and threw them to the two mastiffs, who, being famished, forthwith devoured them. and in no long time the damsel, as if nought thereof had happened, started to her feet, and took to flight towards the sea, pursued, and ever and anon bitten, by the dogs, while the knight, having gotten him to horse again, followed them as before, rapier in hand; and so fast sped they that they were quickly lost to nastagio's sight. long time he stood musing on what he had seen, divided between pity and terror, and then it occurred to him that, as this passed every friday, it might avail him not a little. so, having marked the place, he rejoined his servants, and in due time thereafter sent for some of his kinsfolk and friends, and said to them:--"'tis now a long while that you urge me to give up loving this lady that is no friend to me, and therewith make an end of my extravagant way of living; and i am now ready so to do, provided you procure me one favour, to wit, that next friday messer paolo traversaro, and his wife and daughter, and all the ladies, their kinswomen, and as many other ladies as you may be pleased to bid, come hither to breakfast with me: when you will see for yourselves the reason why i so desire." a small matter this seemed to them; and so, on their return to ravenna, they lost no time in conveying nastagio's message to his intended guests: and, albeit she was hardly persuaded, yet in the end the damsel that nastagio loved came with the rest. nastagio caused a lordly breakfast to be prepared, and had the tables set under the pines about the place where he had witnessed the slaughter of the cruel lady; and in ranging the ladies and gentlemen at table he so ordered it, that the damsel whom he loved was placed opposite the spot where it should be enacted. the last course was just served, when the despairing cries of the hunted damsel became audible to all, to their no small amazement; and each asking, and none knowing, what it might import, up they all started intent to see what was toward; and perceived the suffering damsel, and the knight and the dogs, who in a trice were in their midst. they hollaed amain to dogs and knight, and not a few advanced to succour the damsel: but the words of the knight, which were such as he had used to nastagio, caused them to fall back, terror-stricken and lost in amazement. and when the knight proceeded to do as he had done before, all the ladies that were there, many of whom were of kin to the suffering damsel and to the knight, and called to mind his love and death, wept as bitterly as if 'twere their own case. when 'twas all over, and the lady and the knight had disappeared, the strange scene set those that witnessed it pondering many and divers matters: but among them all none was so appalled as the cruel damsel that nastagio loved, who, having clearly seen and heard all that had passed, and being ware that it touched her more nearly than any other by reason of the harshness that she had ever shewn to nastagio, seemed already to be fleeing from her angered lover, and to have the mastiffs on her flanks. and so great was her terror that, lest a like fate should befall her, she converted her aversion into affection, and as soon as occasion served, which was that very night, sent a trusty chambermaid privily to nastagio with a request that he would be pleased to come to her, for that she was ready in all respects to pleasure him to the full. nastagio made answer that he was greatly flattered, but that he was minded with her consent to have his pleasure of her in an honourable way, to wit, by marrying her. the damsel, who knew that none but herself was to blame that she was not already nastagio's wife, made answer that she consented. wherefore by her own mouth she acquainted her father and mother that she agreed to marry nastagio; and, they heartily approving her choice, nastagio wedded her on the ensuing sunday, and lived happily with her many a year. nor was it in her instance alone that this terror was productive of good: on the contrary, it so wrought among the ladies of ravenna that they all became, and have ever since been, much more compliant with men's desires than they had been wont to be. novel ix. -federigo degli alberighi loves and is not loved in return: he wastes his substance by lavishness until nought is left but a single falcon, which, his lady being come to see him at his house, he gives her to eat: she, knowing his case, changes her mind, takes him to husband and makes him rich. -so ended filomena; and the queen, being ware that besides herself only dioneo (by virtue of his privilege) was left to speak, said with gladsome mien:--'tis now for me to take up my parable; which, dearest ladies, i will do with a story like in some degree to the foregoing, and that, not only that you may know how potent are your charms to sway the gentle heart, but that you may also learn how upon fitting occasions to make bestowal of your guerdons of your own accord, instead of always waiting for the guidance of fortune, which most times, not wisely, but without rule or measure, scatters her gifts. you are then to know, that coppo di borghese domenichi, a man that in our day was, and perchance still is, had in respect and great reverence in our city, being not only by reason of his noble lineage, but, and yet more, for manners and merit most illustrious and worthy of eternal renown, was in his old age not seldom wont to amuse himself by discoursing of things past with his neighbours and other folk; wherein he had not his match for accuracy and compass of memory and concinnity of speech. among other good stories, he would tell, how that there was of yore in florence a gallant named federigo di messer filippo alberighi, who for feats of arms and courtesy had not his peer in tuscany; who, as is the common lot of gentlemen, became enamoured of a lady named monna giovanna, who in her day held rank among the fairest and most elegant ladies of florence; to gain whose love he jousted, tilted, gave entertainments, scattered largess, and in short set no bounds to his expenditure. however the lady, no less virtuous than fair, cared not a jot for what he did for her sake, nor yet for him. spending thus greatly beyond his means, and making nothing, federigo could hardly fail to come to lack, and was at length reduced to such poverty that he had nothing left but a little estate, on the rents of which he lived very straitly, and a single falcon, the best in the world. the estate was at campi, and thither, deeming it no longer possible for him to live in the city as he desired, he repaired, more in love than ever before; and there, in complete seclusion, diverting himself with hawking, he bore his poverty as patiently as he might. now, federigo being thus reduced to extreme poverty, it so happened that one day monna giovanna's husband, who was very rich, fell ill, and, seeing that he was nearing his end, made his will, whereby he left his estate to his son, who was now growing up, and in the event of his death without lawful heir named monna giovanna, whom he dearly loved, heir in his stead; and having made these dispositions he died. monna giovanna, being thus left a widow, did as our ladies are wont, and repaired in the summer to one of her estates in the country which lay very near to that of federigo. and so it befell that the urchin began to make friends with federigo, and to shew a fondness for hawks and dogs, and having seen federigo's falcon fly not a few times, took a singular fancy to him, and greatly longed to have him for his own, but still did not dare to ask him of federigo, knowing that federigo prized him so much. so the matter stood when by chance the boy fell sick; whereby the mother was sore distressed, for he was her only son, and she loved him as much as might be, insomuch that all day long she was beside him, and ceased not to comfort him, and again and again asked him if there were aught that he wished for, imploring him to say the word, and, if it might by any means be had, she would assuredly do her utmost to procure it for him. thus repeatedly exhorted, the boy said:--"mother mine, do but get me federigo's falcon, and i doubt not i shall soon be well." whereupon the lady was silent a while, bethinking her what she should do. she knew that federigo had long loved her, and had never had so much as a single kind look from her: wherefore she said to herself:--how can i send or go to beg of him this falcon, which by what i hear is the best that ever flew, and moreover is his sole comfort? and how could i be so unfeeling as to seek to deprive a gentleman of the one solace that is now left him? and so, albeit she very well knew that she might have the falcon for the asking, she was perplexed, and knew not what to say, and gave her son no answer. at length, however, the love she bore the boy carried the day, and she made up her mind, for his contentment, come what might, not to send, but to go herself and fetch him the falcon. so:--"be of good cheer, my son," she said, "and doubt not thou wilt soon be well; for i promise thee that the very first thing that i shall do tomorrow morning will be to go and fetch thee the falcon." whereat the child was so pleased that he began to mend that very day. on the morrow the lady, as if for pleasure, hied her with another lady to federigo's little house, and asked to see him. 'twas still, as for some days past, no weather for hawking, and federigo was in his garden, busy about some small matters which needed to be set right there. when he heard that monna giovanna was at the door, asking to see him, he was not a little surprised and pleased, and hied him to her with all speed. as soon as she saw him, she came forward to meet him with womanly grace, and having received his respectful salutation, said to him:--"good morrow, federigo," and continued:--"i am come to requite thee for what thou hast lost by loving me more than thou shouldst: which compensation is this, that i and this lady that accompanies me will breakfast with thee without ceremony this morning." "madam," federigo replied with all humility, "i mind not ever to have lost aught by loving you, but rather to have been so much profited that, if i ever deserved well in aught, 'twas to your merit that i owed it, and to the love that i bore you. and of a surety had i still as much to spend as i have spent in the past, i should not prize it so much as this visit you so frankly pay me, come as you are to one who can afford you but a sorry sort of hospitality." which said, with some confusion, he bade her welcome to his house, and then led her into his garden, where, having none else to present to her by way of companion, he said:--"madam, as there is none other here, this good woman, wife of this husbandman, will bear you company, while i go to have the table set." now, albeit his poverty was extreme, yet he had not known as yet how sore was the need to which his extravagance had reduced him; but this morning 'twas brought home to him, for that he could find nought wherewith to do honour to the lady, for love of whom he had done the honours of his house to men without number: wherefore, distressed beyond measure, and inwardly cursing his evil fortune, he sped hither and thither like one beside himself, but never a coin found he, nor yet aught to pledge. meanwhile it grew late, and sorely he longed that the lady might not leave his house altogether unhonoured, and yet to crave help of his own husbandman was more than his pride could brook. in these desperate straits his glance happened to fall on his brave falcon on his perch in his little parlour. and so, as a last resource, he took him, and finding him plump, deemed that he would make a dish meet for such a lady. wherefore, without thinking twice about it, he wrung the bird's neck, and caused his maid forthwith pluck him and set him on a spit, and roast him carefully; and having still some spotless table linen, he had the table laid therewith, and with a cheerful countenance hied him back to his lady in the garden, and told her that such breakfast as he could give her was ready. so the lady and her companion rose and came to table, and there, with federigo, who waited on them most faithfully, ate the brave falcon, knowing not what they ate. when they were risen from table, and had dallied a while in gay converse with him, the lady deemed it time to tell the reason of her visit: wherefore, graciously addressing federigo, thus began she:--"federigo, by what thou rememberest of thy past life and my virtue, which, perchance, thou hast deemed harshness and cruelty, i doubt not thou must marvel at my presumption, when thou hearest the main purpose of my visit; but if thou hadst sons, or hadst had them, so that thou mightest know the full force of the love that is borne them, i should make no doubt that thou wouldst hold me in part excused. nor, having a son, may i, for that thou hast none, claim exemption from the laws to which all other mothers are subject, and, being thus bound to own their sway, i must, though fain were i not, and though 'tis neither meet nor right, crave of thee that which i know thou dost of all things and with justice prize most highly, seeing that this extremity of thy adverse fortune has left thee nought else wherewith to delight, divert and console thee; which gift is no other than thy falcon, on which my boy has so set his heart that, if i bring him it not, i fear lest he grow so much worse of the malady that he has, that thereby it may come to pass that i lose him. and so, not for the love which thou dost bear me, and which may nowise bind thee, but for that nobleness of temper, whereof in courtesy more conspicuously than in aught else thou hast given proof, i implore thee that thou be pleased to give me the bird, that thereby i may say that i have kept my son alive, and thus made him for aye thy debtor." no sooner had federigo apprehended what the lady wanted, than, for grief that 'twas not in his power to serve her, because he had given her the falcon to eat, he fell a weeping in her presence, before he could so much as utter a word. at first the lady supposed that 'twas only because he was loath to part with the brave falcon that he wept, and as good as made up her mind that he would refuse her: however, she awaited with patience federigo's answer, which was on this wise:--"madam, since it pleased god that i should set my affections upon you there have been matters not a few, in which to my sorrow i have deemed fortune adverse to me; but they have all been trifles in comparison of the trick that she now plays me: the which i shall never forgive her, seeing that you are come here to my poor house, where, while i was rich, you deigned not to come, and ask a trifling favour of me, which she has put it out of my power to grant: how 'tis so, i will briefly tell you. when i learned that you, of your grace, were minded to breakfast with me, having respect to your high dignity and desert, i deemed it due and seemly that in your honour i should regale you, to the best of my power, with fare of a more excellent quality than is commonly set before others; and, calling to mind the falcon which you now ask of me, and his excellence, i judged him meet food for you, and so you have had him roasted on the trencher this morning; and well indeed i thought i had bestowed him; but, as now i see that you would fain have had him in another guise, so mortified am i that i am not able to serve you, that i doubt i shall never know peace of mind more." in witness whereof he had the feathers and feet and beak of the bird brought in and laid before her. the first thing the lady did, when she had heard federigo's story, and seen the relics of the bird, was to chide him that he had killed so fine a falcon to furnish a woman with a breakfast; after which the magnanimity of her host, which poverty had been and was powerless to impair, elicited no small share of inward commendation. then, frustrate of her hope of possessing the falcon, and doubting of her son's recovery, she took her leave with the heaviest of hearts, and hied her back to the boy: who, whether for fretting, that he might not have the falcon, or by the unaided energy of his disorder, departed this life not many days after, to the exceeding great grief of his mother. for a while she would do nought but weep and bitterly bewail herself; but being still young, and left very wealthy, she was often urged by her brothers to marry again, and though she would rather have not done so, yet being importuned, and remembering federigo's high desert, and the magnificent generosity with which he had finally killed his falcon to do her honour, she said to her brothers:--"gladly, with your consent, would i remain a widow, but if you will not be satisfied except i take a husband, rest assured that none other will i ever take save federigo degli alberighi." whereupon her brothers derided her, saying:--"foolish woman, what is't thou sayst? how shouldst thou want federigo, who has not a thing in the world?" to whom she answered:--"my brothers, well wot i that 'tis as you say; but i had rather have a man without wealth than wealth without a man." the brothers, perceiving that her mind was made up, and knowing federigo for a good man and true, poor though he was, gave her to him with all her wealth. and so federigo, being mated with such a wife, and one that he had so much loved, and being very wealthy to boot, lived happily, keeping more exact accounts, to the end of his days. novel x. -pietro di vinciolo goes from home to sup: his wife brings a boy into the house to bear her company: pietro returns, and she hides her gallant under a hen-coop: pietro explains that in the house of ercolano, with whom he was to have supped, there was discovered a young man bestowed there by ercolano's wife: the lady thereupon censures ercolano's wife: but unluckily an ass treads on the fingers of the boy that is hidden under the hen-coop, so that he cries for pain: pietro runs to the place, sees him, and apprehends the trick played on him by his wife, which nevertheless he finally condones, for that he is not himself free from blame. -when the queen had done speaking, and all had praised god that he had worthily rewarded federigo, dioneo, who never waited to be bidden, thus began:--i know not whether i am to term it a vice accidental and superinduced by bad habits in us mortals, or whether it be a fault seated in nature, that we are more prone to laugh at things dishonourable than at good deeds, and that more especially when they concern not ourselves. however, as the sole scope of all my efforts has been and still shall be to dispel your melancholy, and in lieu thereof to minister to you laughter and jollity; therefore, enamoured my damsels, albeit the ensuing story is not altogether free from matter that is scarce seemly, yet, as it may afford you pleasure, i shall not fail to relate it; premonishing you my hearers, that you take it with the like discretion as when, going into your gardens, you stretch forth your delicate hands and cull the roses, leaving the thorns alone: which, being interpreted, means that you will leave the caitiff husband to abide in sorry plight with his dishonour, and will gaily laugh at the amorous wiles or his wife, and commiserate her unfortunate gallant, when occasion requires. 'tis no great while since there dwelt at perugia a rich man named pietro di vinciolo, who rather, perchance, to blind others and mitigate the evil repute in which he was held by the citizens of perugia, than for any desire to wed, took a wife: and such being his motive, fortune provided him with just such a spouse as he merited. for the wife of his choice was a stout, red-haired young woman, and so hot-blooded that two husbands would have been more to her mind than one, whereas one fell to her lot that gave her only a subordinate place in his regard. which she perceiving, while she knew herself to be fair and lusty, and felt herself to be gamesome and fit, waxed very wroth, and now and again had high words with her husband, and led but a sorry life with him at most times. then, seeing that thereby she was more like to fret herself than to dispose her husband to conduct less base, she said to herself:--this poor creature deserts me to go walk in pattens in the dry; wherefore it shall go hard but i will bring another aboard the ship for the wet weather. i married him, and brought him a great and goodly dowry, knowing that he was a man, and supposing him to have the desires which men have and ought to have; and had i not deemed him to be a man, i should never have married him. he knew me to be a woman: why then took he me to wife, if women were not to his mind? 'tis not to be endured. had i not been minded to live in the world, i had become a nun; and being minded there to live, as i am, if i am to wait until i have pleasure or solace of him, i shall wait perchance until i am old; and then, too late, i shall bethink me to my sorrow that i have wasted my youth; and as to the way in which i should seek its proper solace i need no better teacher and guide than him, who finds his delight where i should find mine, and finds it to his own condemnation, whereas in me 'twere commendable. 'tis but the laws that i shall set at nought, whereas he sets both them and nature herself at nought. so the good lady reasoned, and peradventure more than once; and then, casting about how she might privily compass her end, she made friends with an old beldam, that shewed as a veritable santa verdiana, foster-mother of vipers, who was ever to be seen going to pardonings with a parcel of paternosters in her hand, and talked of nothing but the lives of the holy fathers, and the wounds of st. francis, and was generally reputed a saint; to whom in due time she opened her whole mind. "my daughter," replied the beldam, "god, who knows all things, knows that thou wilt do very rightly indeed: were it for no other reason, 'twould be meet for thee and every other young woman so to do, that the heyday of youth be not wasted; for there is no grief like that of knowing that it has been wasted. and what the devil are we women fit for when we are old except to pore over the cinders on the hearth? the which if any know, and may attest it, 'tis i, who, now that i am old, call to mind the time that i let slip from me, not without most sore and bitter and fruitless regret: and albeit 'twas not all wasted, for i would not have thee think that i was entirely without sense, yet i did not make the best use of it: whereof when i bethink me, and that i am now, even as thou seest me, such a hag that never a spark of fire may i hope to get from any, god knows how i rue it. now with men 'tis otherwise: they are born meet for a thousand uses, not for this alone; and the more part of them are of much greater consequence in old age than in youth: but women are fit for nought but this, and 'tis but for that they bear children that they are cherished. whereof, if not otherwise, thou mayst assure thyself, if thou do but consider that we are ever ready for it; which is not the case with men; besides which, one woman will tire out many men without being herself tired out. seeing then that 'tis for this we are born, i tell thee again that thou wilt do very rightly to give thy husband thy loaf for his cake, that in thy old age thy soul may have no cause of complaint against thy flesh. every one has just as much of this life as he appropriates: and this is especially true of women, whom therefore it behoves, much more than men, to seize the moment as it flies: indeed, as thou mayst see for thyself, when we grow old neither husband, nor any other man will spare us a glance; but, on the contrary, they banish us to the kitchen, there to tell stories to the cat, and to count the pots and pans; or, worse, they make rhymes about us:--'to the damsel dainty bits; to the beldam ague-fits;' and such-like catches. but to make no more words about it, i tell thee at once that there is no person in the world to whom thou couldst open thy mind with more advantage than to me; for there is no gentleman so fine but i dare speak my mind to him, nor any so harsh and forbidding but i know well how to soften him and fashion him to my will. tell me only what thou wouldst have, and leave the rest to me: but one word more: i pray thee to have me in kindly remembrance, for that i am poor; and thou shalt henceforth go shares with me in all my indulgences and every paternoster that i say, that god may make thereof light and tapers for thy dead:" wherewith she ended. so the lady came to an understanding with the beldam, that, as soon as she set eyes on a boy that often came along that street, and of whom the lady gave her a particular description, she would know what she was to do: and thereupon the lady gave her a chunk of salt meat, and bade her god-speed. the beldam before long smuggled into the lady's chamber the boy of whom she had spoken, and not long after another, such being the humour of the lady, who, standing in perpetual dread of her husband, was disposed, in this particular, to make the most of her opportunities. and one of these days, her husband being to sup in the evening with a friend named ercolano, the lady bade the beldam bring her a boy as pretty and dainty as was to be found in perugia; and so the beldam forthwith did. but the lady and the boy being set at table to sup, lo, pietro's voice was heard at the door, bidding open to him. whereupon the lady gave herself up for dead; but being fain, if she might, to screen the boy, and knowing not where else to convey or conceal him, bestowed him under a hen-coop that stood in a veranda hard by the chamber in which they were supping, and threw over it a sorry mattress that she had that day emptied of its straw; which done she hastened to open the door to her husband; saying to him as he entered:--"you have gulped your supper mighty quickly to-night." whereto pietro replied:--"we have not so much as tasted it." "how so?" enquired the lady. "i will tell thee," said pietro. "no sooner were we set at table, ercolano, his wife, and i, than we heard a sneeze close to us, to which, though 'twas repeated, we paid no heed; but as the sneezer continued to sneeze a third, a fourth, a fifth, and many another time to boot, we all began to wonder, and ercolano, who was somewhat out of humour with his wife, because she had kept us a long time at the door before she opened it, burst out in a sort of rage with:--'what means this? who is't that thus sneezes?' and made off to a stair hard by, beneath which and close to its foot was a wooden closet, of the sort which, when folk are furnishing their houses, they commonly cause to be placed there, to stow things in upon occasion. and as it seemed to him that the sneezing proceeded thence, he undid the wicket, and no sooner had he opened it than out flew never so strong a stench of brimstone; albeit we had already been saluted by a whiff of it, and complained thereof, but had been put off by the lady with:--''tis but that a while ago i bleached my veils with brimstone, having sprinkled it on a dish, that they might catch its fumes, which dish i then placed under the stair, so that it still smells a little.' "however the door being now, as i have said, open, and the smoke somewhat less dense, ercolano, peering in, espied the fellow that had sneezed, and who still kept sneezing, being thereto constrained by the pungency of the brimstone. and for all he sneezed, yet was he by this time so well-nigh choked with the brimstone that he was like neither to sneeze nor to do aught else again. as soon as he caught sight of him, ercolano bawled out:--'now see i, madam, why it was that a while ago, when we came here, we were kept waiting so long at the gate before 'twas opened; but woe betide me for the rest of my days, if i pay you not out.' whereupon the lady, perceiving that her offence was discovered, ventured no excuse, but fled from the table, whither i know not. ercolano, ignoring his wife's flight, bade the sneezer again and again to come forth; but he, being by this time fairly spent, budged not an inch for aught that ercolano said. wherefore ercolano caught him by one of his feet, and dragged him forth, and ran off for a knife with intent to kill him; but i, standing in fear of the signory on my own account, got up and would not suffer him to kill the fellow or do him any hurt, and for his better protection raised the alarm, whereby some of the neighbours came up and took the lad, more dead than alive, and bore him off, i know not whither. however, our supper being thus rudely interrupted, not only have not gulped it, but i have not so much as tasted it, as i said before!" her husband's story shewed his wife that there were other ladies as knowing as she, albeit misfortune might sometimes overtake them and gladly would she have spoken out in defence of ercolano's wife, but, thinking that, by censuring another's sin, she would secure more scope for her own, she launched out on this wise:--"fine doings indeed, a right virtuous and saintly lady she must be: here is the loyalty of an honest woman, and one to whom i had lief have confessed, so spiritual i deemed her; and the worst of it is that, being no longer young, she sets a rare example to those that are so. curses on the hour that she came into the world: curses upon her that she make not away with herself, basest, most faithless of women that she must needs be, the reproach of her sex, the opprobrium of all the ladies of this city, to cast aside all regard for her honour, her marriage vow, her reputation before the world, and, lost to all sense of shame, to scruple not to bring disgrace upon a man so worthy, a citizen so honourable, a husband by whom she was so well treated, ay, and upon herself to boot! by my hope of salvation no mercy should be shewn to such women; they should pay the penalty with their lives; to the fire with them while they yet live, and let them be burned to ashes." then, calling to mind the lover that she had close at hand in the hen-coop, she fell to coaxing pietro to get him to bed, for the hour grew late. pietro, who was more set on eating than sleeping, only asked whether there was aught he might have by way of supper. "supper, forsooth!" replied the lady. "ay, of course 'tis our way to make much of supper when thou art not at home. as if i were ercolano's wife! now, wherefore tarry longer? go, get thy night's rest: 'twere far better for thee." now so it was that some of pietro's husbandmen had come to the house that evening with divers things from the farm, and had put up their asses in a stable that adjoined the veranda, but had neglected to water them; and one of the asses being exceeding thirsty, got his head out of the halter and broke loose from the stable, and went about nosing everything, if haply he might come by water: whereby he came upon the hen-coop, beneath which was the boy; who, being constrained to stand on all fours, had the fingers of one hand somewhat protruding from under the hen-coop; and so as luck or rather ill-luck would have it, the ass trod on them; whereat, being sorely hurt, he set up a great howling, much to the surprise of pietro, who perceived that 'twas within his house. so forth he came, and hearing the boy still moaning and groaning, for the ass still kept his hoof hard down on the fingers, called out:--"who is there?" and ran to the hen-coop and raised it, and espied the fellow, who, besides the pain that the crushing of his fingers by the ass's hoof occasioned him, trembled in every limb for fear that pietro should do him a mischief. he was one that pietro had long been after for his foul purposes: so pietro, recognizing him, asked him:--"what dost thou here?" the boy making no answer, save to beseech him for the love of god to do him no hurt, pietro continued:--"get up, have no fear that i shall hurt thee; but tell me:--how, and for what cause comest thou to be here?" the boy then confessed everything. whereupon pietro, as elated by the discovery as his wife was distressed, took him by the hand; and led him into the room where the lady in the extremity of terror awaited him; and, having seated himself directly in front of her, said:--"'twas but a moment ago that thou didst curse ercolano's wife, and averred that she ought to be burned, and that she was the reproach of your sex: why saidst thou not, of thyself? or, if thou wast not minded to accuse thyself, how hadst thou the effrontery to censure her, knowing that thou hadst done even as she? verily 'twas for no other reason than that ye are all fashioned thus, and study to cover your own misdeeds with the delinquencies of others: would that fire might fall from heaven and burn you all, brood of iniquity that ye are!" the lady, marking that in the first flush of his wrath he had given her nothing worse than hard words, and discerning, as she thought, that he was secretly overjoyed to hold so beautiful a boy by the hand, took heart of grace and said:--"i doubt not indeed that thou wouldst be well pleased that fire should fall from heaven and devour us all, seeing that thou art as fond of us as a dog is of the stick, though by the holy rood thou wilt be disappointed; but i would fain have a little argument with thee, to know whereof thou complainest. well indeed were it with me, didst thou but place me on an equality with ercolano's wife, who is an old sanctimonious hypocrite, and has of him all that she wants, and is cherished by him as a wife should be: but that is not my case. for, granted that thou givest me garments and shoes to my mind, thou knowest how otherwise ill bested i am, and how long it is since last thou didst lie with me; and far liefer had i go barefoot and in rags, and have thy benevolence abed, than have all that i have, and be treated as thou dost treat me. understand me, pietro, be reasonable; consider that i am a woman like other women, with the like craving; whereof if thou deny me the gratification, 'tis no blame to me that i seek it elsewhere; and at least i do thee so much honour as not forgather with stable-boys or scurvy knaves." pietro perceived that she was like to continue in this vein the whole night: wherefore, indifferent as he was to her, he said:--"now, madam, no more of this; in the matter of which thou speakest i will content thee; but of thy great courtesy let us have something to eat by way of supper; for, methinks, the boy, as well as i, has not yet supped." "ay, true enough," said the lady, "he has not supped; for we were but just sitting down to table to sup, when, beshrew thee, thou madest thy appearance." "go then," said pietro, "get us some supper; and by and by i will arrange this affair in such a way that thou shalt have no more cause of complaint." the lady, perceiving that her husband was now tranquil, rose, and soon had the table laid again and spread with the supper which she had ready; and so they made a jolly meal of it, the caitiff husband, the lady and the boy. what after supper pietro devised for their mutual satisfaction has slipped from my memory. but so much as this i know, that on the morrow as he wended his way to the piazza, the boy would have been puzzled to say, whether of the twain, the wife or the husband, had had the most of his company during the night. but this i would say to you, dear my ladies, that whoso gives you tit, why, just give him tat; and if you cannot do it at once, why, bear it in mind until you can, that even as the ass gives, so he may receive. dioneo's story, whereat the ladies laughed the less for shamefastness rather than for disrelish, being ended, the queen, taking note that the term of her sovereignty was come, rose to her feet, and took off the laurel wreath and set it graciously upon elisa's head, saying:--"madam, 'tis now your turn to bear sway." the dignity accepted, elisa followed in all respects the example of her predecessors: she first conferred with the seneschal, and directed him how meetly to order all things during the time of her sovereignty; which done to the satisfaction of the company:--"ofttimes," quoth she, "have we heard how with bright sallies, and ready retorts, and sudden devices, not a few have known how to repugn with apt checks the bites of others, or to avert imminent perils; and because 'tis an excellent argument, and may be profitable, i ordain that to-morrow, god helping us, the following be the rule of our discourse; to wit, that it be of such as by some sprightly sally have repulsed an attack, or by some ready retort or device have avoided loss, peril or scorn." the rule being heartily approved by all, the queen rose and dismissed them till supper-time. so the honourable company, seeing the queen risen, rose all likewise, and as their wont was, betook them to their diversions as to each seemed best. but when the cicalas had hushed their chirping, all were mustered again for supper; and having blithely feasted, they all addressed them to song and dance. and the queen, while emilia led a dance, called for a song from dioneo, who at once came out with:--'monna aldruda, come perk up thy mood, a piece of glad tidings i bring thee.' whereat all the ladies fell a laughing, and most of all the queen, who bade him give them no more of that, but sing another. quoth dioneo:--"madam, had i a tabret, i would sing:--'up with your smock, monna lapa!' or:--'oh! the greensward under the olive!' or perchance you had liefer i should give you:--'woe is me, the wave of the sea!' but no tabret have i: wherefore choose which of these others you will have. perchance you would like:--'now hie thee to us forth, that so it may be cut, as may the fields about.'" "no," returned the queen, "give us another." "then," said dioneo, "i will sing:--'monna simona, embarrel, embarrel. why, 'tis not the month of october.'"(1) "now a plague upon thee," said the queen, with a laugh; "give us a proper song, wilt thou? for we will have none of these." "never fear, madam," replied dioneo; "only say which you prefer. i have more than a thousand songs by heart. perhaps you would like:--'this my little covert, make i ne'er it overt'; or:--'gently, gently, husband mine'; or:--'a hundred pounds were none too high a price for me a cock to buy.'" the queen now shewed some offence, though the other ladies laughed, and:--"a truce to thy jesting, dioneo," said she, "and give us a proper song: else thou mayst prove the quality of my ire." whereupon dioneo forthwith ceased his fooling, and sang on this wise:-so ravishing a light doth from the fair eyes of my mistress move as keeps me slave to her and thee, o love. a beam from those bright orbs did radiate that flame that through mine own eyes to my breast did whilom entrance gain. thy majesty, o love, thy might, how great they be, 'twas her fair face did manifest: whereon to brood still fain, i felt thee take and chain each sense, my soul enthralling on such wise that she alone henceforth evokes my sighs. wherefore, o dear my lord, myself i own thy slave, and, all obedience, wait and yearn, till thy might me console. yet wot i not if it be throughly known how noble is the flame wherewith i burn, my loyalty how whole to her that doth control ev'n in such sort my mind that shall i none, nor would i, peace receive, save hers alone. and so i pray thee, sweet my lord, that thou give her to feel thy fire, and shew her plain how grievous my disease. this service deign to render; for that now thou seest me waste for love, and in the pain dissolve me by degrees: and then the apt moment seize my cause to plead with her, as is but due from thee to me, who fain with thee would sue. when dioneo's silence shewed that his song was ended, the queen accorded it no stinted meed of praise; after which she caused not a few other songs to be sung. thus passed some part of the night; and then the queen, taking note that its freshness had vanquished the heat of the day, bade all go rest them, if they would, till the morning. (1) the song is evidently amoebean. -endeth here the fifth day of the decameron, beginneth the sixth, wherein, under the rule of elisa, discourse is had of such as by some sprightly sally have repulsed an attack, or by some ready retort or device have avoided loss, peril or scorn. -still in mid heaven, the moon had lost her radiance, nor was any part of our world unillumined by the fresh splendour of the dawn, when, the queen being risen and having mustered her company, they hied them, gently sauntering, across the dewy mead some distance from the beautiful hill, conversing now of this, now of the other matter, canvassing the stories, their greater or less degree of beauty, and laughing afresh at divers of their incidents, until, the sun being now in his higher ascendant, they began to feel his heat, and turning back by common consent, retraced their steps to the palace, where, the tables being already set, and fragrant herbs and fair flowers strewn all about, they by the queen's command, before it should grow hotter, addressed themselves to their meal. so, having blithely breakfasted, they first of all sang some dainty and jocund ditties, and then, as they were severally minded, composed them to sleep or sat them down to chess or dice, while dioneo and lauretta fell a singing of troilus and cressida. the hour of session being come, they took their places, at the queen's summons, in their wonted order by the fountain; but, when the queen was about to call for the first story, that happened which had not happened before; to wit, there being a great uproar in the kitchen among the maids and men, the sound thereof reached the ears of the queen and all the company. whereupon the queen called the seneschal and asked him who bawled so loud, and what was the occasion of the uproar. the seneschal made answer that 'twas some contention between licisca and tindaro; but the occasion he knew not, having but just come to quiet them, when he received her summons. the queen then bade him cause licisca and tindaro to come thither forthwith: so they came, and the queen enquired of them the cause of the uproar. tindaro was about to make answer, when licisca, who was somewhat advanced in years, and disposed to give herself airs, and heated to the strife of words, turned to tindaro, and scowling upon him said:--"unmannerly varlet that makest bold to speak before me; leave me to tell the story." then, turning to the queen, she said:--"madam, this fellow would fain instruct me as to sicofante's wife, and--neither more or less--as if i had not known her well--would have me believe that, the first night that sicofante lay with her, 'twas by force and not without effusion of blood that master yard made his way into dusky hill; which i deny, averring that he met with no resistance, but, on the contrary, with a hearty welcome on the part of the garrison. and such a numskull is he as fondly to believe that the girls are so simple as to let slip their opportunities, while they wait on the caprice of father or brothers, who six times out of seven delay to marry them for three or four years after they should. ay, ay indeed, doubtless they were well advised to tarry so long! christ's faith! i should know the truth of what i swear; there is never a woman in my neighbourhood whose husband had her virginity; and well i know how many and what manner of tricks our married dames play their husbands; and yet this booby would fain teach me to know women as if i were but born yesterday." while licisca thus spoke, the ladies laughed till all their teeth were ready to start from their heads. six times at least the queen bade her be silent: but all in vain; she halted not till she had said all that she had a mind to. when she had done, the queen turned with a smile to dioneo saying:--"this is a question for thee to deal with, dioneo; so hold thyself in readiness to give final judgment upon it, when our stories are ended." "madam," replied dioneo forthwith, "i give judgment without more ado: i say that licisca is in the right; i believe that 'tis even as she says, and that tindaro is a fool." whereupon licisca burst out laughing, and turning to tindaro:--"now did i not tell thee so?" quoth she. "begone in god's name: dost think to know more than i, thou that art but a sucking babe? thank god, i have not lived for nothing, not i." and had not the queen sternly bade her be silent, and make no more disturbance, unless she had a mind to be whipped, and sent both her and tindaro back to the kitchen, the whole day would have been spent in nought but listening to her. so licisca and tindaro having withdrawn, the queen charged filomena to tell the first story: and gaily thus filomena began. novel i. -a knight offers to carry madonna oretta a horseback with a story, but tells it so ill that she prays him to dismount her. -as stars are set for an ornament in the serene expanse of heaven, and likewise in springtime flowers and leafy shrubs in the green meadows, so, damsels, in the hour of rare and excellent discourse, is wit with its bright sallies. which, being brief, are much more proper for ladies than for men, seeing that prolixity of speech, where brevity is possible, is much less allowable to them. but for whatever cause, be it the sorry quality of our understanding, or some especial enmity that heaven bears to our generation, few ladies or none are left to-day that, when occasion prompts, are able to meet it with apt speech, ay, or if aught of the kind they hear, can understand it aright: to our common shame be it spoken! but as, touching this matter, enough has already been said by pampinea,(1) i purpose not to enlarge thereon; but, that you may know what excellence resides in speech apt for the occasion, i am minded to tell you after how courteous a fashion a lady imposed silence upon a gentleman. 'tis no long time since there dwelt in our city a lady, noble, debonair and of excellent discourse, whom not a few of you may have seen or heard of, whose name--for such high qualities merit not oblivion--was madonna oretta, her husband being messer geri spina. now this lady, happening to be, as we are, in the country, moving from place to place for pleasure with a company of ladies and gentlemen, whom she had entertained the day before at breakfast at her house, and the place of their next sojourn, whither they were to go afoot, being some considerable distance off, one of the gentlemen of the company said to her:--"madonna oretta, so please you, i will carry you great part of the way a horseback with one of the finest stories in the world." "indeed, sir," replied the lady, "i pray you do so; and i shall deem it the greatest of favours." whereupon the gentleman, who perhaps was no better master of his weapon than of his story, began a tale, which in itself was indeed excellent, but which, by repeating the same word three, four or six times, and now and again harking back, and saying:--"i said not well"; and erring not seldom in the names, setting one in place of another, he utterly spoiled; besides which, his mode of delivery accorded very ill with the character of the persons and incidents: insomuch that madonna oretta, as she listened, did oft sweat, and was like to faint, as if she were ill and at the point of death. and being at length able to bear no more of it, witting that the gentleman had got into a mess and was not like to get out of it, she said pleasantly to him:--"sir, this horse of yours trots too hard; i pray you be pleased to set me down." the gentleman, being perchance more quick of apprehension than he was skilful in narration, missed not the meaning of her sally, and took it in all good and gay humour. so, leaving unfinished the tale which he had begun, and so mishandled, he addressed himself to tell her other stories. (1) cf. first day, novel x. novel ii. -cisti, a baker, by an apt speech gives messer geri spina to know that he has by inadvertence asked that of him which he should not. -all the ladies and the men alike having greatly commended madonna oretta's apt saying, the queen bade pampinea follow suit, and thus she began:-fair ladies, i cannot myself determine whether nature or fortune be the more at fault, the one in furnishing a noble soul with a vile body, or the other in allotting a base occupation to a body endowed with a noble soul, whereof we may have seen an example, among others, in our fellow-citizen, cisti; whom, furnished though he was with a most lofty soul, fortune made a baker. and verily i should curse nature and fortune alike, did i not know that nature is most discreet, and that fortune, albeit the foolish imagine her blind, has a thousand eyes. for 'tis, i suppose, that, being wise above a little, they do as mortals ofttimes do, who, being uncertain as to their future, provide against contingencies by burying their most precious treasures in the basest places in their houses, as being the least likely to be suspected; whence, in the hour of their greatest need, they bring them forth, the base place having kept them more safe than the dainty chamber would have done. and so these two arbitresses of the world not seldom hide their most precious commodities in the obscurity of the crafts that are reputed most base, that thence being brought to light they may shine with a brighter splendour. whereof how in a trifling matter cisti, the baker, gave proof, restoring the eyes of the mind to messer geri spina, whom the story of his wife, madonna oretta, has brought to my recollection, i am minded to shew you in a narrative which shall be of the briefest. i say then that pope boniface, with whom messer geri spina stood very high in favour and honour, having sent divers of his courtiers to florence as ambassadors to treat of certain matters of great moment, and they being lodged in messer geri's house, where he treated with them of the said affairs of the pope, 'twas, for some reason or another, the wont of messer geri and the ambassadors of the pope to pass almost every morning by santa maria ughi, where cisti, the baker, had his bakehouse, and plied his craft in person. now, albeit fortune had allotted him a very humble occupation, she had nevertheless prospered him therein to such a degree that he was grown most wealthy, and without ever aspiring to change it for another, lived in most magnificent style, having among his other good things a cellar of the best wines, white and red, that were to be found in florence, or the country parts; and marking messer geri and the ambassadors of the pope pass every morning by his door, he bethought him that, as 'twas very hot, 'twould be a very courteous thing to give them to drink of his good wine; but comparing his rank with that of messer geri, he deemed it unseemly to presume to invite him, and cast about how he might lead messer geri to invite himself. so, wearing always the whitest of doublets and a spotless apron, that denoted rather the miller, than the baker, he let bring, every morning about the hour that he expected messer geri and the ambassadors to pass by his door, a spick-and-span bucket of fresh and cool spring water, and a small bolognese flagon of his good white wine, and two beakers that shone like silver, so bright were they: and there down he sat him, as they came by, and after hawking once or twice, fell a drinking his wine with such gusto that 'twould have raised a thirst in a corpse. which messer geri having observed on two successive mornings, said on the third:--"what is't, cisti? is't good?" whereupon cisti jumped up, and answered:--"ay, sir, good it is; but in what degree i might by no means make you understand, unless you tasted it." messer geri, in whom either the heat of the weather, or unwonted fatigue, or, perchance, the gusto with which he had seen cisti drink, had bred a thirst, turned to the ambassadors and said with a smile:--"gentlemen, 'twere well to test the quality of this worthy man's wine: it may be such that we shall not repent us." and so in a body they came up to where cisti stood; who, having caused a goodly bench to be brought out of the bakehouse, bade them be seated, and to their servants, who were now coming forward to wash the beakers, said:--"stand back, comrades, and leave this office to me, for i know as well how to serve wine as to bake bread; and expect not to taste a drop yourselves." which said, he washed four fine new beakers with his own hands, and having sent for a small flagon of his good wine, he heedfully filled the beakers, and presented them to messer geri and his companions; who deemed the wine the best that they had drunk for a great while. so messer geri, having praised the wine not a little, came there to drink every morning with the ambassadors as long as they tarried with him. now when the ambassadors had received their conge, and were about to depart, messer geri gave a grand banquet, to which he bade some of the most honourable of the citizens, and also cisti, who could by no means be induced to come. however, messer geri bade one of his servants go fetch a flask of cisti's wine, and serve half a beaker thereof to each guest at the first course. the servant, somewhat offended, perhaps, that he had not been suffered to taste any of the wine, took with him a large flask, which cisti no sooner saw, than:--"son," quoth he, "messer geri does not send thee to me": and often as the servant affirmed that he did, he could get no other answer: wherewith he was fain at last to return to messer geri. "go, get thee back, said messer geri, and tell him that i do send thee to him, and if he answers thee so again, ask him, to whom then i send thee." so the servant came back, and said:--"cisti, messer geri does, for sure, send me to thee." "son," answered cisti, "messer geri does, for sure, not send thee to me." "to whom then," said the servant, "does he send me?" "to arno," returned cisti. which being reported by the servant to messer geri, the eyes of his mind were straightway opened, and:--"let me see," quoth he to the servant, "what flask it is thou takest there." and when he had seen it:--"cisti says sooth," he added; and having sharply chidden him, he caused him take with him a suitable flask, which when cisti saw:--"now know i," quoth he, "that 'tis indeed messer geri that sends thee to me," and blithely filled it. and having replenished the rundlet that same day with wine of the same quality, he had it carried with due care to messer geri's house, and followed after himself; where finding messer geri he said:--"i would not have you think, sir, that i was appalled by the great flask your servant brought me this morning; 'twas but that i thought you had forgotten that which by my little beakers i gave you to understand, when you were with me of late; to wit, that this is no table wine; and so wished this morning to refresh your memory. now, however, being minded to keep the wine no longer, i have sent you all i have of it, to be henceforth entirely at your disposal." messer geri set great store by cisti's gift, and thanked him accordingly, and ever made much of him and entreated him as his friend. novel iii. -monna nonna de' pulci by a ready retort silences the scarce seemly jesting of the bishop of florence. -pampinea's story ended, and praise not a little bestowed on cisti alike for his apt speech and for his handsome present, the queen was pleased to call forthwith for a story from lauretta, who blithely thus began:-debonair my ladies, the excellency of wit, and our lack thereof, have been noted with no small truth first by pampinea and after her by filomena. to which topic 'twere bootless to return: wherefore to that which has been said touching the nature of wit i purpose but to add one word, to remind you that its bite should be as a sheep's bite and not as a dog's; for if it bite like a dog, 'tis no longer wit but discourtesy. with which maxim the words of madonna oretta, and the apt reply of cisti, accorded excellently. true indeed it is that if 'tis by way of retort, and one that has received a dog's bite gives the biter a like bite in return, it does not seem to be reprehensible, as otherwise it would have been. wherefore one must consider how and when and on whom and likewise where one exercises one's wit. by ill observing which matters one of our prelates did once upon a time receive no less shrewd a bite than he gave; as i will shew you in a short story. while messer antonio d'orso, a prelate both worthy and wise, was bishop of florence, there came thither a catalan gentleman, messer dego della ratta by name, being king ruberto's marshal. now dego being very goodly of person, and inordinately fond of women, it so befell that of the ladies of florence she that he regarded with especial favour was the very beautiful niece of a brother of the said bishop. and having learned that her husband, though of good family, was but a caitiff, and avaricious in the last degree, he struck a bargain with him that he should lie one night with the lady for five hundred florins of gold: whereupon he had the same number of popolins(1) of silver, which were then current, gilded, and having lain with the lady, albeit against her will, gave them to her husband. which coming to be generally known, the caitiff husband was left with the loss and the laugh against him; and the bishop, like a wise man, feigned to know nought of the affair. and so the bishop and the marshal being much together, it befell that on st. john's day, as they rode side by side down the street whence they start to run the palio,(2) and took note of the ladies, the bishop espied a young gentlewoman, whom this present pestilence has reft from us, monna nonna de' pulci by name, a cousin of messer alesso rinucci, whom you all must know; whom, for that she was lusty and fair, and of excellent discourse and a good courage, and but just settled with her husband in porta san piero, the bishop presented to the marshal; and then, being close beside her, he laid his hand on the marshal's shoulder and said to her:--"nonna, what thinkest thou of this gentleman? that thou mightst make a conquest of him?" which words the lady resented as a jibe at her honour, and like to tarnish it in the eyes of those, who were not a few, in whose hearing they were spoken. wherefore without bestowing a thought upon the vindication of her honour, but being minded to return blow for blow, she retorted hastily:--"perchance, sir, he might not make a conquest of me; but if he did so, i should want good money." the answer stung both the marshal and the bishop to the quick, the one as contriver of the scurvy trick played upon the bishop's brother in regard of his niece, the other as thereby outraged in the person of his brother's niece; insomuch that they dared not look one another in the face, but took themselves off in shame and silence, and said never a word more to her that day. in such a case, then, the lady having received a bite, 'twas allowable in her wittily to return it. (1) a coin of the same size and design as the fiorino d'oro, but worth only two soldi. (2) a sort of horse-race still in vogue at siena. novel iv. -chichibio, cook to currado gianfigliazzi, owes his safety to a ready answer, whereby he converts currado's wrath into laughter, and evades the evil fate with which currado had threatened him. -lauretta being now silent, all lauded nonna to the skies; after which neifile received the queen's command to follow suit, and thus began:-albeit, loving ladies, ready wit not seldom ministers words apt and excellent and congruous with the circumstances of the speakers, 'tis also true that fortune at times comes to the aid of the timid, and unexpectedly sets words upon the tongue, which in a quiet hour the speaker could never have found for himself: the which 'tis my purpose to shew you by my story. currado gianfigliazzi, as the eyes and ears of each of you may bear witness, has ever been a noble citizen of our city, open-handed and magnificent, and one that lived as a gentleman should with hounds and hawks, in which, to say nothing at present of more important matters, he found unfailing delight. now, having one day hard by peretola despatched a crane with one of his falcons, finding it young and plump, he sent it to his excellent cook, a venetian, chichibio by name, bidding him roast it for supper and make a dainty dish of it. chichibio, who looked, as he was, a very green-head, had dressed the crane, and set it to the fire and was cooking it carefully, when, the bird being all but roasted, and the fumes of the cooking very strong, it so chanced that a girl, brunetta by name, that lived in the same street, and of whom chichibio was greatly enamoured, came into the kitchen, and perceiving the smell and seeing the bird, began coaxing chichibio to give her a thigh. by way of answer chichibio fell a singing:--"you get it not from me, madam brunetta, you get it not from me." whereat madam brunetta was offended, and said to him:--"by god, if thou givest it me not, thou shalt never have aught from me to pleasure thee." in short there was not a little altercation; and in the end chichibio, fain not to vex his mistress, cut off one of the crane's thighs, and gave it to her. so the bird was set before currado and some strangers that he had at table with him, and currado, observing that it had but one thigh, was surprised, and sent for chichibio, and demanded of him what was become of the missing thigh. whereto the mendacious venetian answered readily:--"the crane, sir, has but one thigh and one leg." "what the devil?" rejoined currado in a rage: "so the crane has but one thigh and one leg? thinkst thou i never saw crane before this?" but chichibio continued:--"'tis even so as i say, sir; and, so please you, i will shew you that so it is in the living bird." currado had too much respect for his guests to pursue the topic; he only said:--"since thou promisest to shew me in the living bird what i have never seen or heard tell of, i bid thee do so to-morrow, and i shall be satisfied, but if thou fail, i swear to thee by the body of christ that i will serve thee so that thou shalt ruefully remember my name for the rest of thy days." no more was said of the matter that evening, but on the morrow, at daybreak, currado, who had by no means slept off his wrath, got up still swelling therewith, and ordered his horses, mounted chichibio on a hackney, and saying to him:--"we shall soon see which of us lied yesternight, thou or i," set off with him for a place where there was much water, beside which there were always cranes to be seen about dawn. chichibio, observing that currado's ire was unabated, and knowing not how to bolster up his lie, rode by currado's side in a state of the utmost trepidation, and would gladly, had he been able, have taken to flight; but, as he might not, he glanced, now ahead, now aback, now aside, and saw everywhere nought but cranes standing on two feet. however, as they approached the river, the very first thing they saw upon the bank was a round dozen of cranes standing each and all on one foot, as is their wont, when asleep. which chichibio presently pointed out to currado, saying:--"now may you see well enough, sir, that 'tis true as i said yesternight, that the crane has but one thigh and one leg; mark but how they stand over there." whereupon currado:--"wait," quoth he, "and i will shew thee that they have each thighs and legs twain." so, having drawn a little nigher to them, he ejaculated, "oho!" which caused the cranes to bring each the other foot to the ground, and, after hopping a step or two, to take to flight. currado then turned to chichibio, saying:--"how now, rogue? art satisfied that the bird has thighs and legs twain?" whereto chichibio, all but beside himself with fear, made answer:--"ay, sir; but you cried not, oho! to our crane of yestereve: had you done so, it would have popped its other thigh and foot forth, as these have done." which answer currado so much relished, that, all his wrath changed to jollity and laughter:--"chichibio," quoth he, "thou art right, indeed i ought to have so done." thus did chichibio by his ready and jocund retort arrest impending evil, and make his peace with his master. novel v. -messer forese da rabatta and master giotto, the painter, journeying together from mugello, deride one another's scurvy appearance. -neifile being silent, and the ladies having made very merry over chichibio's retort, pamfilo at the queen's command thus spoke:--dearest ladies, if fortune, as pampinea has shewn us, does sometimes bide treasures most rich of native worth in the obscurity of base occupations, so in like manner 'tis not seldom found that nature has enshrined prodigies of wit in the most ignoble of human forms. whereof a notable example is afforded by two of our citizens, of whom i purpose for a brief while to discourse. the one, messer forese da rabatta by name, was short and deformed of person and withal flat-cheeked and flat-nosed, insomuch that never a baroncio(1) had a visage so misshapen but his would have shewed as hideous beside it; yet so conversant was this man with the laws, that by not a few of those well able to form an opinion he was reputed a veritable storehouse of civil jurisprudence. the other, whose name was giotto, was of so excellent a wit that, let nature, mother of all, operant ever by continual revolution of the heavens, fashion what she would, he with his style and pen and pencil would depict its like on such wise that it shewed not as its like, but rather as the thing itself, insomuch that the visual sense of men did often err in regard thereof, mistaking for real that which was but painted. wherefore, having brought back to light that art which had for many ages lain buried beneath the blunders of those who painted rather to delight the eyes of the ignorant than to satisfy the intelligence of the wise, he may deservedly be called one of the lights that compose the glory of florence, and the more so, the more lowly was the spirit in which he won that glory, who, albeit he was, while he yet lived, the master of others, yet did ever refuse to be called their master. and this title that he rejected adorned him with a lustre the more splendid in proportion to the avidity with which it was usurped by those who were less knowing than he, or were his pupils. but for all the exceeding greatness of his art, yet in no particular had he the advantage of messer forese either in form or in feature. but to come to the story:--'twas in mugello that messer forese, as likewise giotto, had his country-seat, whence returning from a sojourn that he had made there during the summer vacation of the courts, and being, as it chanced, mounted on a poor jade of a draught horse, he fell in with the said giotto, who was also on his way back to florence after a like sojourn on his own estate, and was neither better mounted, nor in any other wise better equipped, than messer forese. and so, being both old men, they jogged on together at a slow pace: and being surprised by a sudden shower, such as we frequently see fall in summer, they presently sought shelter in the house of a husbandman that was known to each of them, and was their friend. but after a while, as the rain gave no sign of ceasing, and they had a mind to be at florence that same day, they borrowed of the husbandman two old cloaks of romagnole cloth, and two hats much the worse for age (there being no better to be had), and resumed their journey. whereon they had not proceeded far, when, taking note that they were soaked through and through, and liberally splashed with the mud cast up by their nags' hooves (circumstances which are not of a kind to add to one's dignity), they, after long silence, the sky beginning to brighten a little, began to converse. and messer forese, as he rode and hearkened to giotto, who was an excellent talker, surveyed him sideways, and from head to foot, and all over, and seeing him in all points in so sorry and scurvy a trim, and recking nought of his own appearance, broke into a laugh and said:--"giotto, would e'er a stranger that met us, and had not seen thee before, believe, thinkst thou, that thou wert, as thou art, the greatest painter in the world." whereto giotto answered promptly:--"methinks, sir, he might, if, scanning you, he gave you credit for knowing the a b c." which hearing, messer forese recognized his error, and perceived that he had gotten as good as he brought. (1) the name of a florentine family famous for the extraordinary ugliness of its men: whereby it came to pass that any grotesque or extremely ugly man was called a baroncio. fanfani, vocab. della lingua italiana, 1891. novel vi. -michele scalza proves to certain young men that the baronci are the best gentlemen in the world and the maremma, and wins a supper. -the ladies were still laughing over giotto's ready retort, when the queen charged fiammetta to follow suit; wherefore thus fiammetta began:--pamfilo's mention of the baronci, who to you, damsels, are perchance not so well known as to him, has brought to my mind a story in which 'tis shewn how great is their nobility; and, for that it involves no deviation from our rule of discourse, i am minded to tell it you. 'tis no long time since there dwelt in our city a young man, michele scalza by name, the pleasantest and merriest fellow in the world, and the best furnished with quaint stories: for which reason the florentine youth set great store on having him with them when they forgathered in company. now it so befell that one day, he being with a party of them at mont' ughi, they fell a disputing together on this wise; to wit, who were the best gentlemen and of the longest descent in florence. one said, the uberti, another, the lamberti, or some other family, according to the predilection of the speaker. whereat scalza began to smile, and said:--"now out upon you, out upon you, blockheads that ye are: ye know not what ye say. the best gentlemen and of longest descent in all the world and the maremma (let alone florence) are the baronci by the common consent of all phisopholers,(1) and all that know them as i do; and lest you should otherwise conceive me, i say that 'tis of your neighbours the baronci(2) of santa maria maggiore that i speak." whereupon the young men, who had looked for somewhat else from him, said derisively:--"thou dost but jest with us; as if we did not know the baronci as well as thou!" quoth scalza:--"by the gospels i jest not, but speak sooth; and if there is any of you will wager a supper to be given to the winner and six good fellows whom he shall choose, i will gladly do the like, and--what is more--i will abide by the decision of such one of you as you may choose." then said one of them whose name was neri mannini:--"i am ready to adventure this supper;" and so they agreed together that piero di fiorentino, in whose house they were, should be judge, and hied them to him followed by all the rest, eager to see scalza lose, and triumph in his discomfiture, and told piero all that had been said. piero, who was a young man of sound sense, heard what neri had to say; and then turning to scalza:--"and how," quoth he, "mayst thou make good what thou averrest?" "i will demonstrate it," returned scalza, "by reasoning so cogent that not only you, but he that denies it shall acknowledge that i say sooth. you know, and so they were saying but now, that the longer men's descent, the better is their gentility, and i say that the baronci are of longer descent, and thus better gentlemen than any other men. if, then, i prove to you that they are of longer descent than any other men, without a doubt the victory in this dispute will rest with me. now you must know that when god made the baronci, he was but a novice in his art, of which, when he made the rest of mankind, he was already master. and to assure yourself that herein i say sooth, you have but to consider the baronci, how they differ from the rest of mankind, who all have faces well composed and duly proportioned, whereas of the baronci you will see one with a face very long and narrow, another with a face inordinately broad, one with a very long nose, another with a short one, one with a protruding and upturned chin, and great jaws like an ass's; and again there will be one that has one eye larger than its fellow, or set on a lower plane; so that their faces resemble those that children make when they begin to learn to draw. whereby, as i said, 'tis plainly manifest that, when god made them, he was but novice in his art; and so they are of longer descent than the rest of mankind, and by consequence better gentlemen." by which entertaining argument piero, the judge, and neri who had wagered the supper, and all the rest, calling to mind the baronci's ugliness, were so tickled, that they fell a laughing, and averred that scalza was in the right, and that he had won the wager, and that without a doubt the baronci were the best gentlemen, and of the longest descent, not merely in florence, but in the world and the maremma to boot. wherefore 'twas not without reason that pamfilo, being minded to declare messer forese's ill-favouredness, said that he would have been hideous beside a baroncio. (1) in the italian fisofoli: an evidently intentional distortion. (2) villani, istorie fiorentine, iv. cap. ix., and dante, paradiso, xvi. 104, spell the name barucci. novel vii. -madonna filippa, being found by her husband with her lover, is cited before the court, and by a ready and jocund answer acquits herself, and brings about an alteration of the statute. -fiammetta had been silent some time, but scalza's novel argument to prove the pre-eminent nobility of the baronci kept all still laughing, when the queen called for a story from filostrato, who thus began:--noble ladies, an excellent thing is apt speech on all occasions, but to be proficient therein i deem then most excellent when the occasion does most imperatively demand it. as was the case with a gentlewoman, of whom i purpose to speak to you, who not only ministered gaiety and merriment to her hearers, but extricated herself, as you shall hear, from the toils of an ignominious death. there was aforetime in the city of prato a statute no less censurable than harsh, which, making no distinction between the wife whom her husband took in adultery with her lover, and the woman found pleasuring a stranger for money, condemned both alike to be burned. while this statute was in force, it befell that a gentlewoman, fair and beyond measure enamoured, madonna filippa by name, was by her husband, rinaldo de' pugliesi, found in her own chamber one night in the arms of lazzarino de' guazzagliotri, a handsome young noble of the same city, whom she loved even as herself. whereat rinaldo, very wroth, scarce refrained from falling upon them and killing them on the spot; and indeed, but that he doubted how he should afterwards fare himself, he had given way to the vehemence of his anger, and so done. nor, though he so far mastered himself, could he forbear recourse to the statute, thereby to compass that which he might not otherwise lawfully compass, to wit, the death of his lady. wherefore, having all the evidence needful to prove her guilt, he took no further counsel; but, as soon as 'twas day, he charged the lady and had her summoned. like most ladies that are veritably enamoured, the lady was of a high courage; and, though not a few of her friends and kinsfolk sought to dissuade her, she resolved to appear to the summons, having liefer die bravely confessing the truth than basely flee and for defiance of the law live in exile, and shew herself unworthy of such a lover as had had her in his arms that night. and so, attended by many ladies and gentlemen, who all exhorted her to deny the charge, she came before the podesta, and with a composed air and unfaltering voice asked whereof he would interrogate her. the podesta, surveying her, and taking note of her extraordinary beauty, and exquisite manners, and the high courage that her words evinced, was touched with compassion for her, fearing she might make some admission, by reason whereof, to save his honour, he must needs do her to death. but still, as he could not refrain from examining her of that which was laid to her charge, he said:--"madam, here, as you see, is your husband, rinaldo, who prefers a charge against you, alleging that he has taken you in adultery, and so he demands that, pursuant to a statute which is in force here, i punish you with death: but this i may not do, except you confess; wherefore be very careful what you answer, and tell me if what your husband alleges against you be true." the lady, no wise dismayed, and in a tone not a little jocund, thus made answer:--"true it is, sir, that rinaldo is my husband, and that last night he found me in the arms of lazzarino, in whose arms for the whole-hearted love that i bear him i have ofttimes lain; nor shall i ever deny it; but, as well i wot you know, the laws ought to be common and enacted with the common consent of all that they affect; which conditions are wanting to this law, inasmuch as it binds only us poor women, in whom to be liberal is much less reprehensible than it were in men; and furthermore the consent of no woman was--i say not had, but--so much as asked before 'twas made; for which reasons it justly deserves to be called a bad law. however, if in scathe of my body and your own soul, you are minded to put it in force, 'tis your affair; but, i pray you, go not on to try this matter in any wise, until you have granted me this trifling grace, to wit, to ask my husband if i ever gainsaid him, but did not rather accord him, when and so often as he craved it, complete enjoyment of myself." whereto rinaldo, without awaiting the podesta's question, forthwith answered, that assuredly the lady had ever granted him all that he had asked of her for his gratification. "then," promptly continued the lady, "if he has ever had of me as much as sufficed for his solace, what was i or am i to do with the surplus? am i to cast it to the dogs? is it not much better to bestow it on a gentleman that loves me more dearly than himself, than to suffer it to come to nought or worse?" which jocund question being heard by well-nigh all the folk of prato, who had flocked thither all agog to see a dame so fair and of such quality on her trial for such an offence, they laughed loud and long, and then all with one accord, and as with one voice, exclaimed that the lady was in the right and said well; nor left they the court until in concert with the podesta they had so altered the harsh statute as that thenceforth only such women as should wrong their husbands for money should be within its purview. wherefore rinaldo left the court, discomfited of his foolish enterprise; and the lady blithe and free, as if rendered back to life from the burning, went home triumphant. novel viii. -fresco admonishes his niece not to look at herself in the glass, if 'tis, as she says, grievous to her to see nasty folk. -'twas not at first without some flutterings of shame, evinced by the modest blush mantling on their cheeks, that the ladies heard filostrato's story; but afterwards, exchanging glances, they could scarce forbear to laugh, and hearkened tittering. however, when he had done, the queen turning to emilia bade her follow suit. whereupon emilia, fetching a deep breath as if she were roused from sleep, thus began:--loving ladies, brooding thought has kept my spirit for so long time remote from here that perchance i may make a shift to satisfy our queen with a much shorter story than would have been forthcoming but for my absence of mind, wherein i purpose to tell you how a young woman's folly was corrected by her uncle with a pleasant jest, had she but had the sense to apprehend it. my story, then, is of one, fresco da celatico by name, that had a niece, ciesca, as she was playfully called, who, being fair of face and person, albeit she had none of those angelical charms that we ofttimes see, had so superlative a conceit of herself, that she had contracted a habit of disparaging both men and women and all that she saw, entirely regardless of her own defects, though for odiousness, tiresomeness, and petulance she had not her match among women, insomuch that there was nought that could be done to her mind: besides which, such was her pride that had she been of the blood royal of france, 'twould have been inordinate. and when she walked abroad, so fastidious was her humour, she was ever averting her head, as if there was never a soul she saw or met but reeked with a foul smell. now one day--not to speak of other odious and tiresome ways that she had--it so befell that being come home, where fresco was, she sat herself down beside him with a most languishing air, and did nought but fume and chafe. whereupon:--"ciesca," quoth he, "what means this, that, though 'tis a feast-day, yet thou art come back so soon?" she, all but dissolved with her vapourish humours, made answer:--"why, the truth is, that i am come back early because never, i believe, were there such odious and tiresome men and women in this city as there are to-day. i cannot pass a soul in the street that i loathe not like ill-luck; and i believe there is not a woman in the world that is so distressed by the sight of odious people as i am; and so i am come home thus soon to avoid the sight of them." whereupon fresco, to, whom his niece's bad manners were distasteful in the extreme:--"daughter," quoth he, "if thou loathe odious folk as much as thou sayest, thou wert best, so thou wouldst live happy, never to look at thyself in the glass." but she, empty as a reed, albeit in her own conceit a match for solomon in wisdom, was as far as any sheep from apprehending the true sense of her uncle's jest; but answered that on the contrary she was minded to look at herself in the glass like other women. and so she remained, and yet remains, hidebound in her folly. novel ix. -guido cavalcanti by a quip meetly rebukes certain florentine gentlemen who had taken him at a disadvantage. -the queen, perceiving that emilia had finished her story, and that none but she, and he who had the privilege of speaking last, now remained to tell, began on this wise:--albeit, debonair my ladies, you have forestalled me to-day of more than two of the stories, of which i had thought to tell one, yet one is still left me to recount, which carries at the close of it a quip of such a sort, that perhaps we have as yet heard nought so pregnant. you are to know, then, that in former times there obtained in our city customs excellent and commendable not a few, whereof today not one is left to us, thanks to the greed which, growing with the wealth of our folk, has banished them all from among us. one of which customs was that in divers quarters of florence the gentlemen that there resided would assemble together in companies of a limited number, taking care to include therein only such as might conveniently bear the expenses, and to-day one, another to-morrow, each in his turn for a day, would entertain the rest of the company; and so they would not seldom do honour to gentlemen from distant parts when they visited the city, and also to their fellow-citizens; and in like manner they would meet together at least once a year all in the same trim, and on the most notable days would ride together through the city, and now and again they would tilt together, more especially on the greater feasts, or when the city was rejoiced by tidings of victory or some other glad event. among which companies was one of which messer betto brunelleschi was the leading spirit, into which messer betto and his comrades had striven hard to bring guido, son of cavalcante de' cavalcanti, and not without reason, inasmuch as, besides being one of the best logicians in the world, and an excellent natural philosopher (qualities of which the company made no great account), he was without a peer for gallantry and courtesy and excellence of discourse and aptitude for all matters which he might set his mind to, and that belonged to a gentleman; and therewithal he was very rich, and, when he deemed any worthy of honour, knew how to bestow it to the uttermost. but, as messer betto had never been able to gain him over, he and his comrades supposed that 'twas because guido, being addicted to speculation, was thereby estranged from men. and, for that he was somewhat inclined to the opinion of the epicureans, the vulgar averred that these speculations of his had no other scope than to prove that god did not exist. now one day it so befell that, guido being come, as was not seldom his wont, from or san michele by the corso degli adimari as far as san giovanni, around which were then the great tombs of marble that are to-day in santa reparata, besides other tombs not a few, and guido being between the columns of porphyry, that are there, and the tombs and the door of san giovanni, which was locked, messer betto and his company came riding on to the piazza of santa reparata, and seeing him among the tombs, said:--"go we and flout him." so they set spurs to their horses, and making a mock onset, were upon him almost before he saw them. whereupon:--"guido," they began, "thou wilt be none of our company; but, lo now, when thou hast proved that god does not exist, what wilt thou have achieved?" guido, seeing that he was surrounded, presently answered:--"gentlemen, you may say to me what you please in your own house." thereupon he laid his hand on one of the great tombs, and being very nimble, vaulted over it, and so evaded them, and went his way, while they remained gazing in one another's faces, and some said that he had taken leave of his wits, and that his answer was but nought, seeing that the ground on which they stood was common to them with the rest of the citizens, and among them guido himself. but messer betto, turning to them:--"nay but," quoth he, "'tis ye that have taken leave of your wits, if ye have not understood him; for meetly and in few words he has given us never so shrewd a reprimand; seeing that, if you consider it well, these tombs are the houses of the dead, that are laid and tarry therein; which he calls our house, to shew us that we, and all other simple, unlettered men, are, in comparison of him and the rest of the learned, in sorrier case than dead men, and so being here, we are in our own house." then none was there but understood guido's meaning and was abashed, insomuch that they flouted him no more, and thenceforth reputed messer betto a gentleman of a subtle and discerning wit. novel x. -fra cipolla promises to shew certain country-folk a feather of the angel gabriel, in lieu of which he finds coals, which he avers to be of those with which st. lawrence was roasted. -all the company save dioneo being delivered of their several stories, he wist that 'twas his turn to speak. wherefore, without awaiting any very express command, he enjoined silence on those that were commending guido's pithy quip, and thus began:--sweet my ladies, albeit 'tis my privilege to speak of what likes me most, i purpose not to-day to deviate from that theme whereon you have all discoursed most appositely; but, following in your footsteps, i am minded to shew you with what adroitness and readiness of resource one of the friars of st. antony avoided a pickle that two young men had in readiness for him. nor, if, in order to do the story full justice, i be somewhat prolix of speech, should it be burdensome to you, if you will but glance at the sun, which is yet in mid-heaven. certaldo, as perchance you may have heard, is a town of val d'elsa within our country-side, which, small though it is, had in it aforetime people of rank and wealth. thither, for that there he found good pasture, 'twas long the wont of one of the friars of st. antony to resort once every year, to collect the alms that fools gave them. fra cipolla(1)--so hight the friar--met with a hearty welcome, no less, perchance, by reason of his name than for other cause, the onions produced in that district being famous throughout tuscany. he was little of person, red-haired, jolly-visaged, and the very best of good fellows; and therewithal, though learning he had none, he was so excellent and ready a speaker that whoso knew him not would not only have esteemed him a great rhetorician, but would have pronounced him tully himself or, perchance, quintilian; and in all the country-side there was scarce a soul to whom he was not either gossip or friend or lover. being thus wont from time to time to visit certaldo, the friar came there once upon a time in the month of august, and on a sunday morning, all the good folk of the neighbouring farms being come to mass in the parish church, he took occasion to come forward and say:--"ladies and gentlemen, you wot 'tis your custom to send year by year to the poor of baron master st. antony somewhat of your wheat and oats, more or less, according to the ability and the devoutness of each, that blessed st. antony may save your oxen and asses and pigs and sheep from harm; and you are also accustomed, and especially those whose names are on the books of our confraternity, to pay your trifling annual dues. to collect which offerings, i am hither sent by my superior, to wit, master abbot; wherefore, with the blessing of god, after none, when you hear the bells ring, you will come out of the church to the place where in the usual way i shall deliver you my sermon, and you will kiss the cross; and therewithal, knowing, as i do, that you are one and all most devoted to baron master st. antony, i will by way of especial grace shew you a most holy and goodly relic, which i brought myself from the holy land overseas, which is none other than one of the feathers of the angel gabriel, which he left behind him in the room of the virgin mary, when he came to make her the annunciation in nazareth." and having said thus much, he ceased, and went on with the mass. now among the many that were in the church, while fra cipolla made this speech, were two very wily young wags, the one giovanni del bragoniera by name, the other biagio pizzini; who, albeit they were on the best of terms with fra cipolla and much in his company, had a sly laugh together over the relic, and resolved to make game of him and his feather. so, having learned that fra cipolla was to breakfast that morning in the town with one of his friends, as soon as they knew that he was at table, down they hied them into the street, and to the inn where the friar lodged, having complotted that biagio should keep the friar's servant in play, while giovanni made search among the friar's goods and chattels for this feather, whatever it might be, to carry it off, that they might see how the friar would afterwards explain the matter to the people. now fra cipolla had for servant one guccio,(2) whom some called by way of addition balena,(3) others imbratta,(4) others again porco,(5) and who was such a rascallion that sure it is that lippo topo(6) himself never painted his like. concerning whom fra cipolla would ofttimes make merry with his familiars, saying:--"my servant has nine qualities, any one of which in solomon, aristotle, or seneca, would have been enough to spoil all their virtue, wisdom and holiness. consider, then, what sort of a man he must be that has these nine qualities, and yet never a spark of either virtue or wisdom or holiness." and being asked upon divers occasions what these nine qualities might be, he strung them together in rhyme, and answered:--"i will tell you. lazy and uncleanly and a liar he is, negligent, disobedient and foulmouthed, iwis, and reckless and witless and mannerless: and therewithal he has some other petty vices, which 'twere best to pass over. and the most amusing thing about him is, that, wherever he goes, he is for taking a wife and renting a house, and on the strength of a big, black, greasy beard he deems himself so very handsome a fellow and seductive, that he takes all the women that see him to be in love with him, and, if he were left alone, he would slip his girdle and run after them all. true it is that he is of great use to me, for that, be any minded to speak with me never so secretly, he must still have his share of the audience; and, if perchance aught is demanded of me, such is his fear lest i should be at a loss what answer to make, that he presently replies, ay or no, as he deems meet." now, when he left this knave at the inn, fra cipolla had strictly enjoined him on no account to suffer any one to touch aught of his, and least of all his wallet, because it contained the holy things. but guccio imbratta, who was fonder of the kitchen than any nightingale of the green boughs, and most particularly if he espied there a maid, and in the host's kitchen had caught sight of a coarse fat woman, short and misshapen, with a pair of breasts that shewed as two buckets of muck and a face that might have belonged to one of the baronci, all reeking with sweat and grease and smoke, left fra cipolla's room and all his things to take care of themselves, and like a vulture swooping down upon the carrion, was in the kitchen in a trice. where, though 'twas august, he sat him down by the fire, and fell a gossiping with nuta--such was the maid's name--and told her that he was a gentleman by procuration,(7) and had more florins than could be reckoned, besides those that he had to give away, which were rather more than less, and that he could do and say such things as never were or might be seen or heard forever, good lord! and a day. and all heedless of his cowl, which had as much grease upon it as would have furnished forth the caldron of altopascio,(8) and of his rent and patched doublet, inlaid with filth about the neck and under the armpits, and so stained that it shewed hues more various than ever did silk from tartary or the indies, and of his shoes that were all to pieces, and of his hose that were all in tatters, he told her in a tone that would have become the sieur de chatillon, that he was minded to rehabit her and put her in trim, and raise her from her abject condition, and place her where, though she would not have much to call her own, at any rate she would have hope of better things, with much more to the like effect; which professions, though made with every appearance of good will, proved, like most of his schemes, insubstantial as air, and came to nothing. finding guccio porco thus occupied with nuta, the two young men gleefully accounted their work half done, and, none gainsaying them, entered fra cipolla's room, which was open, and lit at once upon the wallet, in which was the feather. the wallet opened, they found, wrapt up in many folds of taffeta, a little casket, on opening which they discovered one of the tail-feathers of a parrot, which they deemed must be that which the friar had promised to shew the good folk of certaldo. and in sooth he might well have so imposed upon them, for in those days the luxuries of egypt had scarce been introduced into tuscany, though they have since been brought over in prodigious abundance, to the grave hurt of all italy. and though some conversance with them there was, yet in those parts folk knew next to nothing of them; but, adhering to the honest, simple ways of their forefathers, had not seen, nay for the most part had not so much as heard tell of, a parrot. so the young men, having found the feather, took it out with great glee; and looking around for something to replace it, they espied in a corner of the room some pieces of coal, wherewith they filled the casket; which they then closed, and having set the room in order exactly as they had found it, they quitted it unperceived, and hied them merrily off with the feather, and posted themselves where they might hear what fra cipolla would say when he found the coals in its stead. mass said, the simple folk that were in the church went home with the tidings that the feather of the angel gabriel was to be seen after none; and this goodman telling his neighbour, and that goodwife her gossip, by the time every one had breakfasted, the town could scarce hold the multitude of men and women that flocked thither all agog to see this feather. fra cipolla, having made a hearty breakfast and had a little nap, got up shortly after none, and marking the great concourse of country-folk that were come to see the feather, sent word to guccio imbratta to go up there with the bells, and bring with him the wallet. guccio, though 'twas with difficulty that he tore himself away from the kitchen and nuta, hied him up with the things required; and though, when he got up, he was winded, for he was corpulent with drinking nought but water, he did fra cipolla's bidding by going to the church door and ringing the bells amain. when all the people were gathered about the door, fra cipolla, all unwitting that aught of his was missing, began his sermon, and after much said in glorification of himself, caused the confiteor to be recited with great solemnity, and two torches to be lit by way of preliminary to the shewing of the feather of the angel gabriel: he then bared his head, carefully unfolded the taffeta, and took out the casket, which, after a few prefatory words in praise and laudation of the angel gabriel and his relic, he opened. when he saw that it contained nought but coals, he did not suspect guccio balena of playing the trick, for he knew that he was not clever enough, nor did he curse him, that his carelessness had allowed another to play it, but he inly imprecated himself, that he had committed his things to the keeping of one whom he knew to be "negligent and disobedient, reckless and witless." nevertheless, he changed not colour, but with face and hands upturned to heaven, he said in a voice that all might hear:--"o god, blessed be thy might for ever and ever." then, closing the casket, and turning to the people:--"ladies and gentlemen," he said, "you are to know, that when i was yet a very young man, i was sent by my superior into those parts where the sun rises, and i was expressly bidden to search until i should find the privileges of porcellana, which, though they cost nothing to seal, are of much more use to others than to us. on which errand i set forth, taking my departure from venice, and traversing the borgo de' greci,(9) and thence on horseback the realm of algarve,(10) and so by baldacca(11) i came to parione,(12) whence, somewhat athirst, i after a while got on to sardinia.(13) but wherefore go i about to enumerate all the lands in which i pursued my quest? having passed the straits of san giorgio, i arrived at truffia(14) and buffia,(15) countries thickly populated and with great nations, whence i pursued my journey to menzogna,(16) where i met with many of our own brethren, and of other religious not a few, intent one and all on eschewing hardship for the love of god, making little account of others! toil, so they might ensue their own advantage, and paying in nought but unminted coin(17) throughout the length and breadth of the country; and so i came to the land of abruzzi, where the men and women go in pattens on the mountains, and clothe the hogs with their own entrails;(18) and a little further on i found folk that carried bread in staves and wine in sacks.(19) and leaving them, i arrived at the mountains of the bachi,(20) where all the waters run downwards. in short i penetrated so far that i came at last to india pastinaca,(21) where i swear to you by the habit that i wear, that i saw pruning-hooks(22) fly: a thing that none would believe that had not seen it. whereof be my witness that i lie not maso del saggio, that great merchant, whom i found there cracking nuts, and selling the shells by retail! however, not being able to find that whereof i was in quest, because from thence one must travel by water, i turned back, and so came at length to the holy land, where in summer cold bread costs four deniers, and hot bread is to be had for nothing. and there i found the venerable father nonmiblasmetesevoipiace,(23) the most worshipful patriarch of jerusalem; who out of respect for the habit that i have ever worn, to wit, that of baron master st. antony, was pleased to let me see all the holy relics that he had by him, which were so many, that, were i to enumerate them all, i should not come to the end of them in some miles. however, not to disappoint you, i will tell you a few of them. in the first place, then, he shewed me the finger of the holy spirit, as whole and entire as it ever was, and the tuft of the seraph that appeared to st. francis, and one of the nails of the cherubim, and one of the ribs of the verbum caro hie thee to the casement,(24) and some of the vestments of the holy catholic faith, and some of the rays of the star that appeared to the magi in the east, and a phial of the sweat of st. michael a battling with the devil and the jaws of death of st. lazarus, and other relics. and for that i gave him a liberal supply of the acclivities(25) of monte morello in the vulgar and some chapters of caprezio, of which he had long been in quest, he was pleased to let me participate in his holy relics, and gave me one of the teeth of the holy cross, and in a small phial a bit of the sound of the bells of solomon's temple, and this feather of the angel gabriel, whereof i have told you, and one of the pattens of san gherardo da villa magna, which, not long ago, i gave at florence to gherardo di bonsi, who holds him in prodigious veneration. he also gave me some of the coals with which the most blessed martyr, st. lawrence, was roasted. all which things i devoutly brought thence, and have them all safe. true it is that my superior has not hitherto permitted me to shew them, until he should be certified that they are genuine. however, now that this is avouched by certain miracles wrought by them, of which we have tidings by letter from the patriarch, he has given me leave to shew them. but, fearing to trust them to another, i always carry them with me; and to tell you the truth i carry the feather of the angel gabriel, lest it should get spoiled, in a casket, and the coals, with which st. lawrence was roasted, in another casket; which caskets are so like the one to the other, that not seldom i mistake one for the other, which has befallen me on this occasion; for, whereas i thought to have brought with me the casket wherein is the feather, i have brought instead that which contains the coals. nor deem i this a mischance; nay, methinks, 'tis by interposition, of god, and that he himself put the casket of coals in my hand, for i mind me that the feast of st. lawrence falls but two days hence. wherefore god, being minded that by shewing you the coals, with which he was roasted, i should rekindle in your souls the devotion that you ought to feel towards him, guided my hand, not to the feather which i meant to take, but to the blessed coals that were extinguished by the humours that exuded from that most holy body. and so, blessed children, bare your heads and devoutly draw nigh to see them. but first of all i would have you know, that whoso has the sign of the cross made upon him with these coals, may live secure for the whole of the ensuing year, that fire shall not touch him, that he feel it not." having so said, the friar, chanting a hymn in praise of st. lawrence, opened the casket, and shewed the coals. whereon the foolish crowd gazed a while in awe and reverent wonder, and then came pressing forward in a mighty throng about fra cipolla with offerings beyond their wont, each and all praying him to touch them with the coals. wherefore fra cipolla took the coals in his hand, and set about making on their white blouses, and on their doublets, and on the veils of the women crosses as big as might be, averring the while that whatever the coals might thus lose would be made good to them again in the casket, as he had often proved. on this wise, to his exceeding great profit, he marked all the folk of certaldo with the cross, and, thanks to his ready wit and resource, had his laugh at those, who by robbing him of the feather thought to make a laughing-stock of him. they, indeed, being among his hearers, and marking his novel expedient, and how voluble he was, and what a long story he made of it, laughed till they thought their jaws would break; and, when the congregation was dispersed, they went up to him, and never so merrily told him what they had done, and returned him his feather; which next year proved no less lucrative to him than that day the coals had been. (1) onion. (2) diminutive of arriguccio. (3) whale. (4) filth. (5) hog. (6) the works of this painter seem to be lost. (7) one of the humorous ineptitudes of which boccaccio is fond. (8) an abbey near lucca famous for its doles of broth. (9) perhaps part of the "sesto" of florence known as the borgo, as the tradition of the commentators that the friar's itinerary is wholly florentine is not to be lightly set aside. (10) il garbo, a quarter or street in florence, doubtless so called because the wares of algarve were there sold. rer. ital. script. (muratori: suppl. tartini) ii. 119. villani, istorie fiorentine, iv. 12, xii. 18. (11) a famous tavern in florence. florio, vocab. ital. e ingl., ed torriano, 1659. (12) a "borgo" in florence. villani, istorie fiorentine, iv. 7. (13) a suburb of florence on the arno, ib. ix. 256. (14) the land of cajolery. (15) the land of drollery. (16) the land of lies. (17) i.e. in false promises: suggested by dante's pagando di moneta senza conio. parad. xxix. 126. (18) a reference to sausage-making. (19) i.e. cakes fashioned in a hollow ring, and wines in leathern bottles. (20) grubs. (21) in allusion to the shapeless fish, so called, which was proverbially taken as a type of the outlandish. (22) a jeu de mots, "pennati," pruning-hooks, signifying also feathered, though "pennuti" is more common in that sense. (23) takemenottotaskanitlikeyou. (24) fatti alle finestre, a subterfuge for factum est. (25) piagge, jocularly for pagine: doubtless some mighty tome of school divinity is meant. immense was the delight and diversion which this story afforded to all the company alike, and great and general was the laughter over fra cipolla, and more especially at his pilgrimage, and the relics, as well those that he had but seen as those that he had brought back with him. which being ended, the queen, taking note that therewith the close of her sovereignty was come, stood up, took off the crown, and set it on dioneo's head, saying with a laugh:--"'tis time, dioneo, that thou prove the weight of the burden of having ladies to govern and guide. be thou king then; and let thy rule be such that, when 'tis ended, we may have cause to commend it." dioneo took the crown, and laughingly answered:--"kings worthier far than i you may well have seen many a time ere now--i speak of the kings in chess; but let me have of you that obedience which is due to a true king, and of a surety i will give you to taste of that solace, without which perfection of joy there may not be in any festivity. but enough of this: i will govern as best i may." then, as was the wont, he sent for the seneschal, and gave him particular instruction how to order matters during the term of his sovereignty; which done, he said:--"noble ladies, such and so diverse has been our discourse of the ways of men and their various fortunes, that but for the visit that we had a while ago from madam licisca, who by what she said has furnished me with matter of discourse for to-morrow, i doubt i had been not a little put to it to find a theme. you heard how she said that there was not a woman in her neighbourhood whose husband had her virginity; adding that well she knew how many and what manner of tricks they, after marriage, played their husbands. the first count we may well leave to the girls whom it concerns; the second, methinks, should prove a diverting topic: wherefore i ordain that, taking our cue from madam licisca, we discourse to-morrow of the tricks that, either for love or for their deliverance from peril, ladies have heretofore played their husbands, and whether they were by the said husbands detected or no." to discourse of such a topic some of the ladies deemed unmeet for them, and besought the king to find another theme. but the king made answer:--"ladies, what manner of theme i have prescribed i know as well as you, nor was i to be diverted from prescribing it by that which you now think to declare unto me, for i wot the times are such that, so only men and women have a care to do nought that is unseemly, 'tis allowable to them to discourse of what they please. for in sooth, as you must know, so out of joint are the times that the judges have deserted the judgment-seat, the laws are silent, and ample licence to preserve his life as best he may is accorded to each and all. wherefore, if you are somewhat less strict of speech than is your wont, not that aught unseemly in act may follow, but that you may afford solace to yourselves and others, i see not how you can be open to reasonable censure on the part of any. furthermore, nought that has been said from the first day to the present moment has, methinks, in any degree sullied the immaculate honour of your company, nor, god helping us, shall aught ever sully it. besides, who is there that knows not the quality of your honour? which were proof, i make no doubt, against not only the seductive influence of diverting discourse, but even the terror of death. and, to tell you the truth, whoso wist that you refused to discourse of these light matters for a while, would be apt to suspect that 'twas but for that you had yourselves erred in like sort. and truly a goodly honour would you confer upon me, obedient as i have ever been to you, if after making me your king and your lawgiver, you were to refuse to discourse of the theme which i prescribe. away, then, with this scruple fitter for low minds than yours, and let each study how she may give us a goodly story, and fortune prosper her therein." so spake the king, and the ladies, hearkening, said that, even as he would, so it should be: whereupon he gave all leave to do as they might be severally minded until the supper-hour. the sun was still quite high in the heaven, for they had not enlarged in their discourse: wherefore, dioneo with the other gallants being set to play at dice, elisa called the other ladies apart, and said:--"there is a nook hard by this place, where i think none of you has ever been: 'tis called the ladies' vale: whither, ever since we have been here, i have desired to take you, but time meet i have not found until today, when the sun is still so high: if, then, you are minded to visit it, i have no manner of doubt that, when you are there, you will be very glad you came." the ladies answered that they were ready, and so, saying nought to the young men, they summoned one of their maids, and set forth; nor had they gone much more than a mile, when they arrived at the vale of ladies. they entered it by a very strait gorge, through which there issued a rivulet, clear as crystal, and a sight, than which nought more fair and pleasant, especially at that time when the heat was great, could be imagined, met their eyes. within the valley, as one of them afterwards told me, was a plain about half-a-mile in circumference, and so exactly circular that it might have been fashioned according to the compass, though it seemed a work of nature's art, not man's: 'twas girdled about by six hills of no great height, each crowned with a palace that shewed as a goodly little castle. the slopes of the hills were graduated from summit to base after the manner of the successive tiers, ever abridging their circle, that we see in our theatres; and as many as fronted the southern rays were all planted so close with vines, olives, almond-trees, cherry-trees, fig-trees and other fruitbearing trees not a few, that there was not a hand's-breadth of vacant space. those that fronted the north were in like manner covered with copses of oak saplings, ashes and other trees, as green and straight as might be. besides which, the plain, which was shut in on all sides save that on which the ladies had entered, was full of firs, cypresses, and bay-trees, with here and there a pine, in order and symmetry so meet and excellent as had they been planted by an artist, the best that might be found in that kind; wherethrough, even when the sun was in the zenith, scarce a ray of light might reach the ground, which was all one lawn of the finest turf, pranked with the hyacinth and divers other flowers. add to which--nor was there aught there more delightsome--a rivulet that, issuing from one of the gorges between two of the hills, descended over ledges of living rock, making, as it fell, a murmur most gratifying to the ear, and, seen from a distance, shewed as a spray of finest, powdered quick-silver, and no sooner reached the little plain, than 'twas gathered into a tiny channel, by which it sped with great velocity to the middle of the plain, where it formed a diminutive lake, like the fishponds that townsfolk sometimes make in their gardens, when they have occasion for them. the lake was not so deep but that a man might stand therein with his breast above the water; and so clear, so pellucid was the water that the bottom, which was of the finest gravel, shewed so distinct, that one, had he wished, who had nought better to do, might have counted the stones. nor was it only the bottom that was to be seen, but such a multitude of fishes, glancing to and fro, as was at once a delight and a marvel to behold. bank it had none, but its margin was the lawn, to which it imparted a goodlier freshness. so much of the water as it might not contain was received by another tiny channel, through which, issuing from the vale, it glided swiftly to the plain below. to which pleasaunce the damsels being come surveyed it with roving glance, and finding it commendable, and marking the lake in front of them, did, as 'twas very hot, and they deemed themselves secure from observation, resolve to take a bath. so, having bidden their maid wait and keep watch over the access to the vale, and give them warning, if haply any should approach it, they all seven undressed and got into the water, which to the whiteness of their flesh was even such a veil as fine glass is to the vermeil of the rose. they, being thus in the water, the clearness of which was thereby in no wise affected, did presently begin to go hither and thither after the fish, which had much ado where to bestow themselves so as to escape out of their hands. in which diversion they spent some time, and caught a few, and then they hied them out of the water and dressed them again, and bethinking them that 'twas time to return to the palace, they began slowly sauntering thither, dilating much as they went upon the beauty of the place, albeit they could not extol it more than they had already done. 'twas still quite early when they reached the palace, so that they found the gallants yet at play where they had left them. to whom quoth pampinea with a smile:--"we have stolen a march upon you to-day." "so," replied dioneo, "'tis with you do first and say after?" "ay, my lord," returned pampinea, and told him at large whence they came, and what the place was like, and how far 'twas off, and what they had done. what she said of the beauty of the spot begat in the king a desire to see it: wherefore he straightway ordered supper, whereof when all had gaily partaken, the three gallants parted from the ladies and hied them with their servants to the vale, where none of them had ever been before, and, having marked all its beauties, extolled it as scarce to be matched in all the world. then, as the hour was very late, they did but bathe, and as soon as they had resumed their clothes, returned to the ladies, whom they found dancing a carol to an air that fiammetta sang, which done, they conversed of the ladies' vale, waxing eloquent in praise thereof: insomuch that the king called the seneschal, and bade him have some beds made ready and carried thither on the morrow, that any that were so minded might there take their siesta. he then had lights and wine and comfits brought; and when they had taken a slight refection, he bade all address them to the dance. so at his behest pamfilo led a dance, and then the king, turning with gracious mien to elisa:--"fair damsel," quoth he, "'twas thou to-day didst me this honour of the crown; and 'tis my will that thine to-night be the honour of the song; wherefore sing us whatsoever thou hast most lief." "that gladly will i," replied elisa smiling; and thus with dulcet voice began:-if of thy talons, love, be quit i may, i deem it scarce can be but other fangs i may elude for aye. service i took with thee, a tender maid, in thy war thinking perfect peace to find, and all my arms upon the ground i laid, yielding myself to thee with trustful mind: thou, harpy-tyrant, whom no faith may bind, eftsoons didst swoop on me, and with thy cruel claws mad'st me thy prey. then thy poor captive, bound with many a chain, thou tookst, and gav'st to him, whom fate did call hither my death to be; for that in pain and bitter tears i waste away, his thrall: nor heave i e'er a sigh, or tear let fall, so harsh a lord is he, that him inclines a jot my grief to allay. my prayers upon the idle air are spent: he hears not, will not hear; wherefore in vain the more each hour my soul doth her torment; nor may i die, albeit to die were gain. ah! lord, have pity of my bitter pain! help have i none but thee; then take and bind and at my feet him lay. but if thou wilt not, do my soul but loose from hope, that her still binds with triple chain. sure, o my lord, this prayer thou'lt not refuse: the which so thou to grant me do but deign, i look my wonted beauty to regain, and banish misery with roses white and red bedecked and gay. so with a most piteous sigh ended elisa her song, whereat all wondered exceedingly, nor might any conjecture wherefore she so sang. but the king, who was in a jolly humour, sent for tindaro, and bade him out with his cornemuse, and caused them tread many a measure thereto, until, no small part of the night being thus spent, he gave leave to all to betake them to rest. -endeth here the sixth day of the decameron, beginneth the seventh, in which, under the rule of dioneo, discourse is had of the tricks which, either for love or for their deliverance from peril, ladies have heretofore played their husbands, and whether they were by the said husbands detected, or no. -fled was now each star from the eastern sky, save only that which we call lucifer, which still glowed in the whitening dawn, when uprose the seneschal, and with a goodly baggage-train hied him to the ladies' vale, there to make all things ready according to the ordinance and commandment of the king. nor was it long after his departure that the king rose, being awaked by the stir and bustle that the servants made in lading the horses, and being risen he likewise roused all the ladies and the other gallants; and so, when as yet 'twas scarce clear daybreak, they all took the road; nor seemed it to them that the nightingales and the other birds had ever chanted so blithely as that morning. by which choir they were attended to the ladies' vale, where they were greeted by other warblers not a few, that seemed rejoiced at their arrival. roving about the vale, and surveying its beauties afresh, they rated them higher than on the previous day, as indeed the hour was more apt to shew them forth. then with good wine and comfits they broke their fast, and, that they might not lag behind the songsters, they fell a singing, whereto the vale responded, ever echoing their strains; nor did the birds, as minded not to be beaten, fail to swell the chorus with notes of unwonted sweetness. however, breakfast-time came, and then, the tables being laid under a living canopy of trees, and beside other goodly trees that fringed the little lake, they sat them down in order as to the king seemed meet. so they took their meal, glancing from time to time at the lake, where the fish darted to and fro in multitudinous shoals, which afforded not only delight to their eyes but matter for converse. breakfast ended, and the tables removed, they fell a singing again more blithely than before. after which, there being set, in divers places about the little vale, beds which the discreet seneschal had duly furnished and equipped within and without with store of french coverlets, and other bedgear, all, that were so minded, had leave of the king to go to sleep, and those that cared not to sleep might betake them, as each might choose, to any of their wonted diversions. but, all at length being risen, and the time for addressing them to the story-telling being come, the king had carpets spread on the sward no great way from the place where they had breakfasted; and, all having sat them down beside the lake, he bade emilia begin; which, blithe and smiling, emilia did on this wise. novel i. -gianni lotteringhi hears a knocking at his door at night: he awakens his wife, who persuades him that 'tis the bogey, which they fall to exorcising with a prayer; whereupon the knocking ceases. -my lord, glad indeed had i been, that, saving your good pleasure, some other than i had had precedence of discourse upon so goodly a theme as this of which we are to speak--i doubt i am but chosen to teach others confidence; but, such being your will, i will gladly obey it. and my endeavour shall be, dearest ladies, to tell you somewhat that may be serviceable to you in the future: for, if you are, as i am, timorous, and that most especially of the bogey, which, god wot, i know not what manner of thing it may be, nor yet have found any that knew, albeit we are all alike afraid of it, you may learn from this my story how to put it to flight, should it intrude upon you, with a holy, salutary and most efficacious orison. there dwelt of yore at florence, in the quarter of san pancrazio, a master-spinner, gianni lotteringhi by name, one that had prospered in his business, but had little understanding of aught else; insomuch that being somewhat of a simpleton, he had many a time been chosen leader of the band of laud-singers of santa maria novella, and had charge of their school; and not a few like offices had he often served, upon which he greatly plumed himself. howbeit, 'twas all for no other reason than that, being a man of substance, he gave liberal doles to the friars; who, for that they got thereof, this one hose, another a cloak, and a third a hood, would teach him good orisons, or give him the paternoster in the vernacular, or the chant of st. alexis, or the lament of st. bernard, or the laud of lady matilda, or the like sorry stuff, which he greatly prized, and guarded with jealous care, deeming them all most conducive to the salvation of his soul. now our simple master-spinner had a most beautiful wife, and amorous withal, her name monna tessa. daughter she was of mannuccio dalla cuculla, and not a little knowing and keen-witted; and being enamoured of federigo di neri pegolotti, a handsome and lusty gallant, as he also of her, she, knowing her husband's simplicity, took counsel with her maid, and arranged that federigo should come to chat with her at a right goodly pleasure-house that the said gianni had at camerata, where she was wont to pass the summer, gianni coming now and again to sup and sleep, and going back in the morning to his shop, or, maybe, to his laud-singers. federigo, who desired nothing better, went up there punctually on the appointed day about vespers, and as the evening passed without gianni making his appearance, did most comfortably, and to his no small satisfaction, sup and sleep with the lady, who lying in his arms taught him that night some six of her husband's lauds. but, as neither she nor federigo was minded that this beginning should also be the end of their intercourse, and that it might not be needful for the maid to go each time to make the assignation with him, they came to the following understanding; to wit, that as often as he came and went between the house and an estate that he had a little higher up, he should keep an eye on a vineyard that was beside the house, where he would see an ass's head stuck on one of the poles of the vineyard, and as often as he observed the muzzle turned towards florence, he might visit her without any sort of misgiving; and if he found not the door open, he was to tap it thrice, and she would open it; and when he saw the muzzle of the ass's head turned towards fiesole, he was to keep away, for then gianni would be there. following which plan, they forgathered not seldom: but on one of these evenings, when federigo was to sup with monna tessa on two fat capons that she bad boiled, it so chanced that gianni arrived there unexpectedly and very late, much to the lady's chagrin: so she had a little salt meat boiled apart, on which she supped with her husband; and the maid by her orders carried the two boiled capons laid in a spotless napkin with plenty of fresh eggs and a bottle of good wine into the garden, to which there was access otherwise than from the house, and where she was wont at times to sup with federigo; and there the maid set them down at the foot of a peach-tree, that grew beside a lawn. but in her vexation she forgot to tell the maid to wait till federigo should come, and let him know that gianni was there, and he must take his supper in the garden: and she and gianni and the maid were scarce gone to bed, when federigo came and tapped once at the door, which being hard by the bedroom, gianni heard the tap, as did also the lady, albeit, that gianni might have no reason to suspect her, she feigned to be asleep. federigo waited a little, and then gave a second tap; whereupon, wondering what it might mean, gianni nudged his wife, saying:--"tessa, dost hear what i hear? methinks some one has tapped at our door." the lady, who had heard the noise much better than he, feigned to wake up, and:--"how? what sayst thou?" quoth she. "i say," replied gianni, "that, meseems, some one has tapped at our door." "tapped at it?" quoth the lady. "alas, my gianni, wottest thou not what that is? 'tis the bogey, which for some nights past has so terrified me as never was, insomuch that i never hear it but i pop my head under the clothes and venture not to put it out again until 'tis broad day." "come, come, wife," quoth gianni, "if such it is, be not alarmed; for before we got into bed i repeated the te lucis, the intemerata, and divers other good orisons, besides which i made the sign of the cross in the name of the father, son and holy spirit at each corner of the bed; wherefore we need have no fear that it may avail to hurt us, whatever be its power." the lady, lest federigo, perchance suspecting a rival, should take offence, resolved to get up, and let him understand that gianni was there: so she said to her husband:--"well well; so sayst thou; but i for my part shall never deem myself safe and secure, unless we exorcise it, seeing that thou art here." "oh!" said gianni, "and how does one exorcise it?" "that," quoth the lady, "i know right well; for t'other day, when i went to fiesole for the pardoning, one of those anchoresses, the saintliest creature, my gianni, god be my witness, knowing how much afraid i am of the bogey, taught me a holy and salutary orison, which she said she had tried many a time before she was turned anchoress, and always with success. god wot, i should never have had courage to try it alone; but as thou art here, i propose that we go exorcise it together." gianni made answer that he was quite of the same mind; so up they got, and stole to the door, on the outside of which federigo, now suspicious, was still waiting. and as soon as they were there:--"now," quoth the lady to gianni, "thou wilt spit, when i tell thee." "good," said gianni. whereupon the lady began her orison, saying:- "bogey, bogey that goest by night, tail erect, thou cam'st, tail erect, take thy flight hie thee to the garden, and the great peach before, grease upon grease, and droppings five score of my hen shalt thou find: set the flask thy lips to, then away like the wind, and no scathe unto me or my gianni do." and when she had done:--"now, gianni," quoth she, "spit": and gianni spat. there was no more room for jealousy in federigo's mind as he heard all this from without; nay, for all his disappointment, he was like to burst with suppressed laughter, and when gianni spat, he muttered under his breath:--"now out with thy teeth." the lady, having after this fashion thrice exorcised the bogey, went back to bed with her husband. federigo, disappointed of the supper that he was to have had with her, and apprehending the words of the orison aright, hied him to the garden, and having found the two capons and the wine and the eggs at the foot of the peach-tree, took them home with him, and supped very comfortably. and many a hearty laugh had he and the lady over the exorcism during their subsequent intercourse. now, true it is that some say that the lady had in fact turned the ass's head towards fiesole, but that a husbandman, passing through the vineyard, had given it a blow with his stick, whereby it had swung round, and remained fronting florence, and so it was that federigo thought that he was invited, and came to the house, and that the lady's orison was on this wise:- "bogey, a god's name, away thee hie, for whoe'er turned the ass's head, 'twas not i: another it was, foul fall his eyne; and here am i with gianni mine." wherefore federigo was fain to take himself off, having neither slept nor supped. but a neighbour of mine, a lady well advanced in years, tells me that, by what she heard when she was a girl, both stories are true; but that the latter concerned not gianni lotteringhi but one gianni di nello, that lived at porta san piero, and was no less a numskull than gianni lotteringhi. wherefore, dear my ladies, you are at liberty to choose which exorcism you prefer, or take both if you like. they are both of extraordinary and approved virtue in such cases, as you have heard: get them by heart, therefore, and they may yet stand you in good stead. novel ii. -her husband returning home, peronella bestows her lover in a tun; which, being sold by her husband, she avers to have been already sold by herself to one that is inside examining it to see if it be sound. whereupon the lover jumps out, and causes the husband to scour the tun for him, and afterwards to carry it to his house. -great indeed was the laughter with which emilia's story was received; which being ended, and her orison commended by all as good and salutary, the king bade filostrato follow suit; and thus filostrato began:--dearest my ladies, so many are the tricks that men play you, and most of all your husbands, that, when from time to time it so befalls that some lady plays her husband a trick, the circumstance, whether it come within your own cognizance or be told you by another, should not only give you joy but should incite you to publish it on all hands, that men may be ware, that, knowing as they are, their ladies also, on their part, know somewhat: which cannot but be serviceable to you, for that one does not rashly essay to take another with guile whom one wots not to lack that quality. can we doubt, then, that, should but the converse that we shall hold to-day touching this matter come to be bruited among men, 'twould serve to put a most notable check upon the tricks they play you, by doing them to wit of the tricks, which you, in like manner, when you are so minded, may play them? wherefore 'tis my intention to tell you in what manner a young girl, albeit she was but of low rank, did, on the spur of the moment, beguile her husband to her own deliverance. 'tis no long time since at naples a poor man, a mason by craft, took to wife a fair and amorous maiden--peronella was her name--who eked out by spinning what her husband made by his craft; and so the pair managed as best they might on very slender means. and as chance would have it, one of the gallants of the city, taking note of this peronella one day, and being mightily pleased with her, fell in love with her, and by this means and that so prevailed that he won her to accord him her intimacy. their times of forgathering they concerted as follows:--to wit, that, her husband being wont to rise betimes of a morning to go to work or seek for work, the gallant was to be where he might see him go forth, and, the street where she dwelt, which is called avorio, being scarce inhabited, was to come into the house as soon as her husband was well out of it; and so times not a few they did. but on one of these occasions it befell that, the good man being gone forth, and giannello sirignario--such was the gallant's name--being come into the house, and being with peronella, after a while, back came the good man, though 'twas not his wont to return until the day was done; and finding the door locked, he knocked, and after knocking, he fell a saying to himself:--o god, praised be thy name forever; for that, albeit thou hast ordained that i be poor, at least thou hast accorded me the consolation of a good and honest girl for wife. mark what haste she made to shut the door when i was gone forth, that none else might enter to give her trouble. now peronella knew by his knock that 'twas her husband; wherefore:--"alas, giannello mine," quoth she, "i am a dead woman, for lo, here is my husband, foul fall him! come back! what it may import, i know not, for he is never wont to come back at this hour; perchance he caught sight of thee as thou camest in. however, for the love of god, be it as it may, get thee into this tun that thou seest here, and i will go open to him, and we shall see what is the occasion of this sudden return this morning." so giannello forthwith got into the tun, and peronella went to the door, and let in her husband, and gave him black looks, saying:--"this is indeed a surprise that thou art back so soon this morning! by what i see thou hast a mind to make this a holiday, that thou returnest tools in hand; if so, what are we to live on? whence shall we get bread to eat? thinkest thou i will let thee pawn my gown and other bits of clothes? day and night i do nought else but spin, insomuch that the flesh is fallen away from my nails, that at least i may have oil enough to keep our lamp alight. husband, husband, there is never a woman in the neighbourhood but marvels and mocks at me, that i am at such labour and pains; and thou comest home to me with thy hands hanging idle, when thou shouldst be at work." which said, she fell a weeping and repeating:--"alas, alas, woe 's me, in what evil hour was i born? in what luckless moment came i hither, i, that might have had so goodly a young man, and i would not, to take up with one that bestows never a thought on her whom he has made his wife? other women have a good time with their lovers, and never a one have we here but has two or three; they take their pleasure, and make their husbands believe that the moon is the sun; and i, alas! for that i am an honest woman, and have no such casual amours, i suffer, and am hard bested. i know not why i provide not myself with one of these lovers, as others do. give good heed, husband, to what i say: were i disposed to dishonour thee, i were at no loss to find the man: for here are gallants enough, that love me, and court me, and have sent me many an offer of money--no stint--or dresses or jewels, should i prefer them; but my pride would never suffer it, because i was not born of a woman of that sort: and now thou comest home to me when thou oughtest to be at work." whereto the husband:--"wife, wife, for god's sake distress not thyself: thou shouldst give me credit for knowing what manner of woman thou art, as indeed i have partly seen this morning. true it is that i went out to work; but 'tis plain that thou knowest not, as indeed i knew not, that to-day 'tis the feast of san galeone, and a holiday, and that is why i am come home at this hour; but nevertheless i have found means to provide us with bread for more than a month; for i have sold to this gentleman, whom thou seest with me, the tun, thou wottest of, seeing that it has encumbered the house so long, and he will give me five gigliats for it." quoth then peronella:--"and all this but adds to my trouble: thou, that art a man, and goest abroad, and shouldst know affairs, hast sold for five gigliats a tun, which i, that am but a woman, and was scarce ever out of doors, have, for that it took up so much room in the house, sold for seven gigliats to a good man, that but now, as thou cam'st back, got therein, to see if 'twere sound." so hearing, the husband was overjoyed, and said to the man that was come to take it away:--"good man, i wish thee godspeed; for, as thou hearest, my wife has sold the tun for seven gigliats, whereas thou gavest me only five." whereupon:--"so be it," said the good man, and took himself off. then said peronella to her husband:--"now, as thou art here, come up, and arrange the matter with the good man." now giannello, who, meanwhile, had been all on the alert to discover if there were aught he had to fear or be on his guard against, no sooner heard peronella's last words, than he sprang out of the tun, and feigning to know nought of her husband's return, began thus:--"where art thou, good dame?" whereto the husband, coming up, answered:--"here am i: what wouldst thou of me?" quoth giannello:--"and who art thou? i would speak with the lady with whom i struck the bargain for this tun." then said the good man:--"have no fear, you can deal with me; for i am her husband." quoth then giannello:--"the tun seems to me sound enough; but i think you must have let the lees remain in it; for 'tis all encrusted with i know not what that is so dry, that i cannot raise it with the nail; wherefore i am not minded to take it unless i first see it scoured." whereupon peronella:--"to be sure: that shall not hinder the bargain; my husband will scour it clean." and:--"well and good," said the husband. so he laid down his tools, stripped himself to his vest, sent for a light and a rasp, and was in the tun, and scraping away, in a trice. whereupon peronella, as if she were curious to see what he did, thrust her head into the vent of the tun, which was of no great size, and therewithal one of her arms up to the shoulder, and fell a saying:--"scrape here, and here, and there too, and look, there is a bit left here." so, she being in this posture, directing and admonishing her husband, giannello, who had not, that morning, fully satisfied his desire, when the husband arrived, now seeing that as he would, he might not, brought his mind to his circumstances, and resolved to take his pleasure as he might: wherefore he made up to the lady, who completely blocked the vent of the tun; and even on such wise as on the open champaign the wild and lusty horses do amorously assail the mares of parthia, he sated his youthful appetite; and so it was that almost at the same moment that he did so, and was off, the tun was scoured, the husband came forth of it, and peronella withdrew her head from the vent, and turning to giannello, said:--"take this light, good man, and see if 'tis scoured to thy mind." whereupon giannello, looking into the tun, said that 'twas in good trim, and that he was well content, and paid the husband the seven gigliats, and caused him carry the tun to his house. novel iii. -fra rinaldo lies with his gossip: her husband finds him in the room with her; and they make him believe that he was curing his godson of worms by a charm. -filostrato knew not how so to veil what he said touching the mares of parthia, but that the keen-witted ladies laughed thereat, making as if 'twas at somewhat else. however, his story being ended, the king called for one from elisa, who, all obedience, thus began:--debonair my ladies, we heard from emilia how the bogey is exorcised, and it brought to my mind a story of another incantation: 'tis not indeed so good a story as hers; but, as no other, germane to our theme, occurs to me at present, i will relate it. you are to know, then, that there dwelt aforetime at siena a young man, right gallant and of honourable family, his name rinaldo; who, being in the last degree enamoured of one of his neighbours, a most beautiful gentlewoman and the wife of a rich man, was not without hopes that, if he could but find means to speak with her privately, he might have of her all that he desired; but seeing no way, and the lady being pregnant, he cast about how he might become her child's godfather. wherefore, having ingratiated himself with her husband, he broached the matter to him in as graceful a manner as he might; and 'twas arranged. so rinaldo, being now godfather to madonna agnesa's child, and having a more colourable pretext for speaking to her, took courage, and told her in words that message of his heart which she had long before read in his eyes; but though 'twas not displeasing to the lady to hear, it availed him but little. now not long afterwards it so befell that, whatever may have been his reason, rinaldo betook him to friarage; and whether it was that he found good pasture therein, or what not, he persevered in that way of life. and though for a while after he was turned friar, he laid aside the love he bore his gossip, and certain other vanities, yet in course of time, without putting off the habit, he resumed them, and began to take a pride in his appearance, and to go dressed in fine clothes, and to be quite the trim gallant, and to compose songs and sonnets and ballades, and to sing them, and to make a brave shew in all else that pertained to his new character. but why enlarge upon our fra rinaldo, of whom we speak? what friars are there that do not the like? ah! opprobrium of a corrupt world! sleek-faced and sanguine, daintily clad, dainty in all their accessories, they ruffle it shamelessly before the eyes of all, shewing not as doves but as insolent cocks with raised crest and swelling bosom, and, what is worse (to say nought of the vases full of electuaries and unguents, the boxes packed with divers comfits, the pitchers and phials of artificial waters, and oils, the flagons brimming with malmsey and greek and other wines of finest quality, with which their cells are so packed that they shew not as the cells of friars, but rather as apothecaries' or perfumers' shops), they blush not to be known to be gouty, flattering themselves that other folk wot not that long fasts and many of them, and coarse fare and little of it, and sober living, make men lean and thin and for the most part healthy; or if any malady come thereof, at any rate 'tis not the gout, the wonted remedy for which is chastity and all beside that belongs to the regimen of a humble friar. they flatter themselves, too, that others wot not that over and above the meagre diet, long vigils and orisons and strict discipline ought to mortify men and make them pale, and that neither st. dominic nor st. francis went clad in stuff dyed in grain or any other goodly garb, but in coarse woollen habits innocent of the dyer's art, made to keep out the cold, and not for shew. to which matters 'twere well god had a care, no less than to the souls of the simple folk by whom our friars are nourished. fra rinaldo, then, being come back to his first affections, took to visiting his gossip very frequently; and gaining confidence, began with more insistence than before to solicit her to that which he craved of her. so, being much urged, the good lady, to whom fra rinaldo, perhaps, seemed now more handsome than of yore, had recourse one day, when she felt herself unusually hard pressed by him, to the common expedient of all that would fain concede what is asked of them, and said:--"oh! but fra rinaldo, do friars then do this sort of thing?" "madam," replied fra rinaldo, "when i divest myself of this habit, which i shall do easily enough, you will see that i am a man furnished as other men, and no friar." whereto with a truly comical air the lady made answer:--"alas! woe's me! you are my child's godfather: how might it be? nay, but 'twere a very great mischief; and many a time i have heard that 'tis a most heinous sin; and without a doubt, were it not so, i would do as you wish." "if," said fra rinaldo, "you forego it for such a scruple as this, you are a fool for your pains. i say not that 'tis no sin; but there is no sin so great but god pardons it, if one repent. now tell me: whether is more truly father to your son, i that held him at the font, or your husband that begot him?" "my husband," replied the lady. "sooth say you," returned the friar, "and does not your husband lie with you?" "why, yes," said the lady. "then," rejoined the friar, "i that am less truly your son's father than your husband, ought also to lie with you, as does your husband." the lady was no logician, and needed little to sway her: she therefore believed or feigned to believe that what the friar said was true. so:-"who might avail to answer your words of wisdom?" quoth she; and presently forgot the godfather in the lover, and complied with his desires. nor had they begun their course to end it forthwith: but under cover of the friar's sponsorship, which set them more at ease, as it rendered them less open to suspicion, they forgathered again and again. but on one of these occasions it so befell that fra rinaldo, being come to the lady's house, where he espied none else save a very pretty and dainty little maid that waited on the lady, sent his companion away with her into the pigeon-house, there to teach her the paternoster, while he and the lady, holding her little boy by the hand, went into the bedroom, locked themselves in, got them on to a divan that was there, and began to disport them. and while thus they sped the time, it chanced that the father returned, and, before any was ware of him, was at the bedroom door, and knocked, and called the lady by her name. whereupon:--"'tis as much as my life is worth," quoth madonna agnesa; "lo, here is my husband; and the occasion of our intimacy cannot but be now apparent to him." "sooth say you," returned fra rinaldo, who was undressed, that is to say, had thrown off his habit and hood, and was in his tunic; "if i had but my habit and hood on me in any sort, 'twould be another matter; but if you let him in, and he find me thus, 'twill not be possible to put any face on it." but with an inspiration as happy as sudden:--"now get them on you," quoth the lady; "and when you have them on, take your godson in your arms, and give good heed to what i shall say to him, that your words may accord with mine; and leave the rest to me." the good man was still knocking, when his wife made answer:-"coming, coming." and so up she got, and put on a cheerful countenance and hied her to the door, and opened it and said:--"husband mine: well indeed was it for us that in came fra rinaldo, our sponsor; 'twas god that sent him to us; for in sooth, but for that, we had to-day lost our boy." which the poor simpleton almost swooned to hear; and:--"how so?" quoth he. "o husband mine," replied the lady, "he was taken but now, all of a sudden, with a fainting fit, so that i thought he was dead: and what to do or say i knew not, had not fra rinaldo, our sponsor, come just in the nick of time, and set him on his shoulder, and said:--'gossip, 'tis that he has worms in his body, and getting, as they do, about the heart, they might only too readily be the death of him; but fear not; i will say a charm that will kill them all; and before i take my leave, you will see your boy as whole as you ever saw him.' and because to say certain of the prayers thou shouldst have been with us, and the maid knew not where to find thee, he caused his companion to say them at the top of the house, and he and i came in here. and for that 'tis not meet for any but the boy's mother to assist at such a service, that we might not be troubled with any one else, we locked the door; and he yet has him in his arms; and i doubt not that he only waits till his companion have said his prayers, and then the charm will be complete; for the boy is already quite himself again." the good simple soul, taking all this for sooth, and overwrought by the love he bore his son, was entirely without suspicion of the trick his wife was playing him, and heaving a great sigh, said:--"i will go look for him." "nay," replied the wife, "go not: thou wouldst spoil the efficacy of the charm: wait here; i will go see if thou mayst safely go; and will call thee." whereupon fra rinaldo, who had heard all that passed, and was in his canonicals, and quite at his ease, and had the boy in his arms, having made sure that all was as it should be, cried out:--"gossip, do i not hear the father's voice out there?" "ay indeed, sir," replied the simpleton. "come in then," said fra rinaldo. so in came the simpleton. whereupon quoth fra rinaldo:--"i restore to you your boy made whole by the grace of god, whom but now i scarce thought you would see alive at vespers. you will do well to have his image fashioned in wax, not less than life-size, and set it for a thanksgiving to god, before the statue of master st. ambrose, by whose merits you have this favour of god." the boy, catching sight of his father, ran to him with joyous greetings, as little children are wont; and the father, taking him in his arms, and weeping as if he were restored to him from the grave, fell by turns a kissing him and thanking his godfather, that he had cured him. fra rinaldo's companion, who had taught the maid not one paternoster only, but peradventure four or more, and by giving her a little purse of white thread that a nun had given him, had made her his devotee, no sooner heard fra rinaldo call the simpleton into his wife's room, than he stealthily got him to a place whence he might see and hear what was going on. observing that the affair was now excellently arranged, he came down, and entered the chamber, saying:--"fra rinaldo, those four prayers that you bade me say, i have said them all." "then well done, my brother," quoth fra rinaldo, "well-breathed must thou be. for my part, i had but said two, when my gossip came in; but what with thy travail and mine, god of his grace has vouchsafed-us the healing or the boy." the simpleton then had good wine and comfits brought in, and did the honours to the godfather and his companion in such sort as their occasions did most demand. he then ushered them forth of the house, commending them to god; and without delay had the waxen image made, and directed it to be set up with the others in front of the statue of st. ambrose, not, be it understood, st. ambrose of milan.(1) (1) the statue would doubtless be that of st. ambrose of siena, of the dominican order. novel iv. -tofano one night locks his wife out of the house: she, finding that by no entreaties may she prevail upon him to let her in, feigns to throw herself into a well, throwing therein a great stone. tofano hies him forth of the house, and runs to the spot: she goes into the house, and locks him out, and hurls abuse at him from within. -the king no sooner wist that elisa's story was ended, than, turning to lauretta, he signified his will that she should tell somewhat: wherefore without delay she began:--o love, how great and signal is thy potency! how notable thy stratagems, thy devices! was there ever, shall there ever be, philosopher or adept competent to inspire, counsel and teach in such sort as thou by thine unpremeditated art dost tutor those that follow thy lead? verily laggard teachers are they all in comparison of thee, as by the matters heretofore set forth may very well be understood. to which store i will add, loving ladies, a stratagem used by a woman of quite ordinary understanding, and of such a sort that i know not by whom she could have been taught it save by love. know, then, that there dwelt aforetime at arezzo a rich man, tofano by name, who took to wife monna ghita, a lady exceeding fair, of whom, for what cause he knew not, he presently grew jealous. whereof the lady being ware, waxed resentful, and having on divers occasions demanded of him the reason of his jealousy, and gotten from him nought precise, but only generalities and trivialities, resolved at last to give him cause enough to die of that evil which without cause he so much dreaded. and being ware that a gallant, whom she deemed well worthy of her, was enamoured of her, she, using due discretion, came to an understanding with him; which being brought to the point that it only remained to give effect to their words in act, the lady cast about to devise how this might be. and witting that, among other bad habits that her husband had, he was too fond of his cups, she would not only commend indulgence, but cunningly and not seldom incite him thereto; insomuch that, well-nigh as often as she was so minded, she led him to drink to excess; and when she saw that he was well drunken, she would put him to bed; and so not once only but divers times without any manner of risk she forgathered with her lover; nay, presuming upon her husband's intoxication, she grew so bold that, not content with bringing her lover into her house, she would at times go spend a great part of the night with him at his house, which was not far off. now such being the enamoured lady's constant practice, it so befell that the dishonoured husband took note that, while she egged him on to drink, she herself drank never a drop; whereby he came to suspect the truth, to wit, that the lady was making him drunk, that afterwards she might take her pleasure while he slept. and being minded to put his surmise to the proof, one evening, having drunken nought all day, he mimicked never so drunken a sot both in speech and in carriage. the lady, deeming him to be really as he appeared, and that 'twas needless to ply him with liquor, presently put him to bed. which done, she, as she at times was wont, hied her forth to her lover's house, where she tarried until midnight. tofano no sooner perceived that his wife was gone, than up he got, hied him to the door, locked it, and then posted himself at the window to observe her return, and let her know that he was ware of her misconduct. so there he stood until the lady returned, and finding herself locked out, was annoyed beyond measure, and sought to force the door open. tofano let her try her strength upon it a while, and then:--"madam," quoth he, "'tis all to no purpose: thou canst not get in. go get thee back thither where thou hast tarried all this while, and rest assured that thou shalt never recross this threshold, until i have done thee such honour as is meet for thee in the presence of thy kinsfolk and neighbours." thereupon the lady fell entreating him to be pleased to open to her for the love of god, for that she was not come whence he supposed, but had only been passing the time with one of her gossips, because the nights were long, and she could not spend the whole time either in sleep or in solitary watching. but her supplications availed her nothing, for the fool was determined that all arezzo should know their shame, whereof as yet none wist aught. so as 'twas idle to entreat, the lady assumed a menacing tone, saying:--"so thou open not to me, i will make thee the saddest man alive." whereto tofano made answer:--"and what then canst thou do?" the lady, her wits sharpened by love, rejoined:--"rather than endure the indignity to which thou wouldst unjustly subject me, i will cast myself into the well hard by here, and when i am found dead there, all the world will believe that 'twas thou that didst it in thy cups, and so thou wilt either have to flee and lose all that thou hast and be outlawed, or forfeit thy head as guilty of my death, as indeed thou wilt be." but, for all she said, tofano wavered not a jot in his foolish purpose. so at last:--"lo, now," quoth the lady, "i can no more abide thy surly humour: god forgive thee: i leave thee my distaff here, which be careful to bestow in a safe place." so saying, away she hied her to the well, and, the night being so dark that wayfarers could scarce see one another as they passed, she took up a huge stone that was by the well, and ejaculating, "god forgive me!" dropped it therein. tofano, hearing the mighty splash that the stone made as it struck the water, never doubted that she had cast herself in: so, bucket and rope in hand, he flung himself out of the house, and came running to the well to her rescue. the lady had meanwhile hidden herself hard by the door, and seeing him make for the well, was in the house in a trice, and having locked the door, hied her to the window, and greeted him with:--"'tis while thou art drinking, not now, when the night is far spent, that thou shouldst temper thy wine with water." thus derided, tofano came back to the door, and finding his ingress barred, began adjuring her to let him in. whereupon, changing the low tone she had hitherto used for one so shrill that 'twas well-nigh a shriek, she broke out with:--"by the holy rood, tedious drunken sot that thou art, thou gettest no admittance here to-night; thy ways are more than i can endure: 'tis time i let all the world know what manner of man thou art, and at what hour of the night thou comest home." tofano, on his part, now grew angry, and began loudly to upbraid her; insomuch that the neighbours, aroused by the noise, got up, men and women alike, and looked out of the windows, and asked what was the matter. whereupon the lady fell a weeping and saying:--"'tis this wicked man, who comes home drunk at even, or falls asleep in some tavern, and then returns at this hour. long and to no purpose have i borne with him; but 'tis now past endurance, and i have done him this indignity of locking him out of the house in the hope that perchance it may cause him to mend his ways." tofano, on his part, told, dolt that he was, just what had happened, and was mighty menacing. whereupon:--"now mark," quoth the lady to the neighbours, "the sort of man he is! what would you say if i were, as he is, in the street, and he were in the house, as i am? god's faith, i doubt you would believe what he said. hereby you may gauge his sense. he tells you that i have done just what, i doubt not, he has done himself. he thought to terrify me by throwing i know not what into the well, wherein would to god he had thrown himself indeed, and drowned himself, whereby the wine of which he has taken more than enough, had been watered to some purpose!" the neighbours, men and women alike, now with one accord gave tongue, censuring tofano, throwing all the blame upon him, and answering what he alleged against the lady with loud recrimination; and in short the bruit, passing from neighbour to neighbour, reached at last the ears of the lady's kinsfolk; who hied them to the spot, and being apprised of the affair from this, that and the other of the neighbours, laid hands on tofano, and beat him till he was black and blue from head to foot. which done, they entered his house, stripped it of all that belonged to the lady, and took her home with them, bidding tofano look for worse to come. thus hard bested, and ruing the plight in which his jealousy had landed him, tofano, who loved his wife with all his heart, set some friends to work to patch matters up, whereby he did in fact induce his lady to forgive him and live with him again, albeit he was fain to promise her never again to be jealous, and to give her leave to amuse herself to her heart's content, provided she used such discretion that he should not be ware of it. on such wise, like the churl and booby that he was, being despoiled, he made terms. now long live love, and perish war, and all that wage it! novel v. -a jealous husband disguises himself as a priest, and hears his own wife's confession: she tells him that she loves a priest, who comes to her every night. the husband posts himself at the door to watch for the priest, and meanwhile the lady brings her lover in by the roof, and tarries with him. -when lauretta had done speaking, and all had commended the lady, for that she had done well, and treated her caitiff husband as he had deserved, the king, not to lose time, turned to fiammetta, and graciously bade her take up her parable; which she did on this wise:--most noble ladies, the foregoing story prompts me likewise to discourse of one of these jealous husbands, deeming that they are justly requited by their wives, more especially when they grow jealous without due cause. and had our legislators taken account of everything, i am of opinion that they would have visited ladies in such a case with no other penalty than such as they provide for those that offend in self-defence, seeing that a jealous husband does cunningly practise against the life of his lady, and most assiduously machinate her death. all the week the wife stays at home, occupied with her domestic duties; after which, on the day that is sacred to joy, she, like every one else, craves some solace, some peace, some recreation, not unreasonably, for she craves but what the husbandmen take in the fields, the craftsmen in the city, the magistrates in the courts, nay what god himself took, when he rested from all his labours on the seventh day, and which laws human and divine, mindful alike of the honour of god and the common well-being, have ordained, appropriating certain days to work, and others to repose. to which ordinance these jealous husbands will in no wise conform; on the contrary by then most sedulously secluding their wives, they make those days which to all other women are gladsome, to them most grievous and dolorous. and what an affliction it is to the poor creatures, they alone know, who have proved it; for which reason, to sum up, i say that a wife is rather to be commended than censured, if she take her revenge upon a husband that is jealous without cause. know then that at rimini there dwelt a merchant, a man of great substance in lands and goods and money, who, having a most beautiful woman to wife, waxed inordinately jealous of her, and that for no better reason than that, loving her greatly, and esteeming her exceeding fair, and knowing that she did her utmost endeavour to pleasure him, he must needs suppose that every man loved her, and esteemed her fair, and that she, moreover, was as zealous to stand well with every other man as with himself; whereby you may see that he was a poor creature, and of little sense. being thus so deeply infected with jealousy, he kept so strict and close watch over her, that some, maybe, have lain under sentence of death and been less rigorously confined by their warders. 'twas not merely that the lady might not go to a wedding, or a festal gathering, or even to church, or indeed set foot out of doors in any sort; but she dared not so much as shew herself at a window, or cast a glance outside the house, no matter for what purpose. wherefore she led a most woeful life of it, and found it all the harder to bear because she knew herself to be innocent. accordingly, seeing herself evilly entreated by her husband without good cause, she cast about how for her own consolation she might devise means to justify his usage of her. and for that, as she might not shew herself at the window, there could be no interchange of amorous glances between her and any man that passed along the street, but she wist that in the next house there was a goodly and debonair gallant, she bethought her, that, if there were but a hole in the wall that divided the two houses, she might watch thereat, until she should have sight of the gallant on such wise that she might speak to him, and give him her love, if he cared to have it, and, if so it might be contrived, forgather with him now and again, and after this fashion relieve the burden of her woeful life, until such time as the evil spirit should depart from her husband. so peering about, now here, now there, when her husband was away, she found in a very remote part of the house a place, where, by chance, the wall had a little chink in it. peering through which, she made out, though not without great difficulty, that on the other side was a room, and said to herself:--if this were filippo's room--filippo was the name of the gallant, her neighbour--i should be already halfway to my goal. so cautiously, through her maid, who was grieved to see her thus languish, she made quest, and discovered that it was indeed the gallant's room, where he slept quite alone. wherefore she now betook her frequently to the aperture, and whenever she was ware that the gallant was in the room, she would let fall a pebble or the like trifle; whereby at length she brought the gallant to the other side of the aperture to see what the matter was. whereupon she softly called him, and he knowing her voice, answered; and so, having now the opportunity she had sought, she in few words opened to him all her mind. the gallant, being overjoyed, wrought at the aperture on such wise that albeit none might be ware thereof, he enlarged it; and there many a time they held converse together, and touched hands, though further they might not go by reason of the assiduous watch that the jealous husband kept. now towards christmas the lady told her husband that, if he approved, she would fain go on christmas morning to church, and confess and communicate, like other christians. "and what sins," quoth he, "hast thou committed, that wouldst be shriven?" "how?" returned the lady; "dost thou take me for a saint? for all thou keepest me so close, thou must know very well that i am like all other mortals. however, i am not minded to confess to thee, for that thou art no priest." her husband, whose suspicions were excited by what she had said, cast about how he might discover these sins of hers, and having bethought him of what seemed an apt expedient, made answer that she had his consent, but he would not have her go to any church but their own chapel, where she might hie her betimes in the morning, and confess either to their own chaplain or some other priest that the chaplain might assign her, but to none other, and presently return to the house. the lady thought she half understood him, but she answered only that she would do as he required. christmas morning came, and with the dawn the lady rose, dressed herself, and hied her to the church appointed by her husband, who also rose, and hied him to the same church, where he arrived before her; and having already concerted matters with the priest that was in charge, he forthwith put on one of the priest's robes with a great hood, overshadowing the face, such as we see priests wear, and which he pulled somewhat forward; and so disguised he seated himself in the choir. on entering the church the lady asked for the priest, who came, and learning that she was minded to confess, said that he could not hear her himself, but would send her one of his brethren; so away he hied him and sent her, in an evil hour for him, her husband. for though he wore an air of great solemnity, and 'twas not yet broad day, and he had pulled the hood well over his eyes, yet all did not avail, but that his lady forthwith recognized him, and said to herself:--god be praised! why, the jealous rogue is turned priest: but leave it me to give him that whereof he is in quest. so she feigned not to know him, and seated herself at his feet. (i should tell you that he had put some pebbles in his mouth, that his speech, being impeded, might not betray him to his wife, and in all other respects he deemed himself so thoroughly disguised that there was nought whereby she might recognize him.) now, to come to the confession, the lady, after informing him that she was married, told him among other matters that she was enamoured of a priest, who came every night to lie with her. which to hear was to her husband as if he were stricken through the heart with a knife; and had it not been that he was bent on knowing more, he would have forthwith given over the confession, and taken himself off. however he kept his place, and:--"how?" said he to the lady, "does not your husband lie with you?" the lady replied in the affirmative. "how, then," quoth the husband, "can the priest also lie with you?" "sir," replied she, "what art the priest employs i know not; but door there is none, however well locked, in the house, that comes not open at his touch; and he tells me that, being come to the door of my room, before he opens it, he says certain words, whereby my husband forthwith falls asleep; whereupon he opens the door, and enters the room, and lies with me; and so 'tis always, without fail." "then 'tis very wrong, madam, and you must give it up altogether," said the husband. "that, sir," returned the lady, "i doubt i can never do; for i love him too much." "in that case," quoth the husband, "i cannot give you absolution." "the pity of it!" ejaculated the lady; "i came not hither to tell you falsehoods: if i could give it up, i would." "madam," replied the husband, "indeed i am sorry for you; for i see that you are in a fair way to lose your soul. however, this i will do for you; i will make special supplication to god on your behalf; and perchance you may be profited thereby. and from time to time i will send you one of my young clerks; and you will tell him whether my prayers have been of any help to you, or no, and if they have been so, i shall know what to do next." "nay, sir," quoth the lady, "do not so; send no man to me at home; for, should my husband come to know it, he is so jealous that nothing in the world would ever disabuse him of the idea that he came but for an evil purpose, and so i should have no peace with him all the year long." madam, returned the husband, "have no fear; rest assured that i will so order matters that you shall never hear a word about it from him." "if you can make sure of that," quoth the lady, "i have no more to say." and so, her confession ended, and her penance enjoined, she rose, and went to mass, while the luckless husband, fuming and fretting, hasted to divest himself of his priest's trappings, and then went home bent upon devising some means to bring the priest and his wife together, and take his revenge upon them both. when the lady came home from church she read in her husband's face that she had spoiled his christmas for him, albeit he dissembled to the uttermost, lest she should discover what he had done, and supposed himself to have learned. his mind was made up to keep watch for the priest that very night by his own front door. so to the lady he said:--"i have to go out to-night to sup and sleep; so thou wilt take care that the front door, and the mid-stair door, and the bedroom door are well locked; and for the rest thou mayst go to bed, at thine own time." "well and good," replied the lady: and as soon as she was able, off she hied her to the aperture, and gave the wonted signal, which filippo no sooner heard, than he was at the spot. the lady then told him what she had done in the morning, and what her husband had said to her after breakfast, adding:--"sure i am that he will not stir out of the house, but will keep watch beside the door; wherefore contrive to come in to-night by the roof, that we may be together." "madam," replied the gallant, nothing loath, "trust me for that." night came, the husband armed, and noiselessly hid himself in a room on the ground floor: the lady locked all the doors, being especially careful to secure the mid-stair door, to bar her husband's ascent; and in due time the gallant, having found his way cautiously enough over the roof, they got them to bed, and there had solace of one another and a good time; and at daybreak the gallant hied him back to his house. meanwhile the husband, rueful and supperless, half dead with cold, kept his armed watch beside his door, momently expecting the priest, for the best part of the night; but towards daybreak, his powers failing him, he lay down and slept in the ground-floor room. 'twas hard upon tierce when he awoke, and the front door was then open; so, making as if he had just come in, he went upstairs and breakfasted. not long afterwards he sent to his wife a young fellow, disguised as the priest's underling, who asked her if he of whom she wist had been with her again. the lady, who quite understood what that meant, made answer that he had not come that night, and that, if he continued to neglect her so, 'twas possible he might be forgotten, though she had no mind to forget him. now, to make a long story short, the husband passed many a night in the same way, hoping to catch the priest as he came in, the lady and her gallant meanwhile having a good time. but at last the husband, being able to stand it no longer, sternly demanded of his wife what she had said to the priest the morning when she was confessed. the lady answered that she was not minded to tell him, for that 'twas not seemly or proper so to do. whereupon:--"sinful woman," quoth the husband, "in thy despite i know what thou saidst to him, and know i must and will who this priest is, of whom thou art enamoured, and who by dint of his incantations lies with thee a nights, or i will sluice thy veins for thee." "'tis not true," replied the lady, "that i am enamoured of a priest." "how?" quoth the husband, "saidst thou not as much to the priest that confessed thee?" "thou canst not have had it from him," rejoined the lady. "wast thou then present thyself? for sure i never told him so." "then tell me," quoth the husband, "who this priest is; and lose no time about it." whereat the lady began to smile, and:--"i find it not a little diverting," quoth she, "that a wise man should suffer himself to be led by a simple woman as a ram is led by the horns to the shambles; albeit no wise man art thou: not since that fatal hour when thou gavest harbourage in thy breast, thou wist not why, to the evil spirit of jealousy; and the more foolish and insensate thou art, the less glory have i. deemest thou, my husband, that i am as blind of the bodily eye as thou art of the mind's eye? nay, but for sure i am not so. i knew at a glance the priest that confessed me, and that 'twas even thyself. but i was minded to give thee that of which thou wast in quest, and i gave it thee. howbeit, if thou hadst been the wise man thou takest thyself to be, thou wouldst not have chosen such a way as that to worm out thy good lady's secrets, nor wouldst thou have fallen a prey to a baseless suspicion, but wouldst have understood that what she confessed was true, and she all the while guiltless. i told thee that i loved a priest; and wast not thou, whom i love, though ill enough dost thou deserve it, turned priest? i told thee that there was no door in my house but would open when he was minded to lie with me: and when thou wouldst fain have access to me, what door was ever closed against thee? i told thee that the priest lay nightly with me: and what night was there that thou didst not lie with me? thou sentest thy young clerk to me: and thou knowest that, as often as thou hadst not been with me, i sent word that the priest had not been with me. who but thou, that hast suffered jealousy to blind thee, would have been so witless as not to read such a riddle? but thou must needs mount guard at night beside the door, and think to make me believe that thou hadst gone out to sup and sleep. consider thy ways, and court not the mockery of those that know them as i do, but turn a man again as thou wast wont to be: and let there be no more of this strict restraint in which thou keepest me; for i swear to thee by god that, if i were minded to set horns on thy brow, i should not fail so to take my pastime that thou wouldst never find it out, though thou hadst a hundred eyes, as thou hast but two." thus admonished, the jealous caitiff, who had flattered himself that he had very cunningly discovered his wife's secret, was ashamed, and made no answer save to commend his wife's wit and honour; and thus, having cause for jealousy, he discarded it, as he had erstwhile been jealous without cause. and so the adroit lady had, as it were, a charter of indulgence, and needed no more to contrive for her lover to come to her over the roof like a cat, but admitted him by the door, and using due discretion, had many a good time with him, and sped her life gaily. novel vi. -madonna isabella has with her leonetto, her accepted lover, when she is surprised by one messer lambertuccio, by whom she is beloved: her husband coming home about the same time, she sends messer lambertuccio forth of the house drawn sword in hand, and the husband afterwards escorts leonetto home. -wondrous was the delight that all the company had of fiammetta's story, nor was there any but affirmed that the lady had done excellent well, and dealt with her insensate husband as he deserved. however, it being ended, the king bade pampinea follow suit; which she did on this wise:--not a few there are that in their simplicity aver that love deranges the mind, insomuch that whoso loves becomes as it were witless: the folly of which opinion, albeit i doubt it not, and deem it abundantly proven by what has been already said, i purpose once again to demonstrate. in our city, rich in all manner of good things, there dwelt a young gentlewoman, fair exceedingly, and wedded to a most worthy and excellent gentleman. and as it not seldom happens that one cannot keep ever to the same diet, but would fain at times vary it, so this lady, finding her husband not altogether to her mind, became enamoured of a gallant, leonetto by name, who, though of no high rank, was not a little debonair and courteous, and he in like manner fell in love with her; and (as you know that 'tis seldom that what is mutually desired fails to come about) 'twas not long before they had fruition of their love. now the lady being, as i said, fair and winsome, it so befell that a gentleman, messer lambertuccio by name, grew mightily enamoured of her, but so tiresome and odious did she find him, that for the world she could not bring herself to love him. so, growing tired of fruitlessly soliciting her favour by ambassage, messer lambertuccio, who was a powerful signior, sent her at last another sort of message in which he threatened to defame her if she complied not with his wishes. wherefore the lady, knowing her man, was terrified, and disposed herself to pleasure him. now it so chanced that madonna isabella, for such was the lady's name, being gone, as is our florentine custom in the summer, to spend some time on a very goodly estate that she had in the contado, one morning finding herself alone, for her husband had ridden off to tarry some days elsewhere, she sent for leonetto to come and keep her company; and leonetto came forthwith in high glee. but while they were together, messer lambertuccio, who, having got wind that the husband was away, had mounted his horse and ridden thither quite alone, knocked at the door. whereupon the lady's maid hied her forthwith to her mistress, who was alone with leonetto, and called her, saying:--"madam, messer lambertuccio is here below, quite alone." whereat the lady was vexed beyond measure; and being also not a little dismayed, she said to leonetto:--"prithee, let it not irk thee to withdraw behind the curtain, and there keep close until messer lambertuccio be gone." leonetto, who stood in no less fear of messer lambertuccio than did the lady, got into his hiding-place; and the lady bade the maid go open to messer lambertuccio: she did so; and having dismounted and fastened his palfrey to a pin, he ascended the stairs; at the head of which the lady received him with a smile and as gladsome a greeting as she could find words for, and asked him on what errand he was come. the gentleman embraced and kissed her, saying:--"my soul, i am informed that your husband is not here, and therefore i am come to stay a while with you." which said, they went into the room, and locked them in, and messer lambertuccio fell a toying with her. now, while thus he sped the time with her, it befell that the lady's husband, albeit she nowise expected him, came home, and, as he drew nigh the palace, was observed by the maid, who forthwith ran to the lady's chamber, and said:--"madam, the master will be here anon; i doubt he is already in the courtyard." whereupon, for that she had two men in the house, and the knight's palfrey, that was in the courtyard, made it impossible to hide him, the lady gave herself up for dead. nevertheless she made up her mind on the spur of the moment, and springing out of bed "sir," quoth she to messer lambertuccio, "if you have any regard for me, and would save my life, you will do as i bid you: that is to say, you will draw your blade, and put on a fell and wrathful countenance, and hie you downstairs, saying:--'by god, he shall not escape me elsewhere.' and if my husband would stop you, or ask you aught, say nought but what i have told you, and get you on horseback and tarry with him on no account." "to hear is to obey," quoth messer lambertuccio, who, with the flush of his recent exertion and the rage that he felt at the husband's return still on his face, and drawn sword in hand, did as she bade him. the lady's husband, being now dismounted in the courtyard, and not a little surprised to see the palfrey there, was about to go up the stairs, when he saw messer lambertuccio coming down them, and marvelling both at his words and at his mien:--"what means this, sir?" quoth he. but messer lambertuccio clapped foot in stirrup, and mounted, saying nought but:--"zounds, but i will meet him elsewhere;" and so he rode off. the gentleman then ascended the stairs, at the head of which he found his lady distraught with terror, to whom he said:--"what manner of thing is this? after whom goes messer lambertuccio, so wrathful and menacing?" whereto the lady, drawing nigher the room, that leonetto might hear her, made answer:--"never, sir, had i such a fright as this. there came running in here a young man, who to me is quite a stranger, and at his heels messer lambertuccio with a drawn sword in his hand; and as it happened the young man found the door of this room open, and trembling in every limb, cried out:--'madam, your succour, for god's sake, that i die not in your arms.' so up i got, and would have asked him who he was, and how bested, when up came messer lambertuccio, exclaiming:--'where art thou, traitor?' i planted myself in the doorway, and kept him from entering, and seeing that i was not minded to give him admittance, he was courteous enough, after not a little parley, to take himself off, as you saw." whereupon:--"wife," quoth the husband, "thou didst very right. great indeed had been the scandal, had some one been slain here, and 'twas a gross affront on messer lambertuccio's part to pursue a fugitive within the house." he then asked where the young man was. whereto the lady answered:--"nay, where he may be hiding, sir, i wot not." so:--"where art thou?" quoth the knight. "fear not to shew thyself." then forth of his hiding-place, all of a tremble, for in truth he had been thoroughly terrified, crept leonetto, who had heard all that had passed. to whom:--"what hast thou to do with messer lambertuccio?" quoth the knight. "nothing in the world," replied the young man: "wherefore, i doubt he must either be out of his mind, or have mistaken me for another; for no sooner had he sight of me in the street hard by the palace, than he laid his hand on his sword, and exclaimed:--'traitor, thou art a dead man.' whereupon i sought not to know why, but fled with all speed, and got me here, and so, thanks to god and this gentlewoman, i escaped his hands." "now away with thy fears," quoth the knight; "i will see thee home safe and sound; and then 'twill be for thee to determine how thou shalt deal with him." and so, when they had supped, he set him on horseback, and escorted him to florence, and left him not until he was safe in his own house. and the very same evening, following the lady's instructions, leonetto spoke privily with messer lambertuccio, and so composed the affair with him, that, though it occasioned not a little talk, the knight never wist how he had been tricked by his wife. novel vii. -lodovico discovers to madonna beatrice the love that he bears her: she sends egano, her husband, into a garden disguised as herself, and lies with lodovico; who thereafter, being risen, hies him to the garden and cudgels egano. -this device of madonna isabella, thus recounted by pampinea, was held nothing short of marvellous by all the company. but, being bidden by the king to tell the next story, thus spake filomena:--loving ladies, if i mistake not, the device, of which you shall presently hear from me, will prove to be no less excellent than the last. you are to know, then, that there dwelt aforetime at paris a florentine gentleman, who, being by reason of poverty turned merchant, had prospered so well in his affairs that he was become very wealthy; and having by his lady an only son, lodovico by name, whose nobility disrelished trade, he would not put him in any shop; but that he might be with other gentlemen, he caused him to enter the service of the king of france, whereby he acquired very fine manners and other accomplishments. being in this service, lodovico was one day with some other young gallants that talked of the fair ladies of france, and england, and other parts of the world, when they were joined by certain knights that were returned from the holy sepulchre; and hearing their discourse, one of the knights fell a saying, that of a surety in the whole world, so far as he had explored it, there was not any lady, of all that he had ever seen, that might compare for beauty with madonna beatrice, the wife of egano de' galluzzi, of bologna: wherein all his companions, who in common with him had seen the lady at bologna, concurred. which report lodovico, who was as yet fancy-free, no sooner heard, than he burned with such a yearning to see the lady that he was able to think of nought else: insomuch that he made up his mind to betake him to bologna to see her, and if she pleased him, to remain there; to which end he gave his father to understand that he would fain visit the holy sepulchre, whereto his father after no little demur consented. so to bologna anichino--for so he now called himself--came; and, as fortune would have it, the very next day, he saw the lady at a festal gathering, and deemed her vastly more beautiful than he had expected: wherefore he waxed most ardently enamoured of her, and resolved never to quit bologna, until he had gained her love. so, casting about how he should proceed, he could devise no other way but to enter her husband's service, which was the more easy that he kept not a few retainers: on this wise lodovico surmised that, peradventure, he might compass his end. he therefore sold his horses and meetly bestowed his servants, bidding them make as if they knew him not; and being pretty familiar with his host, he told him that he was minded to take service with some worthy lord, it any such he might find. "thou wouldst make," quoth the host, "the very sort of retainer to suit a gentleman of this city, egano by name, who keeps not a few of them, and will have all of them presentable like thee: i will mention the matter to him." and so he accordingly did, and before he took leave of egano had placed anichino with him, to egano's complete satisfaction. being thus resident with egano, and having abundant opportunities of seeing the fair lady, anichino set himself to serve egano with no little zeal; wherein he succeeded so well, that egano was more than satisfied, insomuch that by and by there was nought he could do without his advice, and he entrusted to him the guidance not only of himself, but of all his affairs. now it so befell that one day when egano was gone a hawking, having left anichino at home, madonna beatrice, who as yet wist not of his love, albeit she had from time to time taken note of him and his manners, and had not a little approved and commended them, sat herself down with him to a game of chess, which, to please her, anichino most dexterously contrived to lose, to the lady's prodigious delight. after a while, the lady's women, one and all, gave over watching their play, and left them to it; whereupon anichino heaved a mighty sigh. the lady, looking hard at him, said:--"what ails thee, anichino? is it, then, such a mortification to thee to be conquered by me?" "nay, madam," replied anichino, "my sigh was prompted by a much graver matter." "then, if thou hast any regard for me," quoth the lady, "tell me what it is." hearing himself thus adjured by "any regard" he had for her whom he loved more than aught else, anichino heaved a yet mightier sigh, which caused the lady to renew her request that he would be pleased to tell her the occasion of his sighs. whereupon:--"madam," said anichino, "i greatly fear me, that, were i to tell it you, 'twould but vex you; and, moreover, i doubt you might repeat it to some one else." "rest assured," returned the lady, "that i shall neither be annoyed, nor, without thy leave, ever repeat to any other soul aught that thou mayst say." "then," said anichino, "having this pledge from you, i will tell it you." and, while the tears all but stood in his eyes, he told her, who he was, the report he had heard of her, and where and how he had become enamoured of her, and with what intent he had taken service with her husband: after which, he humbly besought her, that, if it might be, she would have pity on him, and gratify this his secret and ardent desire; and that, if she were not minded so to do, she would suffer him to retain his place there, and love her. ah! bologna! how sweetly mixed are the elements in thy women! how commendable in such a case are they all! no delight have they in sighs and tears, but are ever inclinable to prayers, and ready to yield to the solicitations of love. had i but words apt to praise them as they deserve, my eloquence were inexhaustible. the gentlewoman's gaze was fixed on anichino as he spoke; she made no doubt that all he said was true, and yielding to his appeal, she entertained his love within her heart in such measure that she too began to sigh, and after a sigh or two made answer:--"sweet my anichino, be of good cheer; neither presents nor promises, nor any courting by gentleman, or lord, or whoso else (for i have been and am still courted by not a few) was ever able to sway my soul to love any of them: but thou, by the few words that thou hast said, hast so wrought with me that, brief though the time has been, i am already in far greater measure thine than mine. my love i deem thee to have won right worthily; and so i give it thee, and vow to give thee joyance thereof before the coming night be past. to which end thou wilt come to my room about midnight; i will leave the door open; thou knowest the side of the bed on which i sleep; thou wilt come there; should i be asleep, thou hast but to touch me, and i shall awake, and give thee solace of thy long-pent desire. in earnest whereof i will even give thee a kiss." so saying, she threw her arms about his neck, and lovingly kissed him, as anichino her. their colloquy thus ended, anichino betook him elsewhere about some matters which he had to attend to, looking forward to midnight with boundless exultation. egano came in from his hawking; and after supper, being weary, went straight to bed, whither the lady soon followed him, leaving, as she had promised, the door of the chamber open. thither accordingly, at the appointed hour, came anichino, and having softly entered the chamber, and closed the door behind him, stole up to where the lady lay, and laying his hand upon her breast, found that she was awake. now, as soon as she wist that anichino was come, she took his hand in both her own; and keeping fast hold of him, she turned about in the bed, until she awoke egano; whereupon:--"husband," quoth she, "i would not say aught of this to thee, yestereve, because i judged thou wast weary; but tell me, upon thy hope of salvation, egano, whom deemest thou thy best and most loyal retainer, and the most attached to thee, of all that thou hast in the house?" "what a question is this, wife?" returned egano. "dost not know him? retainer i have none, nor ever had, so trusted, or loved, as anichino. but wherefore put such a question?" now, when anichino wist that egano was awake, and heard them talk of himself, he more than once tried to withdraw his hand, being mightily afraid lest the lady meant to play him false; but she held it so tightly that he might not get free, while thus she made answer to egano:--"i will tell thee what he is. i thought that he was all thou sayst, and that none was so loyal to thee as he, but he has undeceived me, for that yesterday, when thou wast out a hawking, he, being here, chose his time, and had the shamelessness to crave of me compliance with his wanton desires: and i, that i might not need other evidence than that of thine own senses to prove his guilt to thee, i made answer, that i was well content, and that to-night, after midnight, i would get me into the garden, and await him there at the foot of the pine. now go thither i shall certainly not; but, if thou wouldst prove the loyalty of thy retainer, thou canst readily do so, if thou but slip on one of my loose robes, and cover thy face with a veil, and go down and attend his coming, for come, i doubt not, he will." whereto egano:--"meet indeed it is," quoth he, "that i should go see;" and straightway up he got, and, as best he might in the dark, he put on one of the lady's loose robes and veiled his face, and then hied him to the garden, and sate down at the foot of the pine to await anichino. the lady no sooner wist that he was out of the room, than she rose, and locked the door. anichino, who had never been so terrified in all his life, and had struggled with all his might to disengage his hand from the lady's clasp, and had inwardly cursed her and his love, and himself for trusting her, a hundred thousand times, was overjoyed beyond measure at this last turn that she had given the affair. and so, the lady having got her to bed again, and he, at her bidding, having stripped and laid him down beside her, they had solace and joyance of one another for a good while. then, the lady, deeming it unmeet for anichino to tarry longer with her, caused him to get up and resume his clothes, saying to him:--"sweet my mouth, thou wilt take a stout cudgel, and get thee to the garden, and making as if i were there, and thy suit to me had been but to try me, thou wilt give egano a sound rating with thy tongue and a sound belabouring with thy cudgel, the sequel whereof will be wondrously gladsome and delightful." whereupon anichino hied him off to the garden, armed with a staff of wild willow; and as he drew nigh the pine, egano saw him, and rose and came forward to meet him as if he would receive him with the heartiest of cheer. but:--"ah! wicked woman!" quoth anichino; "so thou art come! thou didst verily believe, then, that i was, that i am, minded thus to wrong my lord? foul fall thee a thousand times!" and therewith he raised his cudgel, and began to lay about him. egano, however, had heard and seen enough, and without a word took to flight, while anichino pursued him, crying out:--"away with thee! god send thee a bad year, lewd woman that thou art; nor doubt that egano shall hear of this to-morrow." egano, having received sundry round knocks, got him back to his chamber with what speed he might; and being asked by the lady, whether anichino had come into the garden:--"would to god he had not!" quoth he, "for that, taking me for thee, he has beaten me black and blue with his cudgel, and rated me like the vilest woman that ever was: passing strange, indeed, it had seemed to me that he should have said those words to thee with intent to dishonour me; and now 'tis plain that 'twas but that, seeing thee so blithe and frolicsome, he was minded to prove thee." whereto:--"god be praised," returned the lady, "that he proved me by words, as thee by acts: and i doubt not he may say that i bear his words with more patience than thou his acts. but since he is so loyal to thee, we must make much of him and do him honour." "ay, indeed," quoth egano, "thou sayst sooth." thus was egano fortified in the belief that never had any gentleman wife so true, or retainer so loyal, as he; and many a hearty laugh had he with anichino and his lady over this affair, which to them was the occasion that, with far less let than might else have been, they were able to have solace and joyance of one another, so long as it pleased anichino to tarry at bologna. novel viii. -a husband grows jealous of his wife, and discovers that she has warning of her lover's approach by a piece of pack-thread, which she ties to her great toe a nights. while he is pursuing her lover, she puts another woman in bed in her place. the husband, finding her there, beats her, and cuts off her hair. he then goes and calls his wife's brothers, who, holding his accusation to be false, give him a rating. -rare indeed was deemed by common consent the subtlety shewn by madonna beatrice in the beguilement of her husband, and all affirmed that the terror of anichino must have been prodigious, when, the lady still keeping fast hold of him, he had heard her say that he had made suit of love to her. however, filomena being silent, the king turned to neifile, saying:--"'tis now for you to tell." whereupon neifile, while a slight smile died away upon her lips, thus began:--fair ladies, to entertain you with a goodly story, such as those which my predecessors have delighted you withal, is indeed a heavy burden, but, god helping me, i trust fairly well to acquit myself thereof. you are to know, then, that there dwelt aforetime in our city a most wealthy merchant, arriguccio berlinghieri by name, who foolishly, as we wot by daily experience is the way of merchants, thinking to compass gentility by matrimony, took to wife a young gentlewoman, by no means suited to him, whose name was monna sismonda. now monna sismonda, seeing that her husband was much abroad, and gave her little of his company, became enamoured of a young gallant, ruberto by name, who had long courted her: and she being grown pretty familiar with him, and using, perchance, too little discretion, for she affected him extremely, it so befell that arriguccio, whether it was that he detected somewhat, or howsoever, waxed of all men the most jealous, and gave up going abroad, and changed his way of life altogether, and made it his sole care to watch over his wife, insomuch that he never allowed himself a wink of sleep until he had seen her to bed: which occasioned the lady the most grievous dumps, because 'twas on no wise possible for her to be with her ruberto. so, casting about in many ways how she might contrive to meet him, and being thereto not a little plied by ruberto himself, she bethought her at last of the following expedient: to wit, her room fronting the street, and arriguccio, as she had often observed, being very hard put to it to get him to sleep, but thereafter sleeping very soundly, she resolved to arrange with ruberto that he should come to the front door about midnight, whereupon she would get her down, and open the door, and stay some time with him while her husband was in his deep sleep. and that she might have tidings of his arrival, yet so as that none else might wot aught thereof, she adopted the device of lowering a pack-thread from the bedroom window on such wise that, while with one end it should all but touch the ground, it should traverse the floor of the room, until it reached the bed, and then be brought under the clothes, so that, when she was abed, she might attach it to her great toe. having so done, she sent word to ruberto, that when he came, he must be sure to jerk the pack-thread, and, if her husband were asleep, she would loose it, and go open to him; but, if he were awake, she would hold it taut and draw it to herself, to let him know that he must not expect her. ruberto fell in with the idea, came there many times, and now forgathered with her and again did not. but at last, they still using this cunning practice, it so befell that one night, while the lady slept, arriguccio, letting his foot stray more than he was wont about the bed, came upon the pack-thread, and laying his hand upon it, found that it was attached to his lady's great toe, and said to himself:--this must be some trick: and afterwards discovering that the thread passed out of the window, was confirmed in his surmise. wherefore, he softly severed it from the lady's toe, and affixed it to his own; and waited, all attention, to learn the result of his experiment. nor had he long to wait before ruberto came, and arriguccio felt him jerk the thread according to his wont: and as arriguccio had not known how to attach the thread securely, and ruberto jerked it with some force, it gave way, whereby he understood that he was to wait, and did so. arriguccio straightway arose, caught up his arms, and hasted to the door to see who might be there, intent to do him a mischief. now arriguccio, for all he was a merchant, was a man of spirit, and of thews and sinews; and being come to the door, he opened it by no means gingerly, as the lady was wont; whereby ruberto, who was in waiting, surmised the truth, to wit, that 'twas arriguccio by whom the door was opened. wherefore he forthwith took to flight, followed by arriguccio. but at length, when he had run a long way, as arriguccio gave not up the pursuit, he being also armed, drew his sword, and faced about; and so they fell to, arriguccio attacking, and ruberto defending himself. now when arriguccio undid the bedroom door, the lady awoke, and finding the pack-thread cut loose from her toe, saw at a glance that her trick was discovered; and hearing arriguccio running after ruberto, she forthwith got up, foreboding what the result was like to be, and called her maid, who was entirely in her confidence: whom she so plied with her obsecrations that at last she got her into bed in her room, beseeching her not to say who she was, but to bear patiently all the blows that arriguccio might give her; and she would so reward her that she should have no reason to complain. then, extinguishing the light that was in the room, forth she hied her, and having found a convenient hiding-place in the house, awaited the turn of events. now arriguccio and ruberto being hotly engaged in the street, the neighbours, roused by the din of the combat, got up and launched their curses upon them. wherefore arriguccio, fearing lest he should be recognized, drew off before he had so much as discovered who the young gallant was, or done him any scathe, and in a fell and wrathful mood betook him home. stumbling into the bedroom, he cried out angrily:--"where art thou, lewd woman? thou hast put out the light, that i may not be able to find thee; but thou hast miscalculated." and going to the bedside, he laid hold of the maid, taking her to be his wife, and fell a pummelling and kicking her with all the strength he had in his hands and feet, insomuch that he pounded her face well-nigh to pulp, rating her the while like the vilest woman that ever was; and last of all he cut off her hair. the maid wept bitterly, as indeed she well might; and though from time to time she ejaculated an "alas! mercy, for god's sake!" or "spare me, spare me;" yet her voice was so broken by her sobs, and arriguccio's hearing so dulled by his wrath, that he was not able to discern that 'twas not his wife's voice but that of another woman. so, having soundly thrashed her, and cut off her hair, as we said:--"wicked woman," quoth he, "i touch thee no more; but i go to find thy brothers, and shall do them to wit of thy good works; and then they may come here, and deal with thee as they may deem their honour demands, and take thee hence, for be sure thou shalt no more abide in this house." with this he was gone, locking the door of the room behind him, and quitted the house alone. now no sooner did monna sismonda, who had heard all that passed, perceive that her husband was gone, than she opened the door of the bedroom, rekindled the light, and finding her maid all bruises and tears, did what she could to comfort her, and carried her back to her own room, where, causing her to be privily waited on and tended, she helped her so liberally from arriguccio's own store, that she confessed herself content. the maid thus bestowed in her room, the lady presently hied her back to her own, which she set all in neat and trim order, remaking the bed, so that it might appear as if it had not been slept in, relighting the lamp, and dressing and tiring herself, until she looked as if she had not been abed that night; then, taking with her a lighted lamp and some work, she sat her down at the head of the stairs, and began sewing, while she waited to see how the affair would end. arriguccio meanwhile had hied him with all speed straight from the house to that of his wife's brothers, where by dint of much knocking he made himself heard, and was admitted. the lady's three brothers, and her mother, being informed that 'twas arriguccio, got up, and having set lights a burning, came to him and asked him on what errand he was come there at that hour, and alone. whereupon arriguccio, beginning with the discovery of the pack-thread attached to his lady's great toe, gave them the whole narrative of his discoveries and doings down to the very end; and to clinch the whole matter, he put in their hands the locks which he had cut, as he believed, from his wife's head, adding that 'twas now for them to come for her and deal with her on such wise as they might deem their honour required, seeing that he would nevermore have her in his house. firmly believing what he told them, the lady's brothers were very wroth with her, and having provided themselves with lighted torches, set out with arriguccio, and hied them to his house with intent to scorn her, while their mother followed, weeping and beseeching now one, now another, not to credit these matters so hastily, until they had seen or heard somewhat more thereof; for that the husband might have some other reason to be wroth with her, and having ill-treated her, might have trumped up this charge by way of exculpation, adding that, if true, 'twas passing strange, for well she knew her daughter, whom she had brought up from her tenderest years, and much more to the like effect. however, being come to arriguccio's house, they entered, and were mounting the stairs, when monna sismonda, hearing them, called out:--"who is there?" whereto one of the brothers responded:--"lewd woman, thou shalt soon have cause enough to know who it is." "now lord love us!" quoth monna sismonda, "what would he be at?" then, rising, she greeted them with:--"welcome, my brothers but what seek ye abroad at this hour, all three of you?" they had seen her sitting and sewing with never a sign of a blow on her face, whereas arriguccio had averred that he had pummelled her all over: wherefore their first impression was one of wonder, and refraining the vehemence of their wrath, they asked her what might be the truth of the matter which arriguccio laid to her charge, and threatened her with direful consequences, if she should conceal aught. whereto the lady:--"what you would have me tell you," quoth she, "or what arriguccio may have laid to my charge, that know not i." arriguccio could but gaze upon her, as one that had taken leave of his wits, calling to mind how he had pummelled her about the face times without number, and scratched it for her, and mishandled her in all manner of ways, and there he now saw her with no trace of aught of it all upon her. however, to make a long story short, the lady's brothers told her what arriguccio had told them touching the pack-thread and the beating and all the rest of it. whereupon the lady turned to him with:--"alas, my husband, what is this that i hear? why givest thou me, to thy own great shame, the reputation of a lewd woman, when such i am not, and thyself the reputation of a wicked and cruel man, which thou art not? wast thou ever to-night, i say not in my company, but so much as in the house until now? or when didst thou beat me? for my part i mind me not of it." arriguccio began:--"how sayst thou, lewd woman? did we not go to bed together? did i not come back, after chasing thy lover? did i not give thee bruises not a few, and cut thy hair for thee?" but the lady interrupted him, saying:--"nay, thou didst not lie here to-night. but leave we this, of which my true words are my sole witness, and pass we to this of the beating thou sayst thou gavest me, and how thou didst cut my hair. never a beating had i from thee, and i bid all that are here, and thee among them, look at me, and say if i have any trace of a beating on my person; nor should i advise thee to dare lay hand upon me; for, by the holy rood, i would spoil thy beauty for thee. nor didst thou cut my hair, for aught that i saw or felt: however, thou didst it, perchance, on such wise that i was not ware thereof: so let me see whether 'tis cut or no." then, unveiling herself, she shewed that her hair was uncut and entire. wherefore her brothers and mother now turned to arriguccio with:--"what means this, arriguccio? this accords not with what thou gavest us to understand thou hadst done; nor know we how thou wilt prove the residue." arriguccio was lost, as it were, in a dream, and yet he would fain have spoken; but, seeing that what he had thought to prove was otherwise, he essayed no reply. so the lady turning to her brothers:--"i see," quoth she, "what he would have: he will not be satisfied unless i do what i never would otherwise have done, to wit, give you to know what a pitiful caitiff he is; as now i shall not fail to do. i make no manner of doubt that, as he has said, even so it befell, and so he did. how, you shall hear. this worthy man, to whom, worse luck! you gave me to wife, a merchant, as he calls himself, and as such would fain have credit, and who ought to be more temperate than a religious, and more continent than a girl, lets scarce an evening pass but he goes a boozing in the taverns, and consorting with this or the other woman of the town; and 'tis for me to await his return until midnight or sometimes until matins, even as you now find me. i doubt not that, being thoroughly well drunk, he got him to bed with one of these wantons, and, awaking, found the pack-thread on her foot, and afterwards did actually perform all these brave exploits of which he speaks, and in the end came back to her, and beat her, and cut her hair off, and being not yet quite recovered from his debauch, believed, and, i doubt not, still believes, that 'twas i that he thus treated; and if you will but scan his face closely, you will see that he is still half drunk. but, whatever he may have said about me, i would have you account it as nothing more than the disordered speech of a tipsy man; and forgive him as i do." whereupon the lady's mother raised no small outcry, saying:--"by the holy rood, my daughter, this may not be! a daughter, such as thou, to be mated with one so unworthy of thee! the pestilent, insensate cur should be slain on the spot! a pretty state of things, indeed! why, he might have picked thee up from the gutter! now foul fall him! but thou shalt no more be vexed with the tedious drivel of a petty dealer in ass's dung, some blackguard, belike, that came hither from the country because he was dismissed the service of some petty squire, clad in romagnole, with belfry-breeches, and a pen in his arse, and for that he has a few pence, must needs have a gentleman's daughter and a fine lady to wife, and set up a coat of arms, and say:--'i am of the such and such,' and 'my ancestors did thus and thus.' ah! had my sons but followed my advice! thy honour were safe in the house of the counts guidi, where they might have bestowed thee, though thou hadst but a morsel of bread to thy dowry: but they must needs give thee to this rare treasure, who, though better daughter and more chaste there is none than thou in florence, has not blushed this very midnight and in our presence to call thee a strumpet, as if we knew thee not. god's faith! so i were hearkened to, he should shrewdly smart for it." then, turning to her sons, she said:--"my sons, i told you plainly enough that this ought not to be. now, have you heard how your worthy brother-in-law treats your sister? petty twopenny trader that he is: were it for me to act, as it is for you, after what he has said of her and done to her, nought would satisfy or appease me, till i had rid the earth of him. and were i a man, who am but a woman, none, other but myself should meddle with the affair. god's curse upon him, the woeful, shameless sot!" whereupon the young men, incensed by what they had seen and heard, turned to arriguccio, and after giving him the soundest rating that ever was bestowed upon caitiff, concluded as follows:--"this once we pardon thee, witting thee to be a drunken knave--but as thou holdest thy life dear, have a care that henceforth we hear no such tales of thee; for rest assured that if aught of the kind do reach our ears, we will requite thee for both turns." which said, they departed. arriguccio, standing there like one dazed, not witting whether his late doings were actual fact or but a dream, made no more words about the matter, but left his wife in peace. thus did she by her address not only escape imminent peril, but open a way whereby in time to come she was able to gratify her passion to the full without any farther fear of her husband. novel ix. -lydia, wife of nicostratus, loves pyrrhus, who to assure himself thereof, asks three things of her, all of which she does, and therewithal enjoys him in presence of nicostratus, and makes nicostratus believe that what he saw was not real. -so diverting did the ladies find neifile's story that it kept them still laughing and talking, though the king, having bidden pamfilo tell his story, had several times enjoined silence upon them. however, as soon as they had done, pamfilo thus began:--methinks, worshipful ladies, there is no venture, though fraught with gravest peril, that whoso loves ardently will not make: of which truth, exemplified though it has been in stories not a few, i purpose to afford you yet more signal proof in one which i shall tell you; wherein you will hear of a lady who in her enterprises owed far more to the favour of fortune than to the guidance of reason: wherefore i should not advise any of you rashly to follow in her footsteps, seeing that fortune is not always in a kindly mood, nor are the eyes of all men equally holden. in argos, that most ancient city of achaia, the fame of whose kings of old time is out of all proportion to its size, there dwelt of yore nicostratus, a nobleman, to whom, when he was already verging on old age, fortune gave to wife a great lady, lydia by name, whose courage matched her charms. nicostratus, as suited with his rank and wealth, kept not a few retainers and hounds and hawks, and was mightily addicted to the chase. among his dependants was a young man named pyrrhus, a gallant of no mean accomplishment, and goodly of person and beloved and trusted by nicostratus above all other. of whom lydia grew mighty enamoured, insomuch that neither by day nor by night might her thoughts stray from him: but, whether it was that pyrrhus wist not her love, or would have none of it, he gave no sign of recognition; whereby the lady's suffering waxing more than she could bear, she made up her mind to declare her love to him; and having a chambermaid, lusca by name, in whom she placed great trust, she called her, and said:--"lusca, tokens thou hast had from me of my regard that should ensure thy obedience and loyalty; wherefore have a care that what i shall now tell thee reach the ears of none but him to whom i shall bid thee impart it. thou seest, lusca, that i am in the prime of my youth and lustihead, and have neither lack nor stint of all such things as folk desire, save only, to be brief, that i have one cause to repine, to wit, that my husband's years so far outnumber my own. wherefore with that wherein young ladies take most pleasure i am but ill provided, and, as my desire is no less than theirs, 'tis now some while since i determined that, if fortune has shewn herself so little friendly to me by giving me a husband so advanced in years, at least i will not be mine own enemy by sparing to devise the means whereby my happiness and health may be assured; and that herein, as in all other matters, my joy may be complete, i have chosen, thereto to minister by his embraces, our pyrrhus, deeming him more worthy than any other man, and have so set my heart upon him that i am ever ill at ease save when he is present either to my sight or to my mind, insomuch that, unless i forgather with him without delay, i doubt not that 'twill be the death of me. and so, if thou holdest my life dear, thou wilt shew him my love on such wise as thou mayst deem best, and make my suit to him that he be pleased to come to me, when thou shalt go to fetch him." "that gladly will i," replied the chambermaid; and as soon as she found convenient time and place, she drew pyrrhus apart, and, as best she knew how, conveyed her lady's message to him. which pyrrhus found passing strange to hear, for 'twas in truth a complete surprise to him, and he doubted the lady did but mean to try him. wherefore he presently, and with some asperity, answered thus:--"lusca, believe i cannot that this message comes from my lady: have a care, therefore, what thou sayst, and if, perchance, it does come from her, i doubt she does not mean it; and if perchance, she does mean it, why, then i am honoured by my lord above what i deserve, and i would not for my life do him such a wrong: so have a care never to speak of such matters to me again." lusca, nowise disconcerted by his uncompliant tone, rejoined:--"i shall speak to thee, pyrrhus, of these and all other matters, wherewith i may be commissioned by my lady, as often as she shall bid me, whether it pleases or irks thee; but thou art a blockhead." so, somewhat chafed, lusca bore pyrrhus' answer back to her lady, who would fain have died, when she heard it, and some days afterwards resumed the topic, saying:--"thou knowest, lusca, that 'tis not the first stroke that fells the oak; wherefore, methinks, thou wert best go back to this strange man, who is minded to evince his loyalty at my expense, and choosing a convenient time, declare to him all my passion, and do thy best endeavour that the affair be carried through; for if it should thus lapse, 'twould be the death of me; besides which, he would think we had but trifled with him, and, whereas 'tis his love we would have, we should earn his hatred." so, after comforting the lady, the maid hied her in quest of pyrrhus, whom she found in a gladsome and propitious mood, and thus addressed:--"'tis not many days, pyrrhus, since i declared to thee how ardent is the flame with which thy lady and mine is consumed for love of thee, and now again i do thee to wit thereof, and that, if thou shalt not relent of the harshness that thou didst manifest the other day, thou mayst rest assured that her life will be short: wherefore i pray thee to be pleased to give her solace of her desire, and shouldst thou persist in thy obduracy, i, that gave thee credit for not a little sense, shall deem thee a great fool. how flattered thou shouldst be to know thyself beloved above all else by a lady so beauteous and high-born! and how indebted shouldst thou feel thyself to fortune, seeing that she has in store for thee a boon so great and so suited to the cravings of thy youth, ay, and so like to be of service to thee upon occasion of need! bethink thee, if there be any of thine equals whose life is ordered more agreeably than thine will be if thou but be wise. which of them wilt thou find so well furnished with arms and horses, clothes and money as thou shalt be, if thou but give my lady thy love? receive, then, my words with open mind; be thyself again; bethink thee that 'tis fortune's way to confront a man but once with smiling mien and open lap, and, if he then accept not her bounty, he has but himself to blame, if afterward he find himself in want, in beggary. besides which, no such loyalty is demanded between servants and their masters as between friends and kinsfolk; rather 'tis for servants, so far as they may, to behave towards their masters as their masters behave towards them. thinkest thou, that, if thou hadst a fair wife or mother or daughter or sister that found favour in nicostratus' eyes, he would be so scrupulous on the point of loyalty as thou art disposed to be in regard of his lady? thou art a fool, if so thou dost believe. hold it for certain, that, if blandishments and supplications did not suffice, he would, whatever thou mightest think of it, have recourse to force. observe we, then, towards them and theirs the same rule which they observe towards us and ours. take the boon that fortune offers thee; repulse her not; rather go thou to meet her, and hail her advance; for be sure that, if thou do not so, to say nought of thy lady's death, which will certainly ensue, thou thyself wilt repent thee thereof so often that thou wilt be fain of death." since he had last seen lusca, pyrrhus had repeatedly pondered what she had said to him, and had made his mind up that, should she come again, he would answer her in another sort, and comply in all respects with the lady's desires, provided he might be assured that she was not merely putting him to the proof; wherefore he now made answer:--"lo, now, lusca, i acknowledge the truth of all that thou sayst; but, on the other hand, i know that my lord is not a little wise and wary, and, as he has committed all his affairs to my charge, i sorely misdoubt me that 'tis with his approbation, and by his advice, and but to prove me, that lydia does this: wherefore let her do three things which i shall demand of her for my assurance, and then there is nought that she shall crave of me, but i will certainly render her prompt obedience. which three things are these:--first, let her in nicostratus' presence kill his fine sparrow-hawk: then she must send me a lock of nicostratus' beard, and lastly one of his best teeth." hard seemed these terms to lusca, and hard beyond measure to the lady, but love, that great fautor of enterprise, and master of stratagem, gave her resolution to address herself to their performance: wherefore through the chambermaid she sent him word that what he required of her she would do, and that without either reservation or delay; and therewithal she told him, that, as he deemed nicostratus so wise, she would contrive that they should enjoy one another in nicostratus' presence, and that nicostratus should believe that 'twas a mere show. pyrrhus, therefore, anxiously expected what the lady would do. some days thus passed, and then nicostratus gave a great breakfast, as was his frequent wont, to certain gentlemen, and when the tables were removed, the lady, robed in green samite, and richly adorned, came forth of her chamber into the hall wherein they sate, and before the eyes of pyrrhus and all the rest of the company hied her to the perch, on which stood the sparrow-hawk that nicostratus so much prized, and loosed him, and, as if she were minded to carry him on her hand, took him by the jesses and dashed him against the wall so that he died. whereupon:--"alas! my lady, what hast thou done?" exclaimed nicostratus: but she vouchsafed no answer, save that, turning to the gentlemen that had sate at meat with him, she said:--"my lords, ill fitted were i to take vengeance on a king that had done me despite, if i lacked the courage to be avenged on a sparrow-hawk. you are to know that by this bird i have long been cheated of all the time that ought to be devoted by gentlemen to pleasuring their ladies; for with the first streaks of dawn nicostratus has been up and got him to horse, and hawk on hand hied him to the champaign to see him fly, leaving me, such as you see me, alone and ill content abed. for which cause i have oftentimes been minded to do that which i have now done, and have only refrained therefrom, that, biding my time, i might do it in the presence of men that should judge my cause justly, as i trust you will do." which hearing, the gentlemen, who deemed her affections no less fixed on nicostratus than her words imported, broke with one accord into a laugh, and turning to nicostratus, who was sore displeased, fell a saying:--"now well done of the lady to avenge her wrongs by the death of the sparrow-hawk!" and so, the lady being withdrawn to her chamber, they passed the affair off with divers pleasantries, turning the wrath of nicostratus to laughter. pyrrhus, who had witnessed what had passed, said to himself:--nobly indeed has my lady begun, and on such wise as promises well for the felicity of my love. god grant that she so continue. and even so lydia did: for not many days after she had killed the sparrow-hawk, she, being with nicostratus in her chamber, from caressing passed to toying and trifling with him, and he, sportively pulling her by the hair, gave her occasion to fulfil the second of pyrrhus' demands; which she did by nimbly laying hold of one of the lesser tufts of his beard, and, laughing the while, plucking it so hard that she tore it out of his chin. which nicostratus somewhat resenting:--"now what cause hast thou," quoth she, "to make such a wry face? 'tis but that i have plucked some half-dozen hairs from thy beard. thou didst not feel it as much as did i but now thy tugging of my hair." and so they continued jesting and sporting with one another, the lady jealously guarding the tuft that she had torn from the beard, which the very same day she sent to her cherished lover. the third demand caused the lady more thought; but, being amply endowed with wit, and powerfully, seconded by love, she failed not to hit upon an apt expedient. nicostratus had in his service two lads, who, being of gentle birth, had been placed with him by their kinsfolk, that they might learn manners, one of whom, when nicostratus sate at meat, carved before him, while the other gave him to drink. both lads lydia called to her, and gave them to understand that their breath smelt, and admonished them that, when they waited on nicostratus, they should hold their heads as far back as possible, saying never a word of the matter to any. the lads believing her, did as she bade them. whereupon she took occasion to say to nicostratus:--"hast thou marked what these lads do when they wait upon thee?" "troth, that have i," replied nicostratus; "indeed i have often had it in mind to ask them why they do so." "nay," rejoined the lady, "spare thyself the pains; for i can tell thee the reason, which i have for some time kept close, lest it should vex thee; but as i now see that others begin to be ware of it, it need no longer be withheld from thee. 'tis for that thy breath stinks shrewdly that they thus avert their heads from thee: 'twas not wont to be so, nor know i why it should be so; and 'tis most offensive when thou art in converse with gentlemen; and therefore 'twould be well to find some way of curing it." "i wonder what it could be," returned nicostratus; "is it perchance that i have a decayed tooth in my jaw?" "that may well be," quoth lydia: and taking him to a window, she caused him open his mouth, and after regarding it on this side and that:--"oh! nicostratus," quoth she, "how couldst thou have endured it so long? thou hast a tooth here, which, by what i see, is not only decayed, but actually rotten throughout; and beyond all manner of doubt, if thou let it remain long in thy head, 'twill infect its neighbours; so 'tis my advice that thou out with it before the matter grows worse." "my judgment jumps with thine," quoth nicostratus; "wherefore send without delay for a chirurgeon to draw it." "god forbid," returned the lady, "that chirurgeon come hither for such a purpose; methinks, the case is such that i can very well dispense with him, and draw the tooth myself. besides which, these chirurgeons do these things in such a cruel way, that i could never endure to see thee or know thee under the hands of any of them: wherefore my mind is quite made up to do it myself, that, at least, if thou shalt suffer too much, i may give it over at once, as a chirurgeon would not do." and so she caused the instruments that are used on such occasions to be brought her, and having dismissed all other attendants save lusca from the chamber, and locked the door, made nicostratus lie down on a table, set the pincers in his mouth, and clapped them on one of his teeth, which, while lusca held him, so that, albeit he roared for pain, he might not move, she wrenched by main force from his jaw, and keeping it close, took from lusca's hand another and horribly decayed tooth, which she shewed him, suffering and half dead as he was, saying:--"see what thou hadst in thy jaw; mark how far gone it is." believing what she said, and deeming that, now the tooth was out, his breath would no more be offensive, and being somewhat eased of the pain, which had been extreme, and still remained, so that he murmured not little, by divers comforting applications, he quitted the chamber: whereupon the lady forthwith sent the tooth to her lover, who, having now full assurance of her love, placed himself entirely at her service. but the lady being minded to make his assurance yet more sure, and deeming each hour a thousand till she might be with him, now saw fit, for the more ready performance of the promise she had given him, to feign sickness; and nicostratus, coming to see her one day after breakfast, attended only by pyrrhus, she besought him for her better solacement, to help her down to the garden. wherefore nicostratus on one side, and pyrrhus on the other, took her and bore her down to the garden, and set her on a lawn at the foot of a beautiful pear-tree: and after they had sate there a while, the lady, who had already given pyrrhus to understand what he must do, said to him:--"pyrrhus, i should greatly like to have some of those pears; get thee up the tree, and shake some of them down." pyrrhus climbed the tree in a trice, and began to shake down the pears, and while he did so:--"fie! sir," quoth he, "what is this you do? and you, madam, have you no shame, that you suffer him to do so in my presence? think you that i am blind? 'twas but now that you were gravely indisposed. your cure has been speedy indeed to permit of your so behaving: and as for such a purpose you have so many goodly chambers, why betake you not yourselves to one of them, if you must needs so disport yourselves? 'twould be much more decent than to do so in my presence." whereupon the lady, turning to her husband:--"now what can pyrrhus mean?" said she. "is he mad?" "nay, madam," quoth pyrrhus; "mad am not i. think you i see you not?" whereat nicostratus marvelled not a little; and:--"pyrrhus," quoth he, "i verily believe thou dreamest." "nay, my lord," replied pyrrhus, "not a whit do i dream; neither do you; rather you wag it with such vigour, that, if this pear-tree did the like, there would be never a pear left on it." then the lady:--"what can this mean?" quoth she: "can it be that it really seems to him to be as he says? upon my hope of salvation, were i but in my former health, i would get me up there to judge for myself what these wonders are which he professes to see." whereupon, as pyrrhus in the pear-tree continued talking in the same strange strain:--"come down," quoth nicostratus; and when he was down:--"now what," said nicostratus, "is it thou sayst thou seest up there?" "i suppose," replied pyrrhus, "that you take me to be deluded or dreaming: but as i must needs tell you the truth, i saw you lying upon your wife, and then, when i came down, i saw you get up and sit you down here where you now are." "therein," said nicostratus, "thou wast certainly deluded, for, since thou clombest the pear-tree, we have not budged a jot, save as thou seest." then said pyrrhus:--"why make more words about the matter? see you i certainly did; and, seeing you, i saw you lying upon your own." nicostratus' wonder now waxed momently, insomuch that he said:--"i am minded to see if this pear-tree be enchanted, so that whoso is in it sees marvels;" and so he got him up into it. whereupon the lady and pyrrhus fell to disporting them, and nicostratus, seeing what they were about, exclaimed:--"ah! lewd woman, what is this thou doest? and thou, pyrrhus, in whom i so much trusted!" and so saying, he began to climb down. meanwhile the lady and pyrrhus had made answer:--"we are sitting here:" and seeing him descending, they placed themselves as they had been when he had left them, whom nicostratus, being come down, no sooner saw, than he fell a rating them. then quoth pyrrhus:--"verily, nicostratus, i now acknowledge, that, as you said a while ago, what i saw when i was in the pear-tree was but a false show, albeit i had never understood that so it was but that i now see and know that thou hast also seen a false show. and that i speak truth, you may sufficiently assure yourself, if you but reflect whether 'tis likely that your wife, who for virtue and discretion has not her peer among women, would, if she were minded so to dishonour you, see fit to do so before your very eyes. of myself i say nought, albeit i had liefer be hewn in pieces than that i should so much as think of such a thing, much less do it in your presence. wherefore 'tis evident that 'tis some illusion of sight that is propagated from the pear-tree; for nought in the world would have made me believe that i saw not you lying there in carnal intercourse with your wife, had i not heard you say that you saw me doing that which most assuredly, so far from doing, i never so much as thought of." the lady then started up with a most resentful mien, and burst out with:--"foul fall thee, if thou knowest so little of me as to suppose that, if i were minded to do thee such foul dishonour as thou sayst thou didst see me do, i would come hither to do it before thine eyes! rest assured that for such a purpose, were it ever mine, i should deem one of our chambers more meet, and it should go hard but i would so order the matter that thou shouldst never know aught of it." nicostratus, having heard both, and deeming that what they both averred must be true, to wit, that they would never have ventured upon such an act in his presence, passed from chiding to talk of the singularity of the thing, and how marvellous it was that the vision should reshape itself for every one that clomb the tree. the lady, however, made a show of being distressed that nicostratus should so have thought of her, and:--"verily," quoth she, "no woman, neither i nor another, shall again suffer loss of honour by this pear-tree: run, pyrrhus, and bring hither an axe, and at one and the same time vindicate thy honour and mine by felling it, albeit 'twere better far nicostratus' skull should feel the weight of the axe, seeing that in utter heedlessness he so readily suffered the eyes of his mind to be blinded; for, albeit this vision was seen by the bodily eye, yet ought the understanding by no means to have entertained and affirmed it as real." so pyrrhus presently hied him to fetch the axe, and returning therewith felled the pear; whereupon the lady, turning towards nicostratus:--"now that this foe of my honour is fallen," quoth she, "my wrath is gone from me." nicostratus then craving her pardon, she graciously granted it him, bidding him never again to suffer himself to be betrayed into thinking such a thing of her, who loved him more dearly than herself. so the poor duped husband went back with her and her lover to the palace, where not seldom in time to come pyrrhus and lydia took their pastime together more at ease. god grant us the like. novel x. -two sienese love a lady, one of them being her gossip: the gossip dies, having promised his comrade to return to him from the other world; which he does, and tells him what sort of life is led there. -none now was left to tell, save the king, who, as soon as the ladies had ceased mourning over the fall of the pear-tree, that had done no wrong, and were silent, began thus:--most manifest it is that 'tis the prime duty of a just king to observe the laws that he has made; and, if he do not so, he is to be esteemed no king, but a slave that has merited punishment, into which fault, and under which condemnation, i, your king, must, as of necessity, fall. for, indeed, when yesterday i made the law which governs our discourse of to-day, i thought not to-day to avail myself of my privilege, but to submit to the law, no less than you, and to discourse of the same topic whereof you all have discoursed; but not only has the very story been told which i had intended to tell, but therewithal so many things else, and so very much goodlier have been said, that, search my memory as i may, i cannot mind me of aught, nor wot i that touching such a matter there is indeed aught, for me to say, that would be comparable with what has been said; wherefore, as infringe i must the law that i myself have made, i confess myself worthy of punishment, and instantly declaring my readiness to pay any forfeit that may be demanded of me, am minded to have recourse to my wonted privilege. and such, dearest ladies, is the potency of elisa's story of the godfather and his gossip, and therewith of the simplicity of the sienese, that i am prompted thereby to pass from this topic of the beguilement of foolish husbands by their cunning wives to a little story touching these same sienese, which, albeit there is not a little therein which you were best not to believe, may yet be in some degree entertaining to hear. know, then, that at siena there dwelt in porta salaia two young men of the people, named, the one, tingoccio mini, the other meuccio di tura, who, by what appeared, loved one another not a little, for they were scarce ever out of one another's company; and being wont, like other folk, to go to church and listen to sermons, they heard from time to time of the glory and the woe, which in the other world are allotted, according to merit, to the souls of the dead. of which matters craving, but being unable to come by, more certain assurance, they agreed together that, whichever of them should die first, should, if he might, return to the survivor, and certify him of that which he would fain know; and this agreement they confirmed with an oath. now, after they had made this engagement, and while they were still constantly together, tingoccio chanced to become sponsor to one ambruogio anselmini, that dwelt in campo reggi, who had had a son by his wife, monna mita. the lady was exceeding fair, and amorous withal, and tingoccio being wont sometimes to visit her as his gossip, and to take meuccio with him, he, notwithstanding his sponsorship, grew enamoured of her, as did also meuccio, for she pleased him not a little, and he heard her much commended by tingoccio. which love each concealed from the other; but not for the same reason. tingoccio was averse to discover it to meuccio, for that he deemed it an ignominious thing to love his gossip, and was ashamed to let any one know it. meuccio was on his guard for a very different reason, to wit, that he was already ware that the lady was in tingoccio's good graces. wherefore he said to himself:--if i avow my love to him, he will be jealous of me, and as, being her gossip, he can speak with her as often as he pleases, he will do all he can to make her hate me, and so i shall never have any favour of her. now, the two young men being thus, as i have said, on terms of most familiar friendship, it befell that tingoccio, being the better able to open his heart to the lady, did so order his demeanour and discourse that he had from her all that he desired. nor was his friend's success hidden from meuccio; though, much as it vexed him, yet still cherishing the hope of eventually attaining his end, and fearing to give tingoccio occasion to baulk or hamper him in some way, he feigned to know nought of the matter. so tingoccio, more fortunate than his comrade, and rival in love, did with such assiduity till his gossip's good land that he got thereby a malady, which in the course of some days waxed so grievous that he succumbed thereto, and departed this life. and on the night of the third day after his decease (perchance because earlier he might not) he made his appearance, according to his promise, in meuccio's chamber, and called meuccio, who was fast asleep, by his name. whereupon:--"who art thou?" quoth meuccio, as he awoke. "'tis i, tingoccio," replied he, "come back, in fulfilment of the pledge i gave thee, to give thee tidings of the other world." for a while meuccio saw him not without terror: then, his courage reviving:--"welcome, my brother," quoth he: and proceeded to ask him if he were lost. "nought is lost but what is irrecoverable," replied tingoccio: "how then should i be here, if i were lost?" "nay," quoth then meuccio; "i mean it not so: i would know of thee, whether thou art of the number of the souls that are condemned to the penal fire of hell." "why no," returned tingoccio, "not just that; but still for the sins that i did i am in most sore and grievous torment." meuccio then questioned tingoccio in detail of the pains there meted out for each of the sins done here; and tingoccio enumerated them all. whereupon meuccio asked if there were aught he might do for him here on earth. tingoccio answered in the affirmative; to wit, that he might have masses and prayers said and alms-deeds done for him, for that such things were of great service to the souls there. "that gladly will i," replied meuccio; and then, as tingoccio was about to take his leave, he bethought him of the gossip, and raising his head a little, he said:--"i mind me, tingoccio, of the gossip, with whom thou wast wont to lie when thou wast here. now what is thy punishment for that?" "my brother," returned tingoccio, "as soon as i got down there, i met one that seemed to know all my sins by heart, who bade me betake me to a place, where, while in direst torment i bewept my sins, i found comrades not a few condemned to the same pains; and so, standing there among them, and calling to mind what i had done with the gossip, and foreboding in requital thereof a much greater torment than had yet been allotted me, albeit i was in a great and most vehement flame, i quaked for fear in every part of me. which one that was beside me observing:--'what,' quoth he, 'hast thou done more than the rest of us that are here, that thou quakest thus as thou standest in the fire?' 'my friend,' quoth i, 'i am in mortal fear of the doom that i expect for a great sin that i once committed.' he then asked what sin it might be. ''twas on this wise,' replied i: 'i lay with my gossip, and that so much that i died thereof.' whereat, he did but laugh, saying:--'go to, fool, make thy mind easy; for here there is no account taken of gossips.' which completely revived my drooping spirits." 'twas now near daybreak: wherefore:--"adieu! meuccio," quoth his friend: "for longer tarry with thee i may not;" and so he vanished. as for meuccio, having learned that no account was taken of gossips in the other world, he began to laugh at his own folly in that he had already spared divers such; and so, being quit of his ignorance, he in that respect in course of time waxed wise. which matters had fra rinaldo but known, he would not have needed to go about syllogizing in order to bring his fair gossip to pleasure him. the sun was westering, and a light breeze blew, when the king, his story ended, and none else being left to speak, arose, and taking off the crown, set it on lauretta's head, saying:--"madam, i crown you with yourself(1) queen of our company: 'tis now for you, as our sovereign lady, to make such ordinances as you shall deem meet for our common solace and delectation;" and having so said, he sat him down again. queen lauretta sent for the seneschal, and bade him have a care that the tables should be set in the pleasant vale somewhat earlier than had been their wont, that their return to the palace might be more leisurely; after which she gave him to know what else he had to do during her sovereignty. then turning to the company:--"yesterday," quoth she, "dioneo would have it that to-day we should discourse of the tricks that wives play their husbands; and but that i am minded not to shew as of the breed of yelping curs, that are ever prompt to retaliate, i would ordain that to-morrow we discourse of the tricks that husbands play their wives. however, in lieu thereof, i will have every one take thought to tell of those tricks that, daily, woman plays man, or man woman, or one man another; wherein, i doubt not, there will be matter of discourse no less agreeable than has been that of to-day." so saying, she rose and dismissed the company until supper-time. so the ladies and the men being risen, some bared their feet and betook them to the clear water, there to disport them, while others took their pleasure upon the green lawn amid the trees that there grew goodly and straight. for no brief while dioneo and fiammetta sang in concert of arcite and palamon. and so, each and all taking their several pastimes, they sped the hours with exceeding great delight until supper-time. which being come, they sat them down at table beside the little lake, and there, while a thousand songsters charmed their ears, and a gentle breeze, that blew from the environing hills, fanned them, and never a fly annoyed them, reposefully and joyously they supped. the tables removed, they roved a while about the pleasant vale, and then, the sun being still high, for 'twas but half vespers, the queen gave the word, and they wended their way back to their wonted abode, and going slowly, and beguiling the way with quips and quirks without number upon divers matters, nor those alone of which they had that day discoursed, they arrived, hard upon nightfall, at the goodly palace. there, the short walk's fatigue dispelled by wines most cool and comfits, they presently gathered for the dance about the fair fountain, and now they footed it to the strains of tindaro's cornemuse, and now to other music. which done, the queen bade filomena give them a song; and thus filomena sang:-ah! woe is me, my soul! ah! shall i ever thither fare again whence i was parted to my grievous dole? full sure i know not; but within my breast throbs ever the same fire of yearning there where erst i was to be. o thou in whom is all my weal, my rest, lord of my heart's desire, ah! tell me thou! for none to ask save thee neither dare i, nor see. ah! dear my lord, this wasted heart disdain thou wilt not, but with hope at length console. kindled the flame i know not what delight, which me doth so devour, that day and night alike i find no ease; for whether it was by hearing, touch, or sight, unwonted was the power, and fresh the fire that me each way did seize; wherein without release i languish still, and of thee, lord, am fain, for thou alone canst comfort and make whole. ah! tell me if it shall be, and how soon, that i again thee meet where those death-dealing eyes i kissed. thou, chief weal of my soul, my very soul, this boon deny not; say that fleet thou hiest hither: comfort thus my grief. ah! let the time be brief till thou art here, and then long time remain; for i, love-stricken, crave but love's control. let me but once again mine own thee call, no more so indiscreet as erst, i'll be, to let thee from me part: nay, i'll still hold thee, let what may befall, and of thy mouth so sweet such solace take as may content my heart so this be all my art, thee to entice, me with thine arms to enchain: whereon but musing inly chants my soul. this song set all the company conjecturing what new and delightsome love might now hold filomena in its sway; and as its words imported that she had had more joyance thereof than sight alone might yield, some that were there grew envious of her excess of happiness. however, the song being ended, the queen, bethinking her that the morrow was friday, thus graciously addressed them all:--"ye wot, noble ladies, and ye also, my gallants, that to-morrow is the day that is sacred to the passion of our lord, which, if ye remember, we kept devoutly when neifile was queen, intermitting delectable discourse, as we did also on the ensuing saturday. wherefore, being minded to follow neifile's excellent example, i deem that now, as then, 'twere a seemly thing to surcease from this our pastime of story-telling for those two days, and compose our minds to meditation on what was at that season accomplished for the weal of our souls." all the company having approved their queen's devout speech, she, as the night was now far spent, dismissed them; and so they all betook them to slumber. (1) a play upon laurea (laurel wreath) and lauretta. -endeth here the seventh day of the decameron, beginneth the eighth, in which, under the rule of lauretta, discourse is had of those tricks that, daily, woman plays man, or man woman, or one man another. -the summits of the loftiest mountains were already illumined by the rays of the rising sun, the shades of night were fled, and all things plainly visible, when the queen and her company arose, and hied them first to the dewy mead, where for a while they walked: then, about half tierce, they wended their way to a little church that was hard by, where they heard divine service; after which, they returned to the palace, and having breakfasted with gay and gladsome cheer, and sung and danced a while, were dismissed by the queen, to rest them as to each might seem good. but when the sun was past the meridian, the queen mustered them again for their wonted pastime; and, all being seated by the fair fountain, thus, at her command, neifile began. novel i. -gulfardo borrows moneys of guasparruolo, which he has agreed to give guasparruolo's wife, that he may lie with her. he gives them to her, and in her presence tells guasparruolo that he has done so, and she acknowledges that 'tis true. -sith god has ordained that 'tis for me to take the lead to-day with my story, well pleased am i. and for that, loving ladies, much has been said touching the tricks that women play men, i am minded to tell you of one that a man played a woman, not because i would censure what the man did, or say that 'twas not merited by the woman, but rather to commend the man and censure the woman, and to shew that men may beguile those that think to beguile them, as well as be beguiled by those they think to beguile; for peradventure what i am about to relate should in strictness of speech not be termed beguilement, but rather retaliation; for, as it behoves woman to be most strictly virtuous, and to guard her chastity as her very life, nor on any account to allow herself to sully it, which notwithstanding, 'tis not possible by reason of our frailty that there should be as perfect an observance of this law as were meet, i affirm, that she that allows herself to infringe it for money merits the fire; whereas she that so offends under the prepotent stress of love will receive pardon from any judge that knows how to temper justice with mercy: witness what but the other day we heard from filostrato touching madonna filippa at prato.(1) know, then, that there was once at milan a german mercenary, gulfardo by name, a doughty man, and very loyal to those with whom he took service; a quality most uncommon in germans. and as he was wont to be most faithful in repaying whatever moneys he borrowed, he would have had no difficulty in finding a merchant to advance him any amount of money at a low rate of interest. now, tarrying thus at milan, gulfardo fixed his affection on a very fine woman, named madonna ambruogia, the wife of a wealthy merchant, one guasparruolo cagastraccio, with whom he was well acquainted and on friendly terms: which amour he managed with such discretion that neither the husband nor any one else wist aught of it. so one day he sent her a message, beseeching her of her courtesy to gratify his passion, and assuring her that he on his part was ready to obey her every behest. the lady made a great many words about the affair, the upshot of which was that she would do as gulfardo desired upon the following terms: to wit, that, in the first place, he should never discover the matter to a soul, and, secondly, that, as for some purpose or another she required two hundred florins of gold, he out of his abundance should supply her necessity; these conditions being satisfied she would be ever at his service. offended by such base sordidness in one whom he had supposed to be an honourable woman, gulfardo passed from ardent love to something very like hatred, and cast about how he might flout her. so he sent her word that he would right gladly pleasure her in this and in any other matter that might be in his power; let her but say when he was to come to see her, and he would bring the moneys with him, and none should know of the matter except a comrade of his, in whom he placed much trust, and who was privy to all that he did. the lady, if she should not rather be called the punk, gleefully made answer that in the course of a few days her husband, guasparruolo, was to go to genoa on business, and that, when he was gone, she would let gulfardo know, and appoint a time for him to visit her. gulfardo thereupon chose a convenient time, and hied him to guasparruolo, to whom:--"i am come," quoth he, "about a little matter of business which i have on hand, for which i require two hundred florins of gold, and i should be glad if thou wouldst lend them me at the rate of interest which thou art wont to charge me." "that gladly will i," replied guasparruolo, and told out the money at once. a few days later guasparruolo being gone to genoa, as the lady had said, she sent word to gulfardo that he should bring her the two hundred florins of gold. so gulfardo hied him with his comrade to the lady's house, where he found her expecting him, and lost no time in handing her the two hundred florins of gold in his comrade's presence, saying:--"you will keep the money, madam, and give it to your husband when he returns." witting not why gulfardo so said, but thinking that 'twas but to conceal from his comrade that it was given by way of price, the lady made answer:--"that will i gladly; but i must first see whether the amount is right;" whereupon she told the florins out upon a table, and when she found that the two hundred were there, she put them away in high glee, and turning to gulfardo, took him into her chamber, where, not on that night only but on many another night, while her husband was away, he had of her all that he craved. on guasparruolo's return gulfardo presently paid him a visit, having first made sure that the lady would be with him, and so in her presence:--"guasparruolo," quoth he, "i had after all no occasion for the money, to wit, the two hundred florins of gold that thou didst lend me the other day, being unable to carry through the transaction for which i borrowed them, and so i took an early opportunity of bringing them to thy wife, and gave them to her: thou wilt therefore cancel the account." whereupon guasparruolo turned to the lady, and asked her if she had had them. she, not daring to deny the fact in presence of the witness, answered:--"why, yes, i had them, and quite forgot to tell thee." "good," quoth then guasparruolo, "we are quits, gulfardo; make thy mind easy; i will see that thy account is set right." gulfardo then withdrew, leaving the flouted lady to hand over her ill-gotten gains to her husband; and so the astute lover had his pleasure of his greedy mistress for nothing. (1) cf. sixth day, novel vii. novel ii. -the priest of varlungo lies with monna belcolore: he leaves with her his cloak by way of pledge, and receives from her a mortar. he returns the mortar, and demands of her the cloak that he had left in pledge, which the good lady returns him with a gibe. -ladies and men alike commended gulfardo for the check that he gave to the greed of the milanese lady; but before they had done, the queen turned to pamfilo, and with a smile bade him follow suit: wherefore thus pamfilo began:--fair my ladies, it occurs to me to tell you a short story, which reflects no credit on those by whom we are continually wronged without being able to retaliate, to wit, the priests, who have instituted a crusade against our wives, and deem that, when they have made conquest of one of them, they have done a work every whit as worthy of recompense by remission of sin and punishment as if they had brought the soldan in chains to avignon: in which respect 'tis not possible for the hapless laity to be even with them: howbeit they are as hot to make reprisals on the priests' mothers, sisters, mistresses, and daughters as the priests to attack their wives. wherefore i am minded to give you, as i may do in few words, the history of a rustic amour, the conclusion whereof was not a little laughable, nor barren of moral, for you may also gather therefrom, that 'tis not always well to believe everything that a priest says. i say then, that at varlungo, a village hard by here, as all of you, my ladies, should wot either of your own knowledge or by report, there dwelt a worthy priest, and doughty of body in the service of the ladies: who, albeit he was none too quick at his book, had no lack of precious and blessed solecisms to edify his flock withal of a sunday under the elm. and when the men were out of doors, he would visit their wives as never a priest had done before him, bringing them feast-day gowns and holy water, and now and again a bit of candle, and giving them his blessing. now it so befell that among those of his fair parishioners whom he most affected the first place was at length taken by one monna belcolore, the wife of a husbandman that called himself bentivegna del mazzo. and in good sooth she was a winsome and lusty country lass, brown as a berry and buxom enough, and fitter than e'er another for his mill. moreover she had not her match in playing the tabret and singing:--the borage is full sappy,(1) and in leading a brawl or a breakdown, no matter who might be next her, with a fair and dainty kerchief in her hand. which spells so wrought upon master priest, that for love of her he grew distracted, and did nought all day long but loiter about the village on the chance of catching sight of her. and if of a sunday morning he espied her in church, he strove might and main to acquit himself of his kyrie and sanctus in the style of a great singer, albeit his performance was liker to the braying of an ass: whereas, if he saw her not, he scarce exerted himself at all. however, he managed with such discretion that neither bentivegna del mazzo nor any of the neighbours wist aught of his love. and hoping thereby to ingratiate himself with monna belcolore, he from time to time would send her presents, now a clove of fresh garlic, the best in all the country-side, from his own garden, which he tilled with his own hands, and anon a basket of beans or a bunch of chives or shallots; and, when he thought it might serve his turn, he would give her a sly glance, and follow it up with a little amorous mocking and mowing, which she, with rustic awkwardness, feigned not to understand, and ever maintained her reserve, so that master priest made no headway. now it so befell that one day, when the priest at high noon was aimlessly gadding about the village, he encountered bentivegna del mazzo at the tail of a well laden ass; and greeted him, asking him whither he was going. "i'faith, sir," quoth bentivegna, "for sure 'tis to town i go, having an affair or two to attend to there; and i am taking these things to ser buonaccorri da ginestreto, to get him to stand by me in i wot not what matter, whereof the justice o' th' coram has by his provoker served me with a pertrumpery summons to appear before him." whereupon:--"'tis well, my son," quoth the priest, overjoyed, "my blessing go with thee: good luck to thee and a speedy return; and harkye, shouldst thou see lapuccio or naldino, do not forget to tell them to send me those thongs for my flails." "it shall be done," quoth bentivegna, and jogged on towards florence, while the priest, thinking that now was his time to hie him to belcolore and try his fortune, put his best leg forward, and stayed not till he was at the house, which entering, he said:--"god be gracious to us! who is within?" belcolore, who was up in the loft, made answer:--"welcome, sir; but what dost thou, gadding about in the heat?" "why, as i hope for god's blessing," quoth he, "i am just come to stay with thee a while, having met thy husband on his way to town." whereupon down came belcolore, took a seat, and began sifting cabbage-seed that her husband had lately threshed. by and by the priest began:--"so, belcolore, wilt thou keep me ever a dying thus?" whereat belcolore tittered, and said:--"why, what is't i do to you?" "truly, nothing at all," replied the priest: "but thou sufferest me not to do to thee that which i had lief, and which god commands." "now away with you!" returned belcolore, "do priests do that sort of thing?" "indeed we do," quoth the priest, "and to better purpose than others: why not? i tell you our grinding is far better; and wouldst thou know why? 'tis because 'tis intermittent. and in truth 'twill be well worth thy while to keep thine own counsel, and let me do it." "worth my while!" ejaculated belcolore. "how may that be? there is never a one of you but would overreach the very devil." "'tis not for me to say," returned the priest; "say but what thou wouldst have: shall it be a pair of dainty shoes? or wouldst thou prefer a fillet? or perchance a gay riband? what's thy will?" "marry, no lack have i," quoth belcolore, "of such things as these. but, if you wish me so well, why do me not a service? and i would then be at your command." "name but the service," returned the priest, "and gladly will i do it." quoth then belcolore:--"on saturday i have to go to florence to deliver some wool that i have spun, and to get my spinning-wheel put in order: lend me but five pounds--i know you have them--and i will redeem my perse petticoat from the pawnshop, and also the girdle that i wear on saints' days, and that i had when i was married--you see that without them i cannot go to church or anywhere else, and then i will do just as you wish thenceforth and forever." whereupon:--"so god give me a good year," quoth he, "as i have not the money with me: but never fear that i will see that thou hast it before saturday with all the pleasure in life." "ay, ay," rejoined belcolore, "you all make great promises, but then you never keep them. think you to serve me as you served biliuzza, whom you left in the lurch at last? god's faith, you do not so. to think that she turned woman of the world just for that! if you have not the money with you, why, go and get it." "prithee," returned the priest, "send me not home just now. for, seest thou, 'tis the very nick of time with me, and the coast is clear, and perchance it might not be so on my return, and in short i know not when it would be likely to go so well as now." whereto she did but rejoin:--"good; if you are minded to go, get you gone; if not, stay where you are." the priest, therefore, seeing that she was not disposed to give him what he wanted, as he was fain, to wit, on his own terms, but was bent upon having a quid pro quo, changed his tone; and:--"lo, now," quoth he, "thou doubtest i will not bring thee the money; so to set thy mind at rest, i will leave thee this cloak--thou seest 'tis good sky-blue silk--in pledge." so raising her head and glancing at the cloak:--"and what may the cloak be worth?" quoth belcolore. "worth!" ejaculated the priest: "i would have thee know that 'tis all douai, not to say trouai, make: nay, there are some of our folk here that say 'tis quadrouai; and 'tis not a fortnight since i bought it of lotto, the secondhand dealer, for seven good pounds, and then had it five good soldi under value, by what i hear from buglietto, who, thou knowest, is an excellent judge of these articles." "oh! say you so?" exclaimed belcolore. "so help me god, i should not have thought it; however, let me look at it." so master priest, being ready for action, doffed the cloak and handed it to her. and she, having put it in a safe place, said to him:--"now, sir, we will away to the hut; there is never a soul goes there;" and so they did. and there master priest, giving her many a mighty buss and straining her to his sacred person, solaced himself with her no little while. which done, he hied him away in his cassock, as if he were come from officiating at a wedding; but, when he was back in his holy quarters, he bethought him that not all the candles that he received by way of offering in the course of an entire year would amount to the half of five pounds, and saw that he had made a bad bargain, and repented him that he had left the cloak in pledge, and cast about how he might recover it without paying anything. and as he did not lack cunning, he hit upon an excellent expedient, by which he compassed his end. so on the morrow, being a saint's day, he sent a neighbour's lad to monna belcolore with a request that she would be so good as to lend him her stone mortar, for that binguccio dal poggio and nuto buglietti were to breakfast with him that morning, and he therefore wished to make a sauce. belcolore having sent the mortar, the priest, about breakfast time, reckoning that bentivegna del mazzo and belcolore would be at their meal, called his clerk, and said to him:--"take the mortar back to belcolore, and say:--'my master thanks you very kindly, and bids you return the cloak that the lad left with you in pledge.'" the clerk took the mortar to belcolore's house, where, finding her at table with bentivegna, he set the mortar down and delivered the priest's message. whereto belcolore would fain have demurred; but bentivegna gave her a threatening glance, saying:--"so, then, thou takest a pledge from master priest? by christ, i vow, i have half a mind to give thee a great clout o' the chin. go, give it back at once, a murrain on thee! and look to it that whatever he may have a mind to, were it our very ass, he be never denied." so, with a very bad grace, belcolore got up, and went to the wardrobe, and took out the cloak, and gave it to the clerk, saying:--"tell thy master from me:--would to god he may never ply pestle in my mortar again, such honour has he done me for this turn!" so the clerk returned with the cloak, and delivered the message to master priest; who, laughing, made answer:--"tell her, when thou next seest her, that, so she lend us not the mortar, i will not lend her the pestle: be it tit for tat." bentivegna made no account of his wife's words, deeming that 'twas but his chiding that had provoked them. but belcolore was not a little displeased with master priest, and had never a word to say to him till the vintage; after which, what with the salutary fear in which she stood of the mouth of lucifer the great, to which he threatened to consign her, and the must and roast chestnuts that he sent her, she made it up with him, and many a jolly time they had together. and though she got not the five pounds from him, he put a new skin on her tabret, and fitted it with a little bell, wherewith she was satisfied. (1) for this folk-song see cantilene e ballate, strambotti e madrigali, ed. carducci (1871), p. 60. the fragment there printed maybe freely rendered as follows:-the borage is full sappy, and clusters red we see, and my love would make me happy; so that maiden give to me. ill set i find this dance, and better might it be: so, comrade mine, advance, and, changing place with me, stand thou thy love beside. novel iii. -calandrino, bruno and buffalmacco go in quest of the heliotrope beside the mugnone. thinking to have found it, calandrino gets him home laden with stones. his wife chides him: whereat he waxes wroth, beats her, and tells his comrades what they know better than he. -ended pamfilo's story, which moved the ladies to inextinguishable laughter, the queen bade elisa follow suit: whereupon, laughing, she thus began:--i know not, debonair my ladies, whether with my little story, which is no less true than entertaining, i shall give you occasion to laugh as much as pamfilo has done with his, but i will do my best. in our city, where there has never been lack of odd humours and queer folk, there dwelt, no long time ago, a painter named calandrino, a simple soul, of uncouth manners, that spent most of his time with two other painters, the one bruno, the other buffalmacco, by name, pleasant fellows enough, but not without their full share of sound and shrewd sense, and who kept with calandrino for that they not seldom found his singular ways and his simplicity very diverting. there was also at the same time at florence one maso del saggio, a fellow marvellously entertaining by his cleverness, dexterity and unfailing resource; who having heard somewhat touching calandrino's simplicity, resolved to make fun of him by playing him a trick, and inducing him to believe some prodigy. and happening one day to come upon calandrino in the church of san giovanni, where he sate intently regarding the paintings and intaglios of the tabernacle above the altar, which had then but lately been set there, he deemed time and place convenient for the execution of his design; which he accordingly imparted to one of his comrades: whereupon the two men drew nigh the place where calandrino sate alone, and feigning not to see him fell a talking of the virtues of divers stones, of which maso spoke as aptly and pertinently as if he had been a great and learned lapidary. calandrino heard what passed between them, and witting that 'twas no secret, after a while got up, and joined them, to maso's no small delight. he therefore continued his discourse, and being asked by calandrino, where these stones of such rare virtues were to be found, made answer:--"chiefly in berlinzone, in the land of the basques. the district is called bengodi, and there they bind the vines with sausages, and a denier will buy a goose and a gosling into the bargain; and on a mountain, all of grated parmesan cheese, dwell folk that do nought else but make macaroni and raviuoli,(1) and boil them in capon's broth, and then throw them down to be scrambled for; and hard by flows a rivulet of vernaccia, the best that ever was drunk, and never a drop of water therein." "ah! 'tis a sweet country!" quoth calandrino; "but tell me, what becomes of the capons that they boil?" "they are all eaten by the basques," replied maso. then:--"wast thou ever there?" quoth calandrino. whereupon:--"was i ever there, sayst thou?" replied maso. "why, if i have been there once, i have been there a thousand times." "and how many miles is't from here?" quoth calandrino. "oh!" returned maso, "more than thou couldst number in a night without slumber." "farther off, then, than the abruzzi?" said calandrino. "why, yes, 'tis a bit farther," replied maso. now calandrino, like the simple soul that he was, marking the composed and grave countenance with which maso spoke, could not have believed him more thoroughly, if he had uttered the most patent truth, and thus taking his words for gospel:--"'tis a trifle too far for my purse," quoth he; "were it nigher, i warrant thee, i would go with thee thither one while, just to see the macaroni come tumbling down, and take my fill thereof. but tell me, so good luck befall thee, are none of these stones, that have these rare virtues, to be found in these regions?" "ay," replied maso, "two sorts of stone are found there, both of virtues extraordinary. the one sort are the sandstones of settignano and montisci, which being made into millstones, by virtue thereof flour is made; wherefore 'tis a common saying in those countries that blessings come from god and millstones from montisci: but, for that these sandstones are in great plenty, they are held cheap by us, just as by them are emeralds, whereof they have mountains, bigger than monte morello, that shine at midnight, a god's name! and know this, that whoso should make a goodly pair of millstones, and connect them with a ring before ever a hole was drilled in them, and take them to the soldan, should get all he would have thereby. the other sort of stone is the heliotrope, as we lapidaries call it, a stone of very great virtue, inasmuch as whoso carries it on his person is seen, so long as he keep it, by never another soul, where he is not." "these be virtues great indeed," quoth calandrino; "but where is this second stone to be found?" whereto maso made answer that there were usually some to be found in the mugnone. "and what are its size and colour?" quoth calandrino. "the size varies," replied maso, "for some are bigger and some smaller than others; but all are of the same colour, being nearly black." all these matters duly marked and fixed in his memory, calandrino made as if he had other things to attend to, and took his leave of maso with the intention of going in quest of the stone, but not until he had let his especial friends, bruno and buffalmacco, know of his project. so, that no time might be lost, but, postponing everything else, they might begin the quest at once, he set about looking for them, and spent the whole morning in the search. at length, when 'twas already past none, he called to mind that they would be at work in the faentine women's convent, and though 'twas excessively hot, he let nothing stand in his way, but at a pace that was more like a run than a walk, hied him thither; and so soon as he had made them ware of his presence, thus he spoke:--"comrades, so you are but minded to hearken to me, 'tis in our power to become the richest men in florence; for i am informed by one that may be trusted that there is a kind of stone in the mugnone which renders whoso carries it invisible to every other soul in the world. wherefore, methinks, we were wise to let none have the start of us, but go search for this stone without any delay. we shall find it without a doubt, for i know what 'tis like, and when we have found it, we have but to put it in the purse, and get us to the moneychangers, whose counters, as you know, are always laden with groats and florins, and help ourselves to as many as we have a mind to. no one will see us, and so, hey presto! we shall be rich folk in the twinkling of an eye, and have no more need to go besmearing the walls all day long like so many snails." whereat bruno and buffalmacco began only to laugh, and exchanging glances, made as if they marvelled exceedingly, and expressed approval of calandrino's project. then buffalmacco asked, what might be the name of the stone. calandrino, like the numskull that he was, had already forgotten the name: so he made answer:--"why need we concern ourselves with the name, since we know the stone's virtue? methinks, we were best to go look for it, and waste no more time." "well, well," said bruno, "but what are the size and shape of the stone?" "they are of all sizes and shapes," said calandrino, "but they are all pretty nearly black; wherefore, methinks, we were best to collect all the black stones that we see until we hit upon it: and so, let us be off, and lose no more time." "nay, but," said bruno, "wait a bit." and turning to buffalmacco:--"methinks," quoth he, "that calandrino says well: but i doubt this is not the time for such work, seeing that the sun is high, and his rays so flood the mugnone as to dry all the stones; insomuch that stones will now shew as white that in the morning, before the sun had dried them, would shew as black: besides which, to-day being a working-day, there will be for one cause or another folk not a few about the mugnone, who, seeing us, might guess what we were come for, and peradventure do the like themselves; whereby it might well be that they found the stone, and we might miss the trot by trying after the amble. wherefore, so you agree, methinks we were best to go about it in the morning, when we shall be better able to distinguish the black stones from the white, and on a holiday, when there will be none to see us." buffalmacco's advice being approved by bruno, calandrino chimed in; and so 'twas arranged that they should all three go in quest of the stone on the following sunday. so calandrino, having besought his companions above all things to let never a soul in the world hear aught of the matter, for that it had been imparted to him in strict confidence, and having told them what he had heard touching the land of bengodi, the truth of which he affirmed with oaths, took leave of them; and they concerted their plan, while calandrino impatiently expected the sunday morning. whereon, about dawn, he arose, and called them; and forth they issued by the porta a san gallo, and hied them to the mugnone, and following its course, began their quest of the stone, calandrino, as was natural, leading the way, and jumping lightly from rock to rock, and wherever he espied a black stone, stooping down, picking it up and putting it in the fold of his tunic, while his comrades followed, picking up a stone here and a stone there. thus it was that calandrino had not gone far, before, finding that there was no more room in his tunic, he lifted the skirts of his gown, which was not cut after the fashion of hainault, and gathering them under his leathern girdle and making them fast on every side, thus furnished himself with a fresh and capacious lap, which, however, taking no long time to fill, he made another lap out of his cloak, which in like manner he soon filled with stones. wherefore, bruno and buffalmacco seeing that calandrino was well laden, and that 'twas nigh upon breakfast-time, and the moment for action come:--"where is calandrino?" quoth bruno to buffalmacco. whereto buffalmacco, who had calandrino full in view, having first turned about and looked here, there and everywhere, made answer:--"that wot not i; but not so long ago he was just in front of us." "not so long ago, forsooth," returned bruno; "'tis my firm belief that at this very moment he is at breakfast at home, having left to us this wild-goose chase of black stones in the mugnone." "marry," quoth buffalmacco, "he did but serve us right so to trick us and leave, seeing that we were so silly as to believe him. why, who could have thought that any but we would have been so foolish as to believe that a stone of such rare virtue was to be found in the mugnone?" calandrino, hearing their colloquy, forthwith imagined that he had the stone in his hand, and by its virtue, though present, was invisible to them; and overjoyed by such good fortune, would not say a word to undeceive them, but determined to hie him home, and accordingly faced about, and put himself in motion. whereupon:--"ay!" quoth buffalmacco to bruno, "what are we about that we go not back too?" "go we then," said bruno; "but by god i swear that calandrino shall never play me another such trick; and as to this, were i nigh him, as i have been all the morning, i would teach him to remember it for a month or so, such a reminder would i give him in the heel with this stone." and even as he spoke he threw back his arm, and launched the stone against calandrino's heel. galled by the blow, calandrino gave a great hop and a slight gasp, but said nothing, and halted not. then, picking out one of the stones that he had collected:--"bruno," quoth buffalmacco, "see what a goodly stone i have here, would it might but catch calandrino in the back;" and forthwith he discharged it with main force upon the said back. and in short, suiting action to word, now in this way, now in that, they stoned him all the way up the mugnone as far as the porta a san gallo. there they threw away the stones they had picked up, and tarried a while with the customs' officers, who, being primed by them, had let calandrino pass unchallenged, while their laughter knew no bounds. so calandrino, halting nowhere, betook him to his house, which was hard by the corner of the macina. and so well did fortune prosper the trick, that all the way by the stream and across the city there was never a soul that said a word to calandrino, and indeed he encountered but few, for most folk were at breakfast. but no sooner was calandrino thus gotten home with his stones, than it so happened that his good lady, monna tessa, shewed her fair face at the stair's head, and catching sight of him, and being somewhat annoyed by his long delay, chid him, saying:--"what the devil brings thee here so late? must breakfast wait thee until all other folk have had it?" calandrino caught the words, and angered and mortified to find that he was not invisible, broke out with:--"alas! curst woman! so 'twas thou! thou hast undone me: but, god's faith, i will pay thee out." whereupon he was upstairs in a trice, and having discharged his great load of stones in a parlour, rushed with fell intent upon his wife, and laid hold of her by the hair, and threw her down at his feet, and beat and kicked her in every part of her person with all the force he had in his arms and legs, insomuch that he left never a hair of her head or bone of her body unscathed, and 'twas all in vain that she laid her palms together and crossed her fingers and cried for mercy. now buffalmacco and bruno, after making merry a while with the warders of the gate, had set off again at a leisurely pace, keeping some distance behind calandrino. arrived at his door, they heard the noise of the sound thrashing that he was giving his wife; and making as if they were but that very instant come upon the scene, they called him. calandrino, flushed, all of a sweat, and out of breath, shewed himself at the window, and bade them come up. they, putting on a somewhat angry air, did so; and espied calandrino sitting in the parlour, amid the stones which lay all about, untrussed, and puffing with the air of a man spent with exertion, while his lady lay in one of the corners, weeping bitterly, her hair all dishevelled, her clothes torn to shreds, and her face livid, bruised and battered. so after surveying the room a while:--"what means this, calandrino?" quoth they. "art thou minded to build thee a wall, that we see so many stones about?" and then, as they received no answer, they continued:--"and how's this? how comes monna tessa in this plight? 'twould seem thou hast given her a beating! what unheard-of doings are these?" what with the weight of the stones that he had carried, and the fury with which he had beaten his wife, and the mortification that he felt at the miscarriage of his enterprise, calandrino was too spent to utter a word by way of reply. wherefore in a menacing tone buffalmacco began again:--"however out of sorts thou mayst have been, calandrino, thou shouldst not have played us so scurvy a trick as thou hast. to take us with thee to the mugnone in quest of this stone of rare virtue, and then, without so much as saying either god-speed or devil-speed, to be off, and leave us there like a couple of gowks! we take it not a little unkindly: and rest assured that thou shalt never so fool us again." whereto with an effort calandrino replied:--"comrades, be not wroth with me: 'tis not as you think. i, luckless wight! found the stone: listen, and you will no longer doubt that i say sooth. when you began saying one to the other:--'where is calandrino?' i was within ten paces of you, and marking that you came by without seeing me, i went before, and so, keeping ever a little ahead of you, i came hither." and then he told them the whole story of what they had said and done from beginning to end, and shewed them his back and heel, how they had been mauled by the stones; after which:--"and i tell you," he went on, "that, laden though i was with all these stones, that you see here, never a word was said to me by the warders of the gate as i passed in, though you know how vexatious and grievous these warders are wont to make themselves in their determination to see everything: and moreover i met by the way several of my gossips and friends that are ever wont to greet me, and ask me to drink, and never a word said any of them to me, no, nor half a word either; but they passed me by as men that saw me not. but at last, being come home, i was met and seen by this devil of a woman, curses upon her, forasmuch as all things, as you know, lose their virtue in the presence of a woman; whereby i from being the most lucky am become the most luckless man in florence: and therefore i thrashed her as long as i could stir a hand, nor know i wherefore i forbear to sluice her veins for her, cursed be the hour that first i saw her, cursed be the hour that i brought her into the house!" and so, kindling with fresh wrath, he was about to start up and give her another thrashing; when buffalmacco and bruno, who had listened to his story with an air of great surprise, and affirmed its truth again and again, while they all but burst with suppressed laughter, seeing him now frantic to renew his assault upon his wife, got up and withstood and held him back, averring that the lady was in no wise to blame for what had happened, but only he, who, witting that things lost their virtue in the presence of women, had not bidden her keep aloof from him that day; which precaution god had not suffered him to take, either because the luck was not to be his, or because he was minded to cheat his comrades, to whom he should have shewn the stone as soon as he found it. and so, with many words they hardly prevailed upon him to forgive his injured wife, and leaving him to rue the ill-luck that had filled his house with stones, went their way. (1) a sort of rissole. novel iv. -the rector of fiesole loves a widow lady, by whom he is not loved, and thinking to lie with her, lies with her maid, with whom the lady's brothers cause him to be found by his bishop. -elisa being come to the end of her story, which in the telling had yielded no small delight to all the company, the queen, turning to emilia, signified her will, that her story should ensue at once upon that of elisa. and thus with alacrity emilia began:--noble ladies, how we are teased and tormented by these priests and friars, and indeed by clergy of all sorts, i mind me to have been set forth in more than one of the stories that have been told; but as 'twere not possible to say so much thereof but that more would yet remain to say, i purpose to supplement them with the story of a rector, who, in defiance of all the world, was bent upon having the favour of a gentlewoman, whether she would or no. which gentlewoman, being discreet above a little, treated him as he deserved. fiesole, whose hill is here within sight, is, as each of you knows, a city of immense antiquity, and was aforetime great, though now 'tis fallen into complete decay; which notwithstanding, it always was, and still is the see of a bishop. now there was once a gentlewoman, monna piccarda by name, a widow, that had an estate at fiesole, hard by the cathedral, on which, for that she was not in the easiest circumstances, she lived most part of the year, and with her her two brothers, very worthy and courteous young men, both of them. and the lady being wont frequently to resort to the cathedral, and being still quite young and fair and debonair withal, it so befell that the rector grew in the last degree enamoured of her, and waxed at length so bold, that he himself avowed his passion to the lady, praying her to entertain his love, and requite it in like measure. the rector was advanced in years, but otherwise the veriest springald, being bold and of a high spirit, of a boundless conceit of himself, and of mien and manners most affected and in the worst taste, and withal so tiresome and insufferable that he was on bad terms with everybody, and, if with one person more than another, with this lady, who not only cared not a jot for him, but had liefer have had a headache than his company. wherefore the lady discreetly made answer:--"i may well prize your love, sir, and love you i should and will right gladly; but such love as yours and mine may never admit of aught that is not honourable. you are my spiritual father and a priest, and now verging towards old age, circumstances which should ensure your honour and chastity; and i, on my part, am no longer a girl, such as these love affairs might beseem, but a widow, and well you wot how it behoves widows to be chaste. wherefore i pray you to have me excused; for, after the sort you crave, you shall never have my love, nor would i in such sort be loved by you." with this answer the rector was for the nonce fain to be content; but he was not the man to be dismayed and routed by a first repulse; and with his wonted temerity and effrontery he plied her again and again with letters and ambassages, and also by word of mouth, when he espied her entering the church. wherefore the lady finding this persecution more grievous and harassing than she could well bear, cast about how she might be quit thereof in such fashion as he deserved, seeing that he left her no choice; howbeit she would do nought in the matter until she had conferred with her brothers. she therefore told them how the rector pursued her, and how she meant to foil him; and, with their full concurrence, some few days afterwards she went, as she was wont, to church. the rector no sooner saw her, than he approached and accosted her, as he was wont, in a tone of easy familiarity. the lady greeted him, as he came up, with a glance of gladsome recognition; and when he had treated her to not a little of his wonted eloquence, she drew him aside, and heaving a great sigh, said:--"i have oftentimes heard it said, sir, that there is no castle so strong, but that, if the siege be continued day by day, it will sooner or later be taken; which i now plainly perceive is my own case. for so fairly have you hemmed me in with this, that, and the other pretty speech or the like blandishments, that you have constrained me to make nought of my former resolve, and, seeing that i find such favour with you, to surrender myself unto you." whereto, overjoyed, the rector made answer:--"madam, i am greatly honoured; and, sooth to say, i marvelled not a little how you should hold out so long, seeing that i have never had the like experience with any other woman, insomuch that i have at times said:--'were women of silver, they would not be worth a denier, for there is none but would give under the hammer!' but no more of this: when and where may we come together?" "sweet my lord," replied the lady, "for the when, 'tis just as we may think best, for i have no husband to whom to render account of my nights, but the where passes my wit to conjecture." "how so?" quoth the rector. "why not in your own house?" "sir," replied the lady, "you know that i have two brothers, both young men, who day and night bring their comrades into the house, which is none too large: for which reason it might not be done there, unless we were minded to make ourselves, as it were, dumb and blind, uttering never a word, not so much as a monosyllable, and abiding in the dark: in such sort indeed it might be, because they do not intrude upon my chamber; but theirs is so near to mine that the very least whisper could not but be heard." "nay but, madam," returned the rector, "let not this stand in our way for a night or two, until i may bethink me where else we might be more at our ease." "be that as you will, sir," quoth the lady, "i do but entreat that the affair be kept close, so that never a word of it get wind." "have no fear on that score, madam," replied the priest; "and if so it may be, let us forgather to-night." "with pleasure," returned the lady; and having appointed him how and when to come, she left him and went home. now the lady had a maid, that was none too young, and had a countenance the ugliest and most misshapen that ever was seen; for indeed she was flat-nosed, wry-mouthed, and thick-lipped, with huge, ill-set teeth, eyes that squinted and were ever bleared, and a complexion betwixt green and yellow, that shewed as if she had spent the summer not at fiesole but at sinigaglia: besides which she was hip-shot and somewhat halting on the right side. her name was ciuta, but, for that she was such a scurvy bitch to look upon, she was called by all folk ciutazza.(1) and being thus misshapen of body, she was also not without her share of guile. so the lady called her and said:--"ciutazza, so thou wilt do me a service to-night, i will give thee a fine new shift." at the mention of the shift ciutazza made answer:--"so you give me a shift, madam, i will throw myself into the very fire." "good," said the lady; "then i would have thee lie to-night in my bed with a man, whom thou wilt caress; but look thou say never a word, that my brothers, who, as thou knowest, sleep in the next room, hear thee not; and afterwards i will give thee the shift." "sleep with a man!" quoth ciutazza: "why, if need be, i will sleep with six." so in the evening master rector came, as he had been bidden; and the two young men, as the lady had arranged, being in their room, and making themselves very audible, he stole noiselessly, and in the dark, into the lady's room, and got him on to the bed, which ciutazza, well advised by the lady how to behave, mounted from the other side. whereupon master rector, thinking to have the lady by his side, took ciutazza in his arms, and fell a kissing her, saying never a word the while, and ciutazza did the like; and so he enjoyed her, plucking the boon which he had so long desired. the rector and ciutazza thus closeted, the lady charged her brothers to execute the rest of her plan. they accordingly stole quietly out of their room, and hied them to the piazza, where fortune proved propitious beyond what they had craved of her; for, it being a very hot night, the bishop had been seeking them, purposing to go home with them, and solace himself with their society, and quench his thirst. with which desire he acquainted them, as soon as he espied them coming into the piazza; and so they escorted him to their house, and there in the cool of their little courtyard, which was bright with many a lamp, he took, to his no small comfort, a draught of their good wine. which done:--"sir," said the young men, "since of your great courtesy you have deigned to visit our poor house, to which we were but now about to invite you, we should be gratified if you would be pleased to give a look at somewhat, a mere trifle though it be, which we have here to shew you." the bishop replied that he would do so with pleasure. whereupon one of the young men took a lighted torch and led the way, the bishop and the rest following, to the chamber where master rector lay with ciutazza. now the rector, being in hot haste, had ridden hard, insomuch that he was already gotten above three miles on his way when they arrived; and so, being somewhat tired, he was resting, but, hot though the night was, he still held ciutazza in his arms. in which posture he was shewn to the bishop, when, preceded by the young man bearing the light, and followed by the others, he entered the chamber. and being roused, and observing the light and the folk that stood about him, master rector was mighty ashamed and affrighted, and popped his head under the clothes. but the bishop, reprimanding him severely, constrained him to thrust his head out again, and take a view of his bed-fellow. thus made aware of the trick which the lady had played him, the rector was now, both on that score and by reason of his signal disgrace, the saddest man that ever was; and his discomfiture was complete, when, having donned his clothes, he was committed by the bishop's command to close custody and sent to prison, there to expiate his offence by a rigorous penance. the bishop was then fain to know how it had come about that he had forgathered there with ciutazza. whereupon the young men related the whole story; which ended, the bishop commended both the lady and the young men not a little, for that they had taken condign vengeance upon him without imbruing their hands in the blood of a priest. the bishop caused him to bewail his transgression forty days; but what with his love, and the scornful requital which it had received, he bewailed it more than forty and nine days, not to mention that for a great while he could not shew himself in the street but the boys would point the finger at him and say:--"there goes he that lay with ciutazza." which was such an affliction to him that he was like to go mad. on this wise the worthy lady rid herself of the rector's vexatious importunity, and ciutazza had a jolly night and earned her shift. (1) an augmentative form, with a suggestion of cagnazza, bitch-like. novel v. -three young men pull down the breeches of a judge from the marches, while he is administering justice on the bench. -so ended emilia her story; and when all had commended the widow lady:--"'tis now thy turn to speak," quoth the queen, fixing her gaze upon filostrato, who answered that he was ready, and forthwith thus began:--sweet my ladies, by what i remember of that young man, to wit, maso del saggio, whom elisa named a while ago, i am prompted to lay aside a story that i had meant to tell you, and to tell you another, touching him and some of his comrades, which, notwithstanding there are in it certain words (albeit 'tis not unseemly) which your modesty forbears to use, is yet so laughable that i shall relate it. as you all may well have heard, there come not seldom to our city magistrates from the marches, who for the most part are men of a mean spirit, and in circumstances so reduced and beggarly, that their whole life seems to be but a petty-foggery; and by reason of this their inbred sordidness and avarice they bring with them judges and notaries that have rather the air of men taken from the plough or the last than trained in the schools of law.(1) now one of these marchers, being come hither as podesta, brought with him judges not a few, and among them one that called himself messer niccola da san lepidio, and looked liker to a locksmith than aught else. however, this fellow was assigned with the rest of the judges to hear criminal causes. and as folk will often go to the court, though they have no concern whatever there, it so befell that maso del saggio went thither one morning in quest of one of his friends, and there chancing to set eyes on this messer niccola, where he sate, deemed him a fowl of no common feather, and surveyed him from head to foot, observing that the vair which he wore on his head was all begrimed, that he carried an ink-horn at his girdle, that his gown was longer than his robe, and many another detail quite foreign to the appearance of a man of birth and breeding, of which that which he deemed most notable was a pair of breeches, which, as he saw (for the judge's outer garments being none too ample were open in front, as he sate), reached half-way down his legs. by which sight his mind was presently diverted from the friend whom he came there to seek; and forth he hied him in quest of other two of his comrades, the one ribi, the other matteuzzo by name, fellows both of them not a whit less jolly than maso himself; and having found them, he said to them:--"an you love me, come with me to the court, and i will shew you the queerest scarecrow that ever you saw." so the two men hied them with him to the court; and there he pointed out to them the judge and his breeches. what they saw from a distance served to set them laughing: then drawing nearer to the dais on which master judge was seated, they observed that 'twas easy enough to get under the dais, and moreover that the plank, on which the judge's feet rested, was broken, so that there was plenty of room for the passage of a hand and arm. whereupon quoth maso to his comrades:--"'twere a very easy matter to pull these breeches right down: wherefore i propose that we do so." each of the men had marked how it might be done; and so, having concerted both what they should do and what they should say, they came to the court again next morning; and, the court being crowded, matteuzzo, observed by never a soul, slipped beneath the dais, and posted himself right under the spot where the judge's feet rested, while the other two men took their stand on either side of the judge, each laying hold of the hem of his robe. then:--"sir, sir, i pray you for god's sake," began maso, "that, before the pilfering rascal that is there beside you can make off, you constrain him to give me back a pair of jack boots that he has stolen from me, which theft he still denies, though 'tis not a month since i saw him getting them resoled." meanwhile ribi, at the top of his voice, shouted:--"believe him not, sir, the scurvy knave! 'tis but that he knows that i am come to demand restitution of a valise that he has stolen from me that he now for the first time trumps up this story about a pair of jack boots that i have had in my house down to the last day or two; and if you doubt what i say, i can bring as witness trecca, my neighbour, and grassa, the tripe-woman, and one that goes about gathering the sweepings of santa maria a verzaia, who saw him when he was on his way back from the farm." but shout as he might, maso was still even with him, nor for all that did ribi bate a jot of his clamour. and while the judge stood, bending now towards the one, now towards the other, the better to hear them, matteuzzo seized his opportunity, and thrusting his hand through the hole in the plank caught hold of the judge's breeches, and tugged at them amain. whereby down they came straightway, for the judge was a lean man, and shrunk in the buttocks. the judge, being aware of the accident, but knowing not how it had come about, would have gathered his outer garments together in front, so as to cover the defect, but maso on the one side, and ribi on the other, held him fast, shouting amain and in chorus:--"you do me a grievous wrong, sir, thus to deny me justice, nay, even a hearing, and to think of quitting the court: there needs no writ in this city for such a trifling matter as this." and thus they held him by the clothes and in parley, until all that were in the court perceived that he had lost his breeches. however, after a while, matteuzzo dropped the breeches, and slipped off, and out of the court, without being observed, and ribi, deeming that the joke had gone far enough, exclaimed:--"by god, i vow, i will appeal to the syndics;" while maso, on the other side, let go the robe, saying:--"nay, but for my part, i will come here again and again and again, until i find you less embarrassed than you seem to be to-day." and so the one this way, the other that way, they made off with all speed. whereupon master judge, disbreeched before all the world, was as one that awakens from sleep, albeit he was ware of his forlorn condition, and asked whither the parties in the case touching the jack boots and the valise were gone. however, as they were not to be found, he fell a swearing by the bowels of god, that 'twas meet and proper that he should know and wit, whether 'twas the custom at florence to disbreech judges sitting in the seat of justice. when the affair reached the ears of the podesta, he made no little stir about it; but, being informed by some of his friends, that 'twould not have happened, but that the florentines were minded to shew him, that, in place of the judges he should have brought with him, he had brought but gowks, to save expense, he deemed it best to say no more about it, and so for that while the matter went no further. (1) it was owing to their internal dissensions that the florentines were from time to time fain to introduce these stranger podestas. novel vi. -bruno and buffalmacco steal a pig from calandrino, and induce him to essay its recovery by means of pills of ginger and vernaccia. of the said pills they give him two, one after the other, made of dog-ginger compounded with aloes; and it then appearing as if he had had the pig himself, they constrain him to buy them off, if he would not have them tell his wife. -filostrato's story, which elicited not a little laughter, was no sooner ended, than the queen bade filomena follow suit. wherefore thus filomena began:--as, gracious ladies, 'twas the name of maso del saggio that prompted filostrato to tell the story that you have but now heard, even so 'tis with me in regard of calandrino and his comrades, of whom i am minded to tell you another story, which you will, i think, find entertaining. who calandrino, bruno and buffalmacco were, i need not explain; you know them well enough from the former story; and therefore i will tarry no longer than to say that calandrino had a little estate not far from florence, which his wife had brought him by way of dowry, and which yielded them yearly, among other matters, a pig; and 'twas his custom every year in the month of december to resort to the farm with his wife, there to see to the killing and salting of the said pig. now, one of these years it so happened that his wife being unwell, calandrino went thither alone to kill the pig. and bruno and buffalmacco learning that he was gone to the farm, and that his wife was not with him, betook them to the house of a priest that was their especial friend and a neighbour of calandrino, there to tarry a while. upon their arrival calandrino, who had that very morning killed the pig, met them with the priest, and accosted them, saying:--"a hearty welcome to you. i should like you to see what an excellent manager i am;" and so he took them into his house, and shewed them the pig. they observed that 'twas a very fine pig; and learned from calandrino that he was minded to salt it for household consumption. "then thou art but a fool," quoth bruno. "sell it, man, and let us have a jolly time with the money; and tell thy wife that 'twas stolen." "not i," replied calandrino: "she would never believe me, and would drive me out of the house. urge me no further, for i will never do it." the others said a great deal more, but to no purpose; and calandrino bade them to supper, but so coldly that they declined, and left him. presently:--"should we not steal this pig from him to-night?" quoth bruno to buffalmacco. "could we so?" returned buffalmacco. "how?" "why, as to that," rejoined bruno, "i have already marked how it may be done, if he bestow not the pig elsewhere." "so be it, then," said buffalmacco: "we will steal it; and then, perchance, our good host, master priest, will join us in doing honour to such good cheer?" "that right gladly will i," quoth the priest. whereupon:--"some address, though," quoth bruno, "will be needful: thou knowest, buffalmacco, what a niggardly fellow calandrino is, and how greedily he drinks at other folk's expense. go we, therefore, and take him to the tavern, and there let the priest make as if, to do us honour, he would pay the whole score, and suffer calandrino to pay never a soldo, and he will grow tipsy, and then we shall speed excellent well, because he is alone in the house." as bruno proposed, so they did: and calandrino, finding that the priest would not suffer him to pay, drank amain, and took a great deal more aboard than he had need of; and the night being far spent when he left the tavern, he dispensed with supper, and went home, and thinking to have shut the door, got him to bed, leaving it open. buffalmacco and bruno went to sup with the priest; and after supper, taking with them certain implements with which to enter calandrino's house, where bruno thought it most feasible, they stealthily approached it; but finding the door open, they entered, and took down the pig, and carried it away to the priest's house, and having there bestowed it safely, went to bed. in the morning when calandrino, his head at length quit of the fumes of the wine, got up, and came downstairs and found that his pig was nowhere to be seen, and that the door was open, he asked this, that, and the other man, whether they wist who had taken the pig away, and getting no answer, he began to make a great outcry:--"alas, alas! luckless man that i am, that my pig should have been stolen from me!" meanwhile bruno and buffalmacco, being also risen, made up to him, to hear what he would say touching the pig. whom he no sooner saw, than well-nigh weeping he called them, saying:--"alas! my friends! my pig is stolen from me." bruno stepped up to him and said in a low tone:--"'tis passing strange if thou art in the right for once." "alas!" returned calandrino, "what i say is but too true." "why, then, out with it, man," quoth bruno, "cry aloud, that all folk may know that 'tis so." calandrino then raised his voice and said:--"by the body o' god i say of a truth that my pig has been stolen from me." "so!" quoth bruno, "but publish it, man, publish it; lift up thy voice, make thyself well heard, that all may believe thy report." "thou art enough to make me give my soul to the enemy," replied calandrino. "i say--dost not believe me?--that hang me by the neck if the pig is not stolen from me!" "nay, but," quoth bruno, "how can it be? i saw it here but yesterday. dost think to make me believe that it has taken to itself wings and flown away?" "all the same 'tis as i tell thee," returned calandrino. "is it possible?" quoth bruno. "ay indeed," replied calandrino; "'tis even so: and i am undone, and know not how to go home. never will my wife believe me; or if she do so, i shall know no peace this year." "upon my hope of salvation," quoth bruno, "'tis indeed a bad business, if so it really is. but thou knowest, calandrino, that 'twas but yesterday i counselled thee to make believe that 'twas so. i should be sorry to think thou didst befool thy wife and us at the same time." "ah!" vociferated calandrino, "wilt thou drive me to despair and provoke me to blaspheme god and the saints and all the company of heaven? i tell thee that the pig has been stolen from me in the night." whereupon:--"if so it be," quoth buffalmacco, "we must find a way, if we can, to recover it." "find a way?" said calandrino: "how can we compass that?" "why," replied buffalmacco, "'tis certain that no one has come from india to steal thy pig: it must have been one of thy neighbours, and if thou couldst bring them together, i warrant thee, i know how to make the assay with bread and cheese, and we will find out in a trice who has had the pig." "ay," struck in bruno, "make thy assay with bread and cheese in the presence of these gentry hereabout, one of whom i am sure has had the pig! why, the thing would be seen through: and they would not come." "what shall we do, then?" said buffalmacco. whereto bruno made answer:--"it must be done with good pills of ginger and good vernaccia; and they must be bidden come drink with us. they will suspect nothing, and will come; and pills of ginger can be blessed just as well as bread and cheese." "beyond a doubt, thou art right," quoth buffalmacco; "and thou calandrino, what sayst thou? shall we do as bruno says?" "nay, i entreat you for the love of god," quoth calandrino, "do even so: for if i knew but who had had the pig, i should feel myself half consoled for my loss." "go to, now," quoth bruno, "i am willing to do thy errand to florence for these commodities, if thou givest me the money." calandrino had some forty soldi upon him, which he gave to bruno, who thereupon hied him to florence to a friend of his that was an apothecary, and bought a pound of good pills of ginger, two of which, being of dog-ginger, he caused to be compounded with fresh hepatic aloes, and then to be coated with sugar like the others; and lest they should be lost, or any of the others mistaken for them, he had a slight mark set upon them by which he might readily recognize them. he also bought a flask of good vernaccia, and, thus laden, returned to the farm, and said to calandrino:--"to-morrow morning thou wilt bid those whom thou suspectest come hither to drink with thee: as 'twill be a saint's day, they will all come readily enough; and to-night i and buffalmacco will say the incantation over the pills, which in the morning i will bring to thee here, and for our friendship's sake will administer them myself, and do and say all that needs to be said and done." so calandrino did as bruno advised, and on the morrow a goodly company, as well of young men from florence, that happened to be in the village, as of husbandmen, being assembled in front of the church around the elm, bruno and buffalmacco came, bearing a box containing the ginger, and the flask of wine, and ranged the folk in a circle. whereupon: "gentlemen," said bruno, "'tis meet i tell you the reason why you are gathered here, that if aught unpleasant to you should befall, you may have no ground for complaint against me. calandrino here was the night before last robbed of a fine pig, and cannot discover who has had it; and, for that it must have been stolen by some one of us here, he would have each of you take and eat one of these pills and drink of this vernaccia. wherefore i forthwith do you to wit, that whoso has had the pig will not be able to swallow the pill, but will find it more bitter than poison, and will spit it out; and so, rather, than he should suffer this shame in presence of so many, 'twere perhaps best that he that has had the pig should confess the fact to the priest, and i will wash my hands of the affair." all professed themselves ready enough to eat the pills; and so, having set them in a row with calandrino among them, bruno, beginning at one end, proceeded to give each a pill, and when he came to calandrino he chose one of the pills of dog-ginger and put it in his hand. calandrino thrust it forthwith between his teeth and began to chew it; but no sooner was his tongue acquainted with the aloes, than, finding the bitterness intolerable, he spat it out. now, the eyes of all the company being fixed on one another to see who should spit out his pill, bruno, who, not having finished the distribution, feigned to be concerned with nought else, heard some one in his rear say:--"ha! calandrino, what means this?" and at once turning round, and marking that calandrino had spit out his pill:--"wait a while," quoth he, "perchance 'twas somewhat else that caused thee to spit: take another;" and thereupon whipping out the other pill of dog-ginger, he set it between calandrino's teeth, and finished the distribution. bitter as calandrino had found the former pill, he found this tenfold more so; but being ashamed to spit it out, he kept it a while in his mouth and chewed it, and, as he did so, tears stood in his eyes that shewed as large as filberts, and at length, being unable to bear it any longer, he spat it out, as he had its predecessor. which being observed by buffalmacco and bruno, who were then administering the wine, and by all the company, 'twas averred by common consent that calandrino had committed the theft himself; for which cause certain of them took him severely to task. however, the company being dispersed, and bruno and buffalmacco left alone with calandrino, buffalmacco began on this wise:--"i never doubted but that thou hadst had it thyself, and wast minded to make us believe that it had been stolen from thee, that we might not have of thee so much as a single drink out of the price which thou gottest for it." calandrino, with the bitterness of the aloes still on his tongue, fell a swearing that he had not had it. whereupon:--"nay, but, comrade," quoth buffalmacco, "upon thy honour, what did it fetch? six florins?" whereto, calandrino being now on the verge of desperation, bruno added:--"now be reasonable, calandrino; among the company that ate and drank with us there was one that told me that thou hadst up there a girl that thou didst keep for thy pleasure, giving her what by hook or by crook thou couldst get together, and that he held it for certain that thou hadst sent her this pig. and thou art grown expert in this sort of cozenage. thou tookest us one while adown the mugnone a gathering black stones, and having thus started us on a wild-goose chase, thou madest off; and then wouldst fain have us believe that thou hadst found the stone: and now, in like manner, thou thinkest by thine oaths to persuade us that this pig which thou hast given away or sold, has been stolen from thee. but we know thy tricks of old; never another couldst thou play us; and, to be round with thee, this spell has cost us some trouble: wherefore we mean that thou shalt give us two pair of capons, or we will let monna tessa know all." seeing that he was not believed, and deeming his mortification ample without the addition of his wife's resentment, calandrino gave them the two pair of capons, with which, when the pig was salted, they returned to florence, leaving calandrino with the loss and the laugh against him. novel vii. -a scholar loves a widow lady, who, being enamoured of another, causes him to spend a winter's night awaiting her in the snow. he afterwards by a stratagem causes her to stand for a whole day in july, naked upon a tower, exposed to the flies, the gadflies, and the sun. -over the woes of poor calandrino the ladies laughed not a little, and had laughed yet more, but that it irked them that those that had robbed him of the pig should also take from him the capons. however, the story being ended, the queen bade pampinea give them hers: and thus forthwith pampinea began:--dearest ladies, it happens oftentimes that the artful scorner meets his match; wherefore 'tis only little wits that delight to scorn. in a series of stories we have heard tell of tricks played without aught in the way of reprisals following: by mine i purpose in some degree to excite your compassion for a gentlewoman of our city (albeit the retribution that came upon her was but just) whose flout was returned in the like sort, and to such effect that she well-nigh died thereof. the which to hear will not be unprofitable to you, for thereby you will learn to be more careful how you flout others, and therein you will do very wisely. 'tis not many years since there dwelt at florence a lady young and fair, and of a high spirit, as also of right gentle lineage, and tolerably well endowed with temporal goods. now elena--such was the lady's name--being left a widow, was minded never to marry again, being enamoured of a handsome young gallant of her own choosing, with whom she, recking nought of any other lover, did, by the help of a maid in whom she placed much trust, not seldom speed the time gaily and with marvellous delight. meanwhile it so befell that a young nobleman of our city, rinieri by name, who had spent much time in study at paris, not that he might thereafter sell his knowledge by retail, but that he might learn the reasons and causes of things, which accomplishment shews to most excellent advantage in a gentleman, returned to florence, and there lived as a citizen in no small honour with his fellows, both by reason of his rank and of his learning. but as it is often the case that those who are most versed in deep matters are the soonest mastered by love, so was it with rinieri. for at a festal gathering, to which one day he went, there appeared before his eyes this elena, of whom we spoke, clad in black, as is the wont of our florentine widows, and shewing to his mind so much fairer and more debonair than any other woman that he had ever seen, that happy indeed he deemed the man might call himself, to whom god in his goodness should grant the right to hold her naked in his arms. so now and again he eyed her stealthily, and knowing that boons goodly and precious are not to be gotten without trouble, he made up his mind to study and labour with all assiduity how best to please her, that so he might win her love, and thereby the enjoyment of her. the young gentlewoman was not used to keep her eyes bent ever towards the infernal regions; but, rating herself at no less, if not more, than her deserts, she was dexterous to move them to and fro, and thus busily scanning her company, soon detected the men who regarded her with pleasure. by which means having discovered rinieri's passion, she inly laughed, and said:--'twill turn out that 'twas not for nothing that i came here to-day, for, if i mistake not, i have caught a gander by the bill. so she gave him an occasional sidelong glance, and sought as best she might to make him believe that she was not indifferent to him, deeming that the more men she might captivate by her charms, the higher those charms would be rated, and most especially by him whom she had made lord of them and her love. the erudite scholar bade adieu to philosophical meditation, for the lady entirely engrossed his mind; and, having discovered her house, he, thinking to please her, found divers pretexts for frequently passing by it. whereon the lady, her vanity flattered for the reason aforesaid, plumed herself not a little, and shewed herself pleased to see him. thus encouraged, the scholar found means to make friends with her maid, to whom he discovered his love, praying her to do her endeavour with her mistress, that he might have her favour. the maid was profuse of promises, and gave her mistress his message, which she no sooner heard, than she was convulsed with laughter, and replied:--"he brought sense enough hither from paris: knowest thou where he has since been to lose it? go to, now; let us give him that which he seeks. tell him, when he next speaks to you of the matter, that i love him vastly more than he loves me, but that i must have regard to my reputation, so that i may be able to hold my head up among other ladies; which, if he is really the wise man they say, will cause him to affect me much more." ah! poor woman! poor woman! she little knew, my ladies, how rash it is to try conclusions with scholars. the maid found the scholar, and did her mistress's errand. the scholar, overjoyed, proceeded to urge his suit with more ardour, to indite letters, and send presents. the lady received all that he sent her, but vouchsafed no answers save such as were couched in general terms: and on this wise she kept him dangling a long while. at last, having disclosed the whole affair to her lover, who evinced some resentment and jealousy, she, to convince him that his suspicions were groundless, and for that she was much importuned by the scholar, sent word to him by her maid, that never since he had assured her of his love, had occasion served her to do him pleasure, but that next christmastide she hoped to be with him; wherefore, if he were minded to await her in the courtyard of her house on the night of the day next following the feast, she would meet him there as soon as she could. elated as ne'er another, the scholar hied him at the appointed time to the lady's house, and being ushered into a courtyard by the maid, who forthwith turned the key upon him, addressed himself there to await the lady's coming. now the lady's lover, by her appointment, was with her that evening; and, when they had gaily supped, she told him what she had in hand that night, adding:--"and so thou wilt be able to gauge the love which i have borne and bear this scholar, whom thou hast foolishly regarded as a rival." the lover heard the lady's words with no small delight, and waited in eager expectancy to see her make them good. the scholar, hanging about there in the courtyard, began to find it somewhat chillier than he would have liked, for it had snowed hard all day long, so that the snow lay everywhere thick on the ground; however, he bore it patiently, expecting to be recompensed by and by. after a while the lady said to her lover:--"go we to the chamber and take a peep through a lattice at him of whom thou art turned jealous, and mark what he does, and how he will answer the maid, whom i have bidden go speak with him." so the pair hied them to a lattice, wherethrough they could see without being seen, and heard the maid call from another lattice to the scholar, saying:--"rinieri, my lady is distressed as never woman was, for that one of her brothers is come here to-night, and after talking a long while with her, must needs sup with her, and is not yet gone, but, i think, he will soon be off; and that is the reason why she has not been able to come to thee, but she will come soon now. she trusts it does not irk thee to wait so long." whereto the scholar, supposing that 'twas true, made answer:--"tell my lady to give herself no anxiety on my account, until she can conveniently come to me, but to do so as soon as she may." whereupon the maid withdrew from the window, and went to bed; while the lady said to her lover:--"now, what sayst thou? thinkst thou that, if i had that regard for him, which thou fearest, i would suffer him to tarry below there to get frozen?" which said, the lady and her now partly reassured lover got them to bed, where for a great while they disported them right gamesomely, laughing together and making merry over the luckless scholar. the scholar, meanwhile, paced up and down the courtyard to keep himself warm, nor indeed had he where to sit, or take shelter: in this plight he bestowed many a curse upon the lady's brother for his long tarrying, and never a sound did he hear but he thought that 'twas the lady opening the door. but vain indeed were his hopes: the lady, having solaced herself with her lover until hard upon midnight, then said to him:--"how ratest thou our scholar, my soul? whether is the greater his wit, or the love i bear him, thinkst thou? will the cold, that, of my ordaining, he now suffers, banish from thy breast the suspicion which my light words the other day implanted there?" "ay, indeed, heart of my body!" replied the lover, "well wot i now that even as thou art to me, my weal, my consolation, my bliss, so am i to thee." "so:" quoth the lady, "then i must have full a thousand kisses from thee, to prove that thou sayst sooth." the lover's answer was to strain her to his heart, and give her not merely a thousand but a hundred thousand kisses. in such converse they dallied a while longer, and then:--"get we up, now," quoth the lady, "that we may go see if 'tis quite spent, that fire, with which, as he wrote to me daily, this new lover of mine used to burn." so up they got and hied them to the lattice which they had used before, and peering out into the courtyard, saw the scholar dancing a hornpipe to the music that his own teeth made, a chattering for extremity of cold; nor had they ever seen it footed so nimbly and at such a pace. whereupon:--"how sayst thou, sweet my hope?" quoth the lady. "know i not how to make men dance without the aid of either trumpet or cornemuse?" "indeed thou dost my heart's delight," replied the lover. quoth then the lady:--"i have a mind that we go down to the door. thou wilt keep quiet, and i will speak to him, and we shall hear what he says, which, peradventure, we shall find no less diverting than the sight of him." so they stole softly out of the chamber and down to the door, which leaving fast closed, the lady set her lips to a little hole that was there, and with a low voice called the scholar, who, hearing her call him, praised god, making too sure that he was to be admitted, and being come to the door, said:--"here am i, madam; open for god's sake; let me in, for i die of cold." "oh! ay," replied the lady, "i know thou hast a chill, and of course, there being a little snow about, 'tis mighty cold; but well i wot the nights are colder far at paris. i cannot let thee in as yet, because my accursed brother, that came to sup here this evening, is still with me; but he will soon take himself off, and then i will let thee in without a moment's delay. i have but now with no small difficulty given him the slip, to come and give thee heart that the waiting irk thee not." "nay but, madam," replied the scholar, "for the love of god, i entreat you, let me in, that i may have a roof over my head, because for some time past there has been never so thick a fall of snow, and 'tis yet snowing; and then i will wait as long as you please." "alas! sweet my love," quoth the lady, "that i may not, for this door makes such a din, when one opens it, that my brother would be sure to hear, were i to let thee in; but i will go tell him to get him gone, and so come back and admit thee." "go at once, then," returned the scholar, "and prithee, see that a good fire be kindled, that, when i get in, i may warm myself, for i am now so chilled through and through that i have scarce any feeling left." "that can scarce be," rejoined the lady, "if it be true, what thou hast so protested in thy letters, that thou art all afire for love of me: 'tis plain to me now that thou didst but mock me. i now take my leave of thee: wait and be of good cheer." so the lady and her lover, who, to his immense delight, had heard all that passed, betook them to bed; however, little sleep had they that night, but spent the best part of it in disporting themselves and making merry over the unfortunate scholar, who, his teeth now chattering to such a tune that he seemed to have been metamorphosed into a stork, perceived that he had been befooled, and after making divers fruitless attempts to open the door and seeking means of egress to no better purpose, paced to and fro like a lion, cursing the villainous weather, the long night, his simplicity, and the perversity of the lady, against whom (the vehemence of his wrath suddenly converting the love he had so long borne her to bitter and remorseless enmity) he now plotted within himself divers and grand schemes of revenge, on which he was far more bent than ever he had been on forgathering with her. slowly the night wore away, and with the first streaks of dawn the maid, by her mistress's direction, came down, opened the door of the courtyard, and putting on a compassionate air, greeted rinieri with:--"foul fall him that came here yestereve; he has afflicted us with his presence all night long, and has kept thee a freezing out here: but harkye, take it not amiss; that which might not be to-night shall be another time: well wot i that nought could have befallen that my lady could so ill brook." for all his wrath, the scholar, witting, like the wise man he was, that menaces serve but to put the menaced on his guard, kept pent within his breast that which unbridled resentment would have uttered, and said quietly, and without betraying the least trace of anger:--"in truth 'twas the worst night i ever spent, but i understood quite well that the lady was in no wise to blame, for that she herself, being moved to pity of me, came down here to make her excuses, and to comfort me; and, as thou sayst, what has not been to-night will be another time: wherefore commend me to her, and so, adieu!" then, well-nigh paralysed for cold, he got him, as best he might, home, where, weary and fit to die for drowsiness, he threw himself on his bed, and fell into a deep sleep, from which he awoke to find that he had all but lost the use of his arms and legs. he therefore sent for some physicians, and having told them what a chill he had gotten, caused them have a care to his health. but, though they treated him with active and most drastic remedies, it cost them some time and no little trouble to restore to the cramped muscles their wonted pliancy, and, indeed, but for his youth and the milder weather that was at hand, 'twould have gone very hard with him. however, recover he did his health and lustihood, and nursing his enmity, feigned to be vastly more enamoured of his widow than ever before. and so it was that after a while fortune furnished him with an opportunity of satisfying his resentment, for the gallant of whom the widow was enamoured, utterly regardless of the love she bore him, grew enamoured of another lady, and was minded no more to pleasure the widow in aught either by word or by deed; wherefore she now pined in tears and bitterness of spirit. however, her maid, who commiserated her not a little, and knew not how to dispel the dumps that the loss of her lover had caused her, espying the scholar pass along the street, as he had been wont, conceived the silly idea that the lady's lover might be induced to return to his old love by some practice of a necromantic order, wherein she doubted not that the scholar must be a thorough adept; which idea she imparted to her mistress. the lady, being none too well furnished with sense, never thinking that, if the scholar had been an adept in necromancy, he would have made use of it in his own behoof, gave heed to what her maid said, and forthwith bade her learn of the scholar whether he would place his skill at her service, and assure him that, if he so did, she, in guerdon thereof, would do his pleasure. the maid did her mistress's errand well and faithfully. the scholar no sooner heard the message, than he said to himself:--praised be thy name, o god, that the time is now come, when with thy help i may be avenged upon this wicked woman of the wrong she did me in requital of the great love i bore her. then, turning to the maid, he said:--"tell my lady to set her mind at ease touching this matter; for that, were her lover in india, i would forthwith bring him hither to crave her pardon of that wherein he has offended her. as to the course she should take in the matter, i tarry but her pleasure to make it known to her, when and where she may think fit: tell her so, and bid her from me to be of good cheer." the maid carried his answer to her mistress, and arranged that they should meet in the church of santa lucia of prato. thither accordingly they came, the lady and the scholar, and conversed apart, and the lady, quite oblivious of the ill-usage by which she had well-nigh done him to death, opened all her mind to him, and besought him, if he had any regard to her welfare, to aid her to the attainment of her desire. "madam," replied the scholar, "true it is that among other lore that i acquired at paris was this of necromancy, whereof, indeed, i know all that may be known; but, as 'tis in the last degree displeasing to god, i had sworn never to practise it either for my own or for any other's behoof. 'tis also true that the love i bear you is such that i know not how to refuse you aught that you would have me do for you; and so, were this single essay enough to consign me to hell, i would adventure it to pleasure you. but i mind me that 'tis a matter scarce so easy of performance as, perchance, you suppose, most especially when a woman would fain recover the love of a man, or a man that of a woman, for then it must be done by the postulant in proper person, and at night, and in lonely places, and unattended, so that it needs a stout heart; nor know i whether you are disposed to comply with these conditions." the lady, too enamoured to be discreet, made answer:--"so shrewdly does love goad me, that there is nought i would not do to bring him back to me who wrongfully has deserted me; but tell me, prithee, wherein it is that i have need of this stout heart." "madam," returned the despiteful scholar, "'twill be my part to fashion in tin an image of him you would fain lure back to you: and when i have sent you the image, 'twill be for you, when the moon is well on the wane, to dip yourself, being stark naked, and the image, seven times in a flowing stream, and this you must do quite alone about the hour of first sleep, and afterwards, still naked, you must get you upon some tree or some deserted house, and facing the north, with the image in your hand, say certain words that i shall give you in writing seven times; which, when you have done, there will come to you two damsels, the fairest you ever saw, who will greet you graciously, and ask of you what you would fain have; to whom you will disclose frankly and fully all that you crave; and see to it that you make no mistake in the name; and when you have said all, they will depart, and you may then descend and return to the spot where you left your clothes, and resume them and go home. and rest assured, that before the ensuing midnight your lover will come to you in tears, and crave your pardon and mercy, and that thenceforth he will never again desert you for any other woman." the lady gave entire credence to the scholar's words, and deeming her lover as good as in her arms again, recovered half her wonted spirits: wherefore:--"make no doubt," quoth she, "that i shall do as thou biddest; and indeed i am most favoured by circumstance; for in upper val d'arno i have an estate adjoining the river, and 'tis now july, so that to bathe will be delightful. ay, and now i mind me that at no great distance from the river there is a little tower, which is deserted, save that now and again the shepherds will get them up by the chestnut-wood ladder to the roof, thence to look out for their strayed sheep; 'tis a place lonely indeed, and quite out of ken; and when i have clomb it, as climb it i will, i doubt not 'twill be the best place in all the world to give effect to your instructions." well pleased to be certified of the lady's intention, the scholar, to whom her estate and the tower were very well known, made answer:--"i was never in those parts, madam, and therefore know neither your estate nor the tower, but, if 'tis as you say, 'twill certainly be the best place in the world for your purpose. so, when time shall serve, i will send you the image and the orison. but i pray you, when you shall have your heart's desire, and know that i have done you good service, do not forget me, but keep your promise to me." "that will i without fail," quoth the lady; and so she bade him farewell, and went home. the scholar, gleefully anticipating the success of his enterprise, fashioned an image, and inscribed it with certain magical signs, and wrote some gibberish by way of orison, which in due time he sent to the lady, bidding her the very next night do as he had prescribed: and thereupon he hied him privily with one of his servants to the house of a friend hard by the tower, there to carry his purpose into effect. the lady, on her part, set out with her maid, and betook her to her estate, and, night being come, sent the maid to bed, as if she were minded to go to rest herself; and about the hour of first sleep stole out of the house and down to the tower, beside the arno; and when, having carefully looked about her, she was satisfied that never a soul was to be seen or heard, she took off her clothes and hid them under a bush; then, with the image in her hand, she dipped herself seven times in the river; which done, she hied her with the image to the tower. the scholar, having at nightfall couched himself with his servant among the willows and other trees that fringed the bank, marked all that she did, and how, as she passed by him, the whiteness of her flesh dispelled the shades of night, and scanning attentively her bosom and every other part of her body, and finding them very fair, felt, as he bethought him what would shortly befall them, some pity of her; while, on the other hand, he was suddenly assailed by the solicitations of the flesh which caused that to stand which had been inert, and prompted him to sally forth of his ambush and take her by force, and have his pleasure of her. and, what with his compassion and passion, he was like to be worsted; but then as he bethought him who he was, and what a grievous wrong had been done him, and for what cause, and by whom, his wrath, thus rekindled, got the better of the other affections, so that he swerved not from his resolve, but suffered her to go her way. the lady ascended the tower, and standing with her face to the north, began to recite the scholar's orison, while he, having stolen into the tower but a little behind her, cautiously shifted the ladder that led up to the roof on which the lady stood, and waited to observe what she would say and do. seven times the lady said the orison, and then awaited the appearance of the two damsels; and so long had she to wait--not to mention that the night was a good deal cooler than she would have liked--that she saw day break; whereupon, disconcerted that it had not fallen out as the scholar had promised, she said to herself:--i misdoubt me he was minded to give me such a night as i gave him; but if such was his intent, he is but maladroit in his revenge, for this night is not as long by a third as his was, besides which, the cold is of another quality. and that day might not overtake her there, she began to think of descending, but, finding that the ladder was removed, she felt as if the world had come to nought beneath her feet, her senses reeled, and she fell in a swoon upon the floor of the roof. when she came to herself, she burst into tears and piteous lamentations, and witting now very well that 'twas the doing of the scholar, she began to repent her that she had first offended him, and then trusted him unduly, having such good cause to reckon upon his enmity; in which frame she abode long time. then, searching if haply she might find some means of descent, and finding none, she fell a weeping again, and bitterly to herself she said:--alas for thee, wretched woman! what will thy brothers, thy kinsmen, thy neighbours, nay, what will all florence say of thee, when 'tis known that thou hast been found here naked? thy honour, hitherto unsuspect, will be known to have been but a shew, and shouldst thou seek thy defence in lying excuses, if any such may be fashioned, the accursed scholar, who knows all thy doings, will not suffer it. ah! poor wretch! that at one and the same time hast lost thy too dearly cherished gallant and thine own honour! and therewith she was taken with such a transport of grief, that she was like to cast herself from the tower to the ground. then, bethinking her that if she might espy some lad making towards the tower with his sheep, she might send him for her maid, for the sun was now risen, she approached one of the parapets of the tower, and looked out, and so it befell that the scholar, awakening from a slumber, in which he had lain a while at the foot of a bush, espied her, and she him. whereupon:--"good-day, madam," quoth he:--"are the damsels yet come?" the lady saw and heard him not without bursting afresh into a flood of tears, and besought him to come into the tower, that she might speak with him: a request which the scholar very courteously granted. the lady then threw herself prone on the floor of the roof; and, only her head being visible through the aperture, thus through her sobs she spoke:--"verily, rinieri, if i gave thee a bad night, thou art well avenged on me, for, though it be july, meseemed i was sore a cold last night, standing here with never a thread upon me, and, besides, i have so bitterly bewept both the trick i played thee and my own folly in trusting thee, that i marvel that i have still eyes in my head. wherefore i implore thee, not for love of me, whom thou hast no cause to love, but for the respect thou hast for thyself as a gentleman, that thou let that which thou hast already done suffice thee to avenge the wrong i did thee, and bring me my clothes, that i may be able to get me down from here, and spare to take from me that which, however thou mightst hereafter wish, thou couldst not restore to me, to wit, my honour; whereas, if i deprived thee of that one night with me, 'tis in my power to give thee many another night in recompense thereof, and thou hast but to choose thine own times. let this, then, suffice, and like a worthy gentleman be satisfied to have taken thy revenge, and to have let me know it: put not forth thy might against a woman: 'tis no glory to the eagle to have vanquished a dove; wherefore for god's and thine own honour's sake have mercy on me." the scholar, albeit his haughty spirit still brooded on her evil entreatment of him, yet saw her not weep and supplicate without a certain compunction mingling with his exultation; but vengeance he had desired above all things, to have wreaked it was indeed sweet, and albeit his humanity prompted him to have compassion on the hapless woman, yet it availed not to subdue the fierceness of his resentment; wherefore thus he made answer:--"madam elena, had my prayers (albeit art i had none to mingle with them tears and honeyed words as thou dost with thine) inclined thee that night, when i stood perishing with cold amid the snow that filled thy courtyard, to accord me the very least shelter, 'twere but a light matter for me to hearken now to thine; but, if thou art now so much more careful of thy honour than thou wast wont to be, and it irks thee to tarry there naked, address thy prayers to him in whose arms it irked thee not naked to pass that night thou mindest thee of, albeit thou wist that i with hasty foot was beating time upon the snow in thy courtyard to the accompaniment of chattering teeth: 'tis he that thou shouldst call to succour thee, to fetch thy clothes, to adjust the ladder for thy descent; 'tis he in whom thou shouldst labour to inspire this tenderness thou now shewest for thy honour, that honour which for his sake thou hast not scrupled to jeopardize both now and on a thousand other occasions. why, then, call'st thou not him to come to thy succour? to whom pertains it rather than to him? thou art his. and of whom will he have a care, whom will he succour, if not thee? thou askedst him that night, when thou wast wantoning with him, whether seemed to him the greater, my folly or the love thou didst bear him: call him now, foolish woman, and see if the love thou bearest him, and thy wit and his, may avail to deliver thee from my folly. 'tis now no longer in thy power to shew me courtesy of that which i no more desire, nor yet to refuse it, did i desire it. reserve thy nights for thy lover, if so be thou go hence alive. be they all thine and his. one of them was more than i cared for; 'tis enough for me to have been flouted once. ay, and by thy cunning of speech thou strivest might and main to conciliate my good-will, calling me worthy gentleman, by which insinuation thou wouldst fain induce me magnanimously to desist from further chastisement of thy baseness. but thy cajoleries shall not now cloud the eyes of my mind, as did once thy false promises. i know myself, and better now for thy one night's instruction than for all the time i spent at paris. but, granted that i were disposed to be magnanimous, thou art not of those to whom 'tis meet to shew magnanimity. a wild beast such as thou, having merited vengeance, can claim no relief from suffering save death, though in the case of a human being 'twould suffice to temper vengeance with mercy, as thou saidst. wherefore i, albeit no eagle, witting thee to be no dove, but a venomous serpent, mankind's most ancient enemy, am minded, bating no jot of malice or of might, to harry thee to the bitter end: natheless this which i do is not properly to be called vengeance but rather just retribution; seeing that vengeance should be in excess of the offence, and this my chastisement of thee will fall short of it; for, were i minded to be avenged on thee, considering what account thou madest of my heart and soul, 'twould not suffice me to take thy life, no, nor the lives of a hundred others such as thee; for i should but slay a vile and base and wicked woman. and what the devil art thou more than any other pitiful baggage, that i should spare thy little store of beauty, which a few years will ruin, covering thy face with wrinkles? and yet 'twas not for want of will that thou didst fail to do to death a worthy gentleman, as thou but now didst call me, of whom in a single day of his life the world may well have more profit than of a hundred thousand like thee while the world shall last. wherefore by this rude discipline i will teach thee what it is to flout men of spirit, and more especially what it is to flout scholars, that if thou escape with thy life thou mayst have good cause ever hereafter to shun such folly. but if thou art so fain to make the descent, why cast not thyself down, whereby, god helping, thou wouldst at once break thy neck, be quit of the torment thou endurest, and make me the happiest man alive? i have no more to say to thee. 'twas my art and craft thus caused thee climb; be it thine to find the way down: thou hadst cunning enough, when thou wast minded to flout me." while the scholar thus spoke, the hapless lady wept incessantly, and before he had done, to aggravate her misery, the sun was high in the heaven. however, when he was silent, thus she made answer:--"ah! ruthless man, if that accursed night has so rankled with thee, and thou deemest my fault so grave that neither my youth and beauty, nor my bitter tears, nor yet my humble supplications may move thee to pity, let this at least move thee, and abate somewhat of thy remorseless severity, that 'twas my act alone, in that of late i trusted thee, and discovered to thee all my secret, that did open the way to compass thy end, and make me cognizant of my guilt, seeing that, had i not confided in thee, on no wise mightst thou have been avenged on me; which thou wouldst seem so ardently to have desired. turn thee, then, turn thee, i pray thee, from thy wrath, and pardon me. so thou wilt pardon me, and get me down hence, right gladly will i give up for ever my faithless gallant, and thou shalt be my sole lover and lord, albeit thou sayst hard things of my beauty, slight and shortlived as thou wouldst have it to be, which, however it may compare with others, is, i wot, to be prized, if for no other reason, yet for this, that 'tis the admiration and solace and delight of young men, and thou art not yet old. and albeit i have been harshly treated by thee, yet believe i cannot that thou wouldst have me do myself so shamefully to death as to cast me down, like some abandoned wretch, before thine eyes, in which, unless thou wast then, as thou hast since shewn thyself, a liar, i found such favour. ah! have pity on me for god's and mercy's sake! the sun waxes exceeding hot, and having suffered not a little by the cold of last night, i now begin to be sorely afflicted by the heat." "madam," rejoined the scholar, who held her in parley with no small delight, "'twas not for any love that thou didst bear me that thou trustedst me, but that thou mightst recover that which thou hadst lost, for which cause thou meritest but the greater punishment; and foolish indeed art thou if thou supposest that such was the sole means available for my revenge. i had a thousand others, and, while i feigned to love thee, i had laid a thousand gins for thy feet, into one or other of which in no long time, though this had not occurred, thou must needs have fallen, and that too to thy more grievous suffering and shame; nor was it to spare thee, but that i might be the sooner rejoiced by thy discomfiture that i took my present course. and though all other means had failed me, i had still the pen, with which i would have written of thee such matters and in such a sort, that when thou wist them, as thou shouldst have done, thou wouldst have regretted a thousand times that thou hadst ever been born. the might of the pen is greater far than they suppose, who have not proved it by experience. by god i swear, so may he, who has prospered me thus far in this my revenge, prosper me to the end! that i would have written of thee things that would have so shamed thee in thine own--not to speak of others'--sight that thou hadst put out thine eyes that thou mightst no more see thyself; wherefore chide not the sea, for that it has sent forth a tiny rivulet. for thy love, or whether thou be mine or no, nought care i. be thou still his, whose thou hast been, if thou canst. hate him as i once did, i now love him, by reason of his present entreatment of thee. ye go getting you enamoured, ye women, and nought will satisfy you but young gallants, because ye mark that their flesh is ruddier, and their beards are blacker, than other folk's, and that they carry themselves well, and foot it featly in the dance, and joust; but those that are now more mature were even as they, and possess a knowledge which they have yet to acquire. and therewithal ye deem that they ride better, and cover more miles in a day, than men of riper age. now that they dust the pelisse with more vigour i certainly allow, but their seniors, being more experienced, know better the places where the fleas lurk; and spare and dainty diet is preferable to abundance without savour: moreover hard trotting will gall and jade even the youngest, whereas an easy pace, though it bring one somewhat later to the inn, at any rate brings one thither fresh. ye discern not, witless creatures that ye are, how much of evil this little shew of bravery serves to hide. your young gallant is never content with one woman, but lusts after as many as he sets eyes on; nor is there any but he deems himself worthy of her: wherefore 'tis not possible that their love should be lasting, as thou hast but now proved and mayst only too truly witness. moreover to be worshipped, to be caressed by their ladies they deem but their due; nor is there aught whereon they plume and boast them so proudly as their conquests: which impertinence has caused not a few women to surrender to the friars, who keep their own counsel. peradventure thou wilt say that never a soul save thy maid, and i wist aught of thy loves; but, if so, thou hast been misinformed, and if thou so believest, thou dost misbelieve. scarce aught else is talked of either in his quarter or in thine; but most often 'tis those most concerned whose ears such matters reach last. moreover, they rob you, these young gallants, whereas the others make you presents. so, then, having made a bad choice, be thou still his to whom thou hast given thyself, and leave me, whom thou didst flout, to another, for i have found a lady of much greater charms than thine, and that has understood me better than thou didst. and that thou mayst get thee to the other world better certified of the desire of my eyes than thou wouldst seem to be here by my words, delay no more, but cast thyself down, whereby thy soul, taken forthwith, as i doubt not she will be, into the embrace of the devil, may see whether thy headlong fall afflicts mine eyes, or no. but, for that i doubt thou meanest not thus to gladden me, i bid thee, if thou findest the sun begin to scorch thee, remember the cold thou didst cause me to endure, wherewith, by admixture, thou mayst readily temper the sun's heat." the hapless lady, seeing that the scholar's words were ever to the same ruthless effect, burst afresh into tears, and said:--"lo, now, since nought that pertains to me may move thee, be thou at least moved by the love thou bearest this lady of whom thou speakest, who, thou sayst, is wiser than i, and loves thee, and for love of her pardon me, and fetch me my clothes, that i may resume them, and get me down hence." whereat the scholar fell a laughing, and seeing that 'twas not a little past tierce, made answer:--"lo, now, i know not how to deny thee, adjuring me as thou dost by such a lady: tell me, then, where thy clothes are, and i will go fetch them, and bring thee down." the lady, believing him, was somewhat comforted, and told him where she had laid her clothes. the scholar then quitted the tower, bidding his servant on no account to stir from his post, but to keep close by, and, as best he might, bar the tower against all comers until his return: which said, he betook him to the house of his friend, where he breakfasted much at his ease, and thereafter went to sleep. left alone upon the tower, the lady, somewhat cheered by her fond hope, but still exceeding sorrowful, drew nigh to a part of the wall where there was a little shade, and there sate down to wait. and now lost in most melancholy brooding, now dissolved in tears, now plunged in despair of ever seeing the scholar return with her clothes, but never more than a brief while in any one mood, spent with grief and the night's vigil, she by and by fell asleep. the sun was now in the zenith, and smote with extreme fervour full and unmitigated upon her tender and delicate frame, and upon her bare head, insomuch that his rays did not only scorch but bit by bit excoriate every part of her flesh that was exposed to them, and so shrewdly burn her that, albeit she was in a deep sleep, the pain awoke her. and as by reason thereof she writhed a little, she felt the scorched skin part in sunder and shed itself, as will happen when one tugs at a parchment that has been singed by the fire, while her head ached so sore that it seemed like to split, and no wonder. nor might she find place either to lie or to stand on the floor of the roof, but ever went to and fro, weeping. besides which there stirred not the least breath of wind, and flies and gadflies did swarm in prodigious quantity, which, settling upon her excoriate flesh, stung her so shrewdly that 'twas as if she received so many stabs with a javelin, and she was ever restlessly feeling her sores with her hands, and cursing herself, her life, her lover, and the scholar. thus by the exorbitant heat of the sun, by the flies and gadflies, harassed, goaded, and lacerated, tormented also by hunger, and yet more by thirst, and, thereto by a thousand distressful thoughts, she panted herself erect on her feet, and looked about her, if haply she might see or hear any one, with intent, come what might, to call to him and crave his succour. but even this hostile fortune had disallowed her. the husbandmen were all gone from the fields by reason of the heat, and indeed there had come none to work that day in the neighbourhood of the tower, for that all were employed in threshing their corn beside their cottages: wherefore she heard but the cicalas, while arno, tantalizing her with the sight of his waters, increased rather than diminished her thirst. ay, and in like manner, wherever she espied a copse, or a patch of shade, or a house, 'twas a torment to her, for the longing she had for it. what more is to be said of this hapless woman? only this: that what with the heat of the sun above and the floor beneath her, and the scarification of her flesh in every part by the flies and gadflies, that flesh, which in the night had dispelled the gloom by its whiteness, was now become red as madder, and so besprent with clots of blood, that whoso had seen her would have deemed her the most hideous object in the world. thus resourceless and hopeless, she passed the long hours, expecting death rather than aught else, until half none was come and gone; when, his siesta ended, the scholar bethought him of his lady, and being minded to see how she fared, hied him back to the tower, and sent his servant away to break his fast. as soon as the lady espied him, she came, spent and crushed by her sore affliction, to the aperture, and thus addressed him:--"rinieri, the cup of thy vengeance is full to overflowing: for if i gave thee a night of freezing in my courtyard, thou hast given me upon this tower a day of scorching, nay, of burning, and therewithal of perishing of hunger and thirst: wherefore by god i entreat thee to come up hither, and as my heart fails me to take my life, take it thou, for 'tis death i desire of all things, such and so grievous is my suffering. but if this grace thou wilt not grant, at least bring me a cup of water wherewith to lave my mouth, for which my tears do not suffice, so parched and torrid is it within." well wist the scholar by her voice how spent she was; he also saw a part of her body burned through and through by the sun; whereby, and by reason of the lowliness of her entreaties, he felt some little pity for her; but all the same he made answer:--"nay, wicked woman, 'tis not by my hands thou shalt die; thou canst die by thine own whenever thou art so minded; and to temper thy heat thou shalt have just as much water from me as i had fire from thee to mitigate my cold. i only regret that for the cure of my chill the physicians were fain to use foul-smelling muck, whereas thy burns can be treated with fragrant rose-water; and that, whereas i was like to lose my muscles and the use of my limbs, thou, for all thy excoriation by the heat, wilt yet be fair again, like a snake that has sloughed off the old skin." "alas! woe's me!" replied the lady, "for charms acquired at such a cost, god grant them to those that hate me. but thou, most fell of all wild beasts, how hast thou borne thus to torture me? what more had i to expect of thee or any other, had i done all thy kith and kin to death with direst torments? verily, i know not what more cruel suffering thou couldst have inflicted on a traitor that had put a whole city to the slaughter than this which thou hast allotted to me, to be thus roasted, and devoured of the flies, and therewithal to refuse me even a cup of water, though the very murderers condemned to death by the law, as they go to execution, not seldom are allowed wine to drink, so they but ask it. lo now, i see that thou art inexorable in thy ruthlessness, and on no wise to be moved by my suffering: wherefore with resignation i will compose me to await death, that god may have mercy on my soul. and may this that thou doest escape not the searching glance of his just eyes." which said, she dragged herself, sore suffering, toward the middle of the floor, despairing of ever escaping from her fiery torment, besides which, not once only, but a thousand times she thought to choke for thirst, and ever she wept bitterly and bewailed her evil fate. but at length the day wore to vespers, and the scholar, being sated with his revenge, caused his servant to take her clothes and wrap them in his cloak, and hied him with the servant to the hapless lady's house, where, finding her maid sitting disconsolate and woebegone and resourceless at the door:--"good woman," quoth he, "what has befallen thy mistress?" whereto:--"sir, i know not," replied the maid. "i looked to find her this morning abed, for methought she went to bed last night, but neither there nor anywhere else could i find her, nor know i what is become of her; wherefore exceeding great is my distress; but have you, sir, nought to say of the matter?" "only this," returned the scholar, "that i would i had had thee with her there where i have had her, that i might have requited thee of thy offence, even as i have requited her of hers. but be assured that thou shalt not escape my hands, until thou hast from me such wage of thy labour that thou shalt never flout man more, but thou shalt mind thee of me." then, turning to his servant, he said:--"give her these clothes, and tell her that she may go bring her mistress away, if she will." the servant did his bidding; and the maid, what with the message and her recognition of the clothes, was mightily afraid, lest they had slain the lady, and scarce suppressing a shriek, took the clothes, and, bursting into tears, set off, as soon as the scholar was gone, at a run for the tower. now one of the lady's husbandmen had had the misfortune to lose two of his hogs that day, and, seeking them, came to the tower not long after the scholar had gone thence, and peering about in all quarters, if haply he might have sight of his hogs, heard the woeful lamentation that the hapless lady made, and got him up into the tower, and called out as loud as he might:--"who wails up there?" the lady recognized her husbandman's voice, and called him by name, saying:--"prithee, go fetch my maid, and cause her come up hither to me." the husbandman, knowing her by her voice, replied:--"alas! madam, who set you there? your maid has been seeking you all day long: but who would ever have supposed that you were there?" whereupon he took the props of the ladder, and set them in position, and proceeded to secure the rounds to them with withies. thus engaged he was found by the maid, who, as she entered the tower, beat her face and breast, and unable longer to keep silence, cried out:--"alas, sweet my lady, where are you?" whereto the lady made answer as loud as she might:--"o my sister, here above am i, weep not, but fetch me my clothes forthwith." well-nigh restored to heart, to hear her mistress's voice, the maid, assisted by the husbandman, ascended the ladder, which he had now all but set in order, and gaining the roof, and seeing her lady lie there naked, spent and fordone, and liker to a half-burned stump than to a human being, she planted her nails in her face and fell a weeping over her, as if she were a corpse. however, the lady bade her for god's sake be silent, and help her to dress, and having learned from her that none knew where she had been, save those that had brought her her clothes and the husbandman that was there present, was somewhat consoled, and besought her for god's sake to say nought of the matter to any. thus long time they conversed, and then the husbandman took the lady on his shoulders, for walk she could not, and bore her safely out of the tower. the unfortunate maid, following after with somewhat less caution, slipped, and falling from the ladder to the ground, broke her thigh, and roared for pain like any lion. so the husbandman set the lady down upon a grassy mead, while he went to see what had befallen the maid, whom, finding her thigh broken, he brought, and laid beside the lady: who, seeing her woes completed by this last misfortune, and that she of whom, most of all, she had expected succour, was lamed of a thigh, was distressed beyond measure, and wept again so piteously that not only was the husbandman powerless to comfort her, but was himself fain to weep. however, as the sun was now low, that they might not be there surprised by night, he, with the disconsolate lady's approval, hied him home, and called to his aid two of his brothers and his wife, who returned with him, bearing a plank, whereon they laid the maid, and so they carried her to the lady's house. there, by dint of cold water and words of cheer, they restored some heart to the lady, whom the husbandman then took upon his shoulders, and bore to her chamber. the husbandman's wife fed her with sops of bread, and then undressed her, and put her to bed. they also provided the means to carry her and the maid to florence; and so 'twas done. there the lady, who was very fertile in artifices, invented an entirely fictitious story of what had happened as well in regard of her maid as of herself, whereby she persuaded both her brothers and her sisters and every one else, that 'twas all due to the enchantments of evil spirits. the physicians lost no time, and, albeit the lady's suffering and mortification were extreme, for she left more than one skin sticking to the sheets, they cured her of a high fever, and certain attendant maladies; as also the maid of her fractured thigh. the end of all which was that the lady forgot her lover, and having learned discretion, was thenceforth careful neither to love nor to flout; and the scholar, learning that the maid had broken her thigh, deemed his vengeance complete, and was satisfied to say never a word more of the affair. such then were the consequences of her flouts to this foolish young woman, who deemed that she might trifle with a scholar with the like impunity as with others, not duly understanding that they--i say not all, but the more part--know where the devil keeps his tail.(1) wherefore, my ladies, have a care how you flout men, and more especially scholars. (1) i.e. are a match for the devil himself in cunning. novel viii. -two men keep with one another: the one lies with the other's wife: the other, being ware thereof, manages with the aid of his wife to have the one locked in a chest, upon which he then lies with the wife of him that is locked therein. -grievous and distressful was it to the ladies to hear how it fared with elena; but as they accounted the retribution in a measure righteous, they were satisfied to expend upon her but a moderate degree of compassion, albeit they censured the scholar as severe, intemperately relentless, and indeed ruthless, in his vengeance. however, pampinea having brought the story to a close, the queen bade fiammetta follow suit; and prompt to obey, fiammetta thus spoke:--debonair my ladies, as, methinks, your feelings must have been somewhat harrowed by the severity of the resentful scholar, i deem it meet to soothe your vexed spirits with something of a more cheerful order. wherefore i am minded to tell you a little story of a young man who bore an affront in a milder temper, and avenged himself with more moderation. whereby you may understand that one should be satisfied if the ass and the wall are quits, nor by indulging a vindictive spirit to excess turn the requital of a wrong into an occasion of wrong-doing. you are to know, then, that at siena, as i have heard tell, there dwelt two young men of good substance, and, for plebeians, of good family, the one spinelloccio tanena, the other zeppa di mino, by name; who, their houses being contiguous in the camollia,(1) kept ever together, and, by what appeared, loved each other as brothers, or even more so, and had each a very fine woman to wife. now it so befell that spinelloccio, being much in zeppa's house, as well when zeppa was not, as when he was there, grew so familiar with zeppa's wife, that he sometimes lay with her; and on this wise they continued to forgather a great while before any one was ware of it. however, one of these days zeppa being at home, though the lady wist it not, spinelloccio came in quest of him; and, the lady sending word that he was not at home, he forthwith went upstairs and found the lady in the saloon, and seeing none else there, kissed her, as did she him. zeppa saw all that passed, but said nothing and kept close, being minded to see how the game would end, and soon saw his wife and spinelloccio, still in one another's arms, hie them to her chamber and lock themselves in: whereat he was mightily incensed. but, witting that to make a noise, or do aught else overt, would not lessen but rather increase his dishonour, he cast about how he might be avenged on such wise that, without the affair getting wind, he might content his soul; and having, after long pondering, hit, as he thought, upon the expedient, he budged not from his retreat, until spinelloccio had parted from the lady. whereupon he hied him into the chamber, and there finding the lady with her head-gear, which spinelloccio in toying with her had disarranged, scarce yet readjusted:--"madam, what dost thou?" quoth he. whereto:--"why, dost not see?" returned the lady. "troth do i," rejoined he, "and somewhat else have i seen that i would i had not." and so he questioned her of what had passed, and she, being mightily afraid, did after long parley confess that which she might not plausibly deny, to wit, her intimacy with spinelloccio, and fell a beseeching him with tears to pardon her. "lo, now, wife," quoth zeppa, "thou hast done wrong, and, so thou wouldst have me pardon thee, have a care to do exactly as i shall bid thee; to wit, on this wise: thou must tell spinelloccio, to find some occasion to part from me to-morrow morning about tierce, and come hither to thee; and while he is here i will come back, and when thou hearest me coming, thou wilt get him into this chest, and lock him in there; which when thou hast done, i will tell thee what else thou hast to do, which thou mayst do without the least misgiving, for i promise thee i will do him no harm." the lady, to content him, promised to do as he bade, and she kept her word. the morrow came, and zeppa and spinelloccio being together about tierce, spinelloccio, having promised the lady to come to see her at that hour, said to zeppa:--"i must go breakfast with a friend, whom i had lief not keep in waiting; therefore, adieu!" "nay, but," quoth zeppa, "'tis not yet breakfast-time." "no matter," returned spinelloccio, "i have business on which i must speak with him; so i must be in good time." whereupon spinelloccio took his leave of zeppa, and having reached zeppa's house by a slightly circuitous route, and finding his wife there, was taken by her into the chamber, where they had not been long together when zeppa returned. hearing him come, the lady, feigning no small alarm, bundled spinelloccio into the chest, as her husband had bidden her, and having locked him in, left him there. as zeppa came upstairs:--"wife," quoth he, "is it breakfast time?" "ay, husband, 'tis so," replied the lady. whereupon:--"spinelloccio is gone to breakfast with a friend to-day," quoth zeppa, "leaving his wife at home: get thee to the window, and call her, and bid her come and breakfast with us." the lady, whose fear for herself made her mighty obedient, did as her husband bade her; and after much pressing spinelloccio's wife came to breakfast with them, though she was given to understand that her husband would not be of the company. so, she being come, zeppa received her most affectionately, and taking her familiarly by the hand, bade his wife, in an undertone, get her to the kitchen; he then led spinelloccio's wife into the chamber, and locked the door. hearing the key turn in the lock:--"alas!" quoth the lady, "what means this, zeppa? is't for this you have brought me here? is this the love you bear spinelloccio? is this your loyalty to him as your friend and comrade?" by the time she had done speaking, zeppa, still keeping fast hold of her, was beside the chest, in which her husband was locked. wherefore:--"madam," quoth he, "spare me thy reproaches, until thou hast heard what i have to say to thee. i have loved, i yet love, spinelloccio as a brother; and yesterday, though he knew it not, i discovered that the trust i reposed in him has for its guerdon that he lies with my wife, as with thee. now, for that i love him, i purpose not to be avenged upon him save in the sort in which he offended. he has had my wife, and i intend to have thee. so thou wilt not grant me what i crave of thee, be sure i shall not fail to take it; and having no mind to let this affront pass unavenged, will make such play with him that neither thou nor he shall ever be happy again." the lady hearkening, and by dint of his repeated asseverations coming at length to believe him:--"zeppa mine," quoth she, "as this thy vengeance is to light upon me, well content am i; so only thou let not this which we are to do embroil me with thy wife, with whom, notwithstanding the evil turn she has done me, i am minded to remain at peace." "have no fear on that score," replied zeppa; "nay, i will give thee into the bargain a jewel so rare and fair that thou hast not the like." which said, he took her in his arms and fell a kissing her, and having laid her on the chest, in which her husband was safe under lock and key, did there disport himself with her to his heart's content, as she with him. spinelloccio in the chest heard all that zeppa had said, and how he was answered by the lady, and the trevisan dance that afterwards went on over his head; whereat his mortification was such that for a great while he scarce hoped to live through it; and, but for the fear he had of zeppa, he would have given his wife a sound rating, close prisoner though he was. but, as he bethought him that 'twas he that had given the first affront, and that zeppa had good cause for acting as he did, and that he had dealt with him considerately and as a good fellow should, he resolved that if it were agreeable to zeppa, they should be faster friends than ever before. however, zeppa, having had his pleasure with the lady, got down from the chest, and being reminded by the lady of his promise of the jewel, opened the door of the chamber and brought his wife in. quoth she with a laugh:--"madam, you have given me tit for tat," and never a word more. whereupon:--"open the chest," quoth zeppa; and she obeying, he shewed the lady her spinelloccio lying therein. 'twould be hard to say whether of the twain was the more shame-stricken, spinelloccio to be confronted with zeppa, knowing that zeppa wist what he had done, or the lady to meet her husband's eyes, knowing that he had heard what went on above his head. "lo, here is the jewel i give thee," quoth zeppa to her, pointing to spinelloccio, who, as he came forth of the chest, blurted out:--"zeppa, we are quits, and so 'twere best, as thou saidst a while ago to my wife, that we still be friends as we were wont, and as we had nought separate, save our wives, that henceforth we have them also in common." "content," quoth zeppa; and so in perfect peace and accord they all four breakfasted together. and thenceforth each of the ladies had two husbands, and each of the husbands two wives; nor was there ever the least dispute or contention between them on that score. (1) a suburb of siena. novel ix. -bruno and buffalmacco prevail upon master simone, a physician, to betake him by night to a certain place, there to be enrolled in a company that go the course. buffalmacco throws him into a foul ditch, and there they leave him. -when the ladies had made merry a while over the partnership in wives established by the two sienese, the queen, who now, unless she were minded to infringe dioneo's privilege, alone remained to tell, began on this wise:--fairly earned indeed, loving ladies, was the flout that spinelloccio got from zeppa. wherefore my judgment jumps with that which pampinea expressed a while ago, to wit, that he is not severely to be censured who bestows a flout on one that provokes it or deserves it; and as spinelloccio deserved it, so 'tis my purpose to tell you of one that provoked it, for i deem that those from whom he received it, were rather to be commended than condemned. the man that got it was a physician, who, albeit he was but a blockhead, returned from bologna to florence in mantle and hood of vair. 'tis matter of daily experience that our citizens come back to us from bologna, this man a judge, that a physician, and the other a notary, flaunting it in ample flowing robes, and adorned with the scarlet and the vair and other array most goodly to see; and how far their doings correspond with this fair seeming, is also matter of daily experience. among whom 'tis not long since master simone da villa, one whose patrimony was more ample than his knowledge, came back wearing the scarlet and a broad stripe(1) on the shoulder, and a doctor, as he called himself, and took a house in the street that we now call via del cocomero. now this master simone, being thus, as we said, come back, had this among other singular habits, that he could never see a soul pass along the street, but he must needs ask any that was by, who that man was; and he was as observant of all the doings of men, and as sedulous to store his memory with such matters, as if they were to serve him to compound the drugs that he was to give his patients. now, of all that he saw, those that he eyed most observantly were two painters, of whom here to-day mention has twice been made, bruno, to wit, and buffalmacco, who were ever together, and were his neighbours. and as it struck him that they daffed the world aside and lived more lightheartedly than any others that he knew, as indeed they did, he enquired of not a few folk as to their rank. and learning on all hands that they were poor men and painters, he could not conceive it possible that they should live thus contentedly in poverty, but made his mind up that, being, as he was informed, clever fellows, they must have some secret source from which they drew immense gains; for which reason he grew all agog to get on friendly terms with them, or any rate with one of them, and did succeed in making friends with bruno. bruno, who had not needed to be much with him in order to discover that this physician was but a dolt, had never such a jolly time in palming off his strange stories upon him, while the physician, on his part, was marvellously delighted with bruno; to whom, having bidden him to breakfast, and thinking that for that reason he might talk familiarly with him, he expressed the amazement with which he regarded both him and buffalmacco, for that, being but poor men, they lived so lightheartedly, and asked him to tell him how they managed. at which fresh proof of the doctor's simplicity and fatuity bruno was inclined to laugh; but, bethinking him that 'twere best to answer him according to his folly, he said:--"master, there are not many persons to whom i would disclose our manner of life, but, as you are my friend, and i know you will not let it go further, i do not mind telling you. the fact is that my comrade and i live not only as lightheartedly and jovially as you see, but much more so; and yet neither our art, nor any property that we possess, yields us enough to keep us in water: not that i would have you suppose that we go a thieving: no, 'tis that we go the course, and thereby without the least harm done to a soul we get all that we need, nay, all that we desire; and thus it is that we live so lightheartedly as you see." which explanation the doctor believing none the less readily that he knew not what it meant, was lost in wonder, and forthwith burned with a most vehement desire to know what going the course might be, and was instant with bruno to expound it, assuring him that he would never tell a soul. "alas! master," said bruno, "what is this you ask of me? 'tis a mighty great secret you would have me impart to you: 'twould be enough to undo me, to send me packing out of the world, nay, into the very jaws of lucifer of san gallo,(2) if it came to be known. but such is the respect in which i hold your quiditative pumpionship of legnaia, and the trust i repose in you, that i am not able to deny you aught you ask of me; and so i will tell it you, on condition that you swear by the cross at montesone that you will keep your promise, and never repeat it to a soul." the master gave the required assurance. whereupon:--"you are then to know," quoth bruno, "sweet my master, that 'tis not long since there was in this city a great master in necromancy, hight michael scott, for that he was of scotland, and great indeed was the honour in which he was held by not a few gentlemen, most of whom are now dead; and when the time came that he must needs depart from florence, he at their instant entreaty left behind him two pupils, adepts both, whom he bade hold themselves ever ready to pleasure those gentlemen who had done him honour. and very handsomely they did serve the said gentlemen in certain of their love affairs and other little matters; and finding the city and the manners of the citizens agreeable to them, they made up their minds to stay here always, and grew friendly and very intimate with some of the citizens, making no distinction between gentle and simple, rich or poor, so only they were such as were conformable to their ways. and to gratify these their friends they formed a company of perhaps twenty-five men, to meet together at least twice a month in a place appointed by them; where, when they are met, each utters his desire, and forthwith that same night they accomplish it. now buffalmacco and i, being extraordinarily great and close friends with these two adepts, were by them enrolled in this company, and are still members of it. and i assure you that, as often as we are assembled together, the adornments of the saloon in which we eat are a marvel to see, ay, and the tables laid as for kings, and the multitudes of stately and handsome servants, as well women as men, at the beck and call of every member of the company, and the basins, and the ewers, the flasks and the cups, and all else that is there for our service in eating and drinking, of nought but gold and silver, and therewithal the abundance and variety of the viands, suited to the taste of each, that are set before us, each in due course, these too be marvels. 'twere vain for me to seek to describe to you the sweet concord that is there of innumerable instruments of music, and the tuneful songs that salute our ears; nor might i hope to tell you how much wax is burned at these banquets, or compute the quantity of the comfits that are eaten, or the value of the wines that are drunk. nor, my pumpkin o' wit, would i have you suppose that, when we are there, we wear our common clothes, such as you now see me wear; nay, there is none there so humble but he shews as an emperor, so sumptuous are our garments, so splendid our trappings. but among all the delights of the place none may compare with the fair ladies, who, so one do but wish, are brought thither from every part of the world. why, you might see there my lady of the barbanichs, the queen of the basques, the consort of the soldan, the empress of osbech, the ciancianfera of nornieca, the semistante of berlinzone, and the scalpedra of narsia. but why seek to enumerate them all? they include all the queens in the world, ay, even to the schinchimurra of prester john, who has the horns sprouting out of her nether end: so there's for you. now when these ladies have done with the wine and the comfits, they tread a measure or two, each with the man at whose behest she is come, and then all go with their gallants to their chambers. and know that each of these chambers shews as a very paradise, so fair is it, ay, and no less fragrant than the cases of aromatics in your shop when you are pounding the cumin: and therein are beds that you would find more goodly than that of the doge of venice, and 'tis in them we take our rest; and how busily they ply the treadle, and how lustily they tug at the frame to make the stuff close and compact, i leave you to imagine. however, among the luckiest of all i reckon buffalmacco and myself; for that buffalmacco for the most part fetches him the queen of france, and i do the like with the queen of england, who are just the finest women in the world, and we have known how to carry it with them so that we are the very eyes of their heads. so i leave it to your own judgment to determine whether we have not good cause to live and bear ourselves with a lighter heart than others, seeing that we are beloved of two such great queens, to say nothing of the thousand or two thousand florins that we have of them whenever we are so minded. now this in the vulgar we call going the course, because, as the corsairs prey upon all the world, so do we; albeit with this difference, that, whereas they never restore their spoil, we do so as soon as we have done with it. so now, my worthy master, you understand what we mean by going the course; but how close it behoves you to keep such a secret, you may see for yourself; so i spare you any further exhortations." the master, whose skill did not reach, perhaps, beyond the treatment of children for the scurf, took all that bruno said for gospel, and burned with so vehement a desire to be admitted into this company, that he could not have longed for the summum bonum itself with more ardour. so, after telling bruno that indeed 'twas no wonder they bore them lightheartedly, he could scarce refrain from asking him there and then to have him enrolled, albeit he deemed it more prudent to defer his suit, until by lavishing honour upon him he had gained a right to urge it with more confidence. he therefore made more and more of him, had him to breakfast and sup with him, and treated him with extraordinary respect. in short, such and so constant was their intercourse that it seemed as though the master wist not how to live without bruno. as it went so well with him, bruno, to mark his sense of the honour done him by the doctor, painted in his saloon a picture symbolical of lent, and an agnus dei at the entrance of his chamber, and an alembic over his front door, that those who would fain consult him might know him from other physicians, besides a battle of rats and mice in his little gallery, which the doctor thought an extremely fine piece. and from time to time, when he had not supped with the master, he would say to him:--"last night i was with the company, and being a little tired of the queen of england, i fetched me the gumedra of the great can of tarisi." "gumedra," quoth the master; "what is she? i know not the meaning of these words." "thereat, master," replied bruno, "i marvel not; for i have heard tell that neither porcograsso nor vannacena say aught thereof." "thou wouldst say ippocrasso and avicenna," returned the master. "i'faith i know not," quoth bruno. "i as ill know the meaning of your words as you of mine. but gumedra in the speech of the great can signifies the same as empress in ours. ah! a fine woman you would find her, and plenty of her! i warrant she would make you forget your drugs and prescriptions and plasters." and so, bruno from time to time whetting the master's appetite, and the master at length thinking that by his honourable entreatment of him he had fairly made a conquest of bruno, it befell that one evening, while he held the light for bruno, who was at work on the battle of rats and mice, he determined to discover to him his desire; and as they were alone, thus he spoke:--"god knows, bruno, that there lives not the man, for whom i would do as much as for thee: why, if thou wast to bid me go all the way from here to peretola,(3) i almost think i would do so; wherefore i trust thou wilt not deem it strange if i talk to thee as an intimate friend and in confidence. thou knowest 'tis not long since thou didst enlarge with me on thy gay company and their doings, which has engendered in me such a desire as never was to know more thereof. nor without reason, as thou wilt discover, should i ever become a member of the said company, for i straightway give thee leave to make game of me, should i not then fetch me the fairest maid thou hast seen this many a day, whom i saw last year at cacavincigli, and to whom i am entirely devoted; and by the body of christ i offered her ten bolognese groats, that she should pleasure me, and she would not. wherefore i do most earnestly entreat thee to instruct me what i must do to fit myself for membership in the company; and never doubt that in me you will have a true and loyal comrade, and one that will do you honour. and above all thou seest how goodly i am of my person, and how well furnished with legs, and of face as fresh as a rose; and therewithal i am a doctor of medicine, and i scarce think you have any such among you; and not a little excellent lore i have, and many a good song by heart, of which i will sing thee one;" and forthwith he fell a singing. bruno had such a mind to laugh, that he could scarce contain himself; but still he kept a grave countenance; and, when the master had ended his song, and said:--"how likes it thee?" he answered:--"verily, no lyre of straw could vie with you, so artargutically(4) you refine your strain." "i warrant thee," returned the master, "thou hadst never believed it, hadst thou not heard me." "ay, indeed, sooth sayst thou," quoth bruno. "and i have other songs to boot," said the master; "but enough of this at present. thou must know that i, such as thou seest me, am a gentleman's son, albeit my father lived in the contado; and on my mother's side i come of the vallecchio family. and as thou mayst have observed i have quite the finest library and wardrobe of all the physicians in florence. god's faith! i have a robe that cost, all told, close upon a hundred pounds in bagattines(5) more than ten years ago. wherefore i make most instant suit to thee that thou get me enrolled, which if thou do, god's faith! be thou never so ill, thou shalt pay me not a stiver for my tendance of thee." whereupon bruno, repeating to himself, as he had done many a time before, that the doctor was a very numskull:--"master," quoth he, "shew a little more light here, and have patience until i have put the finishing touches to the tails of these rats, and then i will answer you." so he finished the tails, and then, putting on an air as if he were not a little embarrassed by the request:--"master mine," quoth he, "i should have great things to expect from you; that i know: but yet what you ask of me, albeit to your great mind it seems but a little thing, is a weighty matter indeed for me; nor know i a soul in the world, to whom, though well able, i would grant such a request, save to you alone: and this i say not for friendship's sake alone, albeit i love you as i ought, but for that your discourse is so fraught with wisdom, that 'tis enough to make a beguine start out of her boots, much more, then, to incline me to change my purpose; and the more i have of your company, the wiser i repute you. whereto i may add, that, if for no other cause, i should still be well disposed towards you for the love i see you bear to that fair piece of flesh of which you spoke but now. but this i must tell you: 'tis not in my power to do as you would have me in this matter; but, though i cannot myself do the needful in your behalf, if you will pledge your faith, whole and solid as may be, to keep my secret, i will shew you how to go about it for yourself, and i make no doubt that, having this fine library and the other matters you spoke of a while ago, you will compass your end." quoth then the master:--"nay, but speak freely; i see thou dost yet scarce know me, and how well i can keep a secret. there were few things that messer guasparruolo da saliceto did, when he was podesta of forlinpopoli, that he did not confide to me, so safe he knew they would be in my keeping: and wouldst thou be satisfied that i say sooth? i assure you i was the first man whom he told that he was about to marry bergamina: so there's for thee." "well and good," said bruno, "if such as he confided in you, well indeed may i do the like. know, then, that you will have to proceed on this wise:--our company is governed by a captain and a council of two, who are changed every six months: and on the calends without fail buffalmacco will be captain, and i councillor: 'tis so fixed: and the captain has not a little power to promote the admission and enrolment of whomsoever he will: wherefore, methinks, you would do well to make friends with buffalmacco and honourably entreat him: he is one that, marking your great wisdom, will take a mighty liking to you forthwith; and when you have just a little dazzled him with your wisdom and these fine things of yours, you may make your request to him; and he will not know how to say no--i have already talked with him of you, and he is as well disposed to you as may be--and having so done you will leave the rest to me." whereupon:--"thy words are to me for an exceeding great joy," quoth the master: "and if he be one that loves to converse with sages, he has but to exchange a word or two with me, and i will answer for it that he will be ever coming to see me; for so fraught with wisdom am i, that i could furnish a whole city therewith, and still remain a great sage." having thus set matters in train, bruno related the whole affair, point by point, to buffalmacco, to whom it seemed a thousand years till he should be able to give master noodle that of which he was in quest. the doctor, now all agog to go the course, lost no time, and found no difficulty, in making friends with buffalmacco, and fell to entertaining him, and bruno likewise, at breakfast and supper in most magnificent style; while they fooled him to the top of his bent; for, being gentlemen that appreciated excellent wines and fat capons, besides other good cheer in plenty, they were inclined to be very neighbourly, and needed no second bidding, but, always letting him understand that there was none other whose company they relished so much, kept ever with him. however, in due time the master asked of buffalmacco that which he had before asked of bruno. whereat buffalmacco feigned to be not a little agitated, and turning angrily to bruno, made a great pother about his ears, saying:--"by the most high god of pasignano i vow i can scarce forbear to give thee that over the head that should make thy nose fall about thy heels, traitor that thou art, for 'tis thou alone that canst have discovered these secrets to the master." whereupon the master interposed with no little vigour, averring with oaths that 'twas from another source that he had gotten his knowledge; and buffalmacco at length allowed himself to be pacified by the sage's words. so turning to him:--"master," quoth he, "'tis evident indeed that you have been at bologna, and have come back hither with a mouth that blabs not, and that 'twas on no pippin, as many a dolt does, but on the good long pumpkin that you learned your a b c; and, if i mistake not, you were baptized on a sunday;(6) and though bruno has told me that 'twas medicine you studied there, 'tis my opinion that you there studied the art of catching men, of which, what with your wisdom and your startling revelations, you are the greatest master that ever i knew." he would have said more, but the doctor, turning to bruno, broke in with:--"ah! what it is to consort and converse with the wise! who but this worthy man would thus have read my mind through and through? less quick by far to rate me at my true worth wast thou. but what said i when thou toldst me that buffalmacco delighted to converse with sages? confess now; have i not kept my word?" "verily," quoth bruno, "you have more than kept it." then, addressing buffalmacco:--"ah!" cried the master, "what hadst thou said, hadst thou seen me at bologna, where there was none, great or small, doctor or scholar, but was devoted to me, so well wist i how to entertain them with my words of wisdom. nay more; let me tell thee that there was never a word i spoke but set every one a laughing, so great was the pleasure it gave them. and at my departure they all deplored it most bitterly, and would have had me remain, and by way of inducement went so far as to propose that i should be sole lecturer to all the students in medicine that were there; which offer i declined, for that i was minded to return hither, having vast estates here, that have ever belonged to my family; which, accordingly, i did." quoth then bruno to buffalmacco:--"how shews it, now, man? thou didst not believe me when i told thee what he was. by the gospels there is never a physician in this city that has the lore of ass's urine by heart as he has: verily, thou wouldst not find his like between here and the gates of paris. now see if thou canst help doing as he would have thee." "'tis even as bruno says," observed the doctor, "but i am not understood here. you florentines are somewhat slow of wit. would you could see me in my proper element, among a company of doctors!" whereupon:--"of a truth, master," quoth buffalmacco, "your lore far exceeds any i should ever have imputed to you; wherefore, addressing you as 'tis meet to address a man of your wisdom, i give you disjointedly to understand that without fail i will procure your enrolment in our company." after this promise the honours lavished by the doctor upon the two men grew and multiplied; in return for which they diverted themselves by setting him a prancing upon every wildest chimera in the world; and promised, among other matters, to give him by way of mistress, the countess of civillari,(7) whom they averred to be the goodliest creature to be found in all the netherlands of the human race; and the doctor asking who this countess might be:--"mature my gherkin," quoth buffalmacco, "she is indeed a very great lady, and few houses are there in the world in which she has not some jurisdiction; nay, the very friars minors, to say nought of other folk, pay her tribute to the sound of the kettle-drum. and i may tell you that, when she goes abroad, she makes her presence very sensibly felt, albeit for the most part she keeps herself close: however, 'tis no great while since she passed by your door one night on her way to the arno to bathe her feet and get a breath of air; but most of her time she abides at laterina.(8) serjeants has she not a few that go their rounds at short intervals, bearing, one and all, the rod and the bucket in token of her sovereignty, and barons in plenty in all parts, as tamagnino della porta,(9) don meta,(10) manico di scopa,(11) squacchera,(12) and others, with whom i doubt not you are intimately acquainted, though you may not just now bear them in mind. such, then, is the great lady, in whose soft arms we, if we delude not ourselves, will certainly place you, in which case you may well dispense with her of cacavincigli." the doctor, who had been born and bred at bologna, and understood not their words, found the lady quite to his mind; and shortly afterwards the painters brought him tidings of his election into the company. then came the day of the nocturnal gathering, and the doctor had the two men to breakfast; and when they had breakfasted, he asked them after what manner he was to join the company. whereupon:--"lo, now, master," quoth buffalmacco, "you have need of a stout heart; otherwise you may meet with some let, to our most grievous hurt; and for what cause you have need of this stout heart, you shall hear. you must contrive to be to-night about the hour of first sleep on one of the raised tombs that have been lately placed outside of santa maria novella; and mind that you wear one of your best gowns, that your first appearance may impress the company with a proper sense of your dignity, and also because, as we are informed, for we were not present at the time, the countess, by reason that you are a gentleman, is minded to make you a knight of the bath at her own charges. so you will wait there, until one, whom we shall send, come for you: who, that you may know exactly what you have to expect, will be a beast black and horned, of no great size; and he will go snorting and bounding amain about the piazza in front of you, with intent to terrify you; but, when he perceives that you are not afraid, he will draw nigh you quietly, and when he is close by you, then get you down from the tomb, fearing nothing; and, minding you neither of god nor of the saints, mount him, and when you are well set on his back, then fold your arms upon your breast, as in submission, and touch him no more. then, going gently, he will bear you to us; but once mind you of god, or the saints, or give way to fear, and i warn you, he might give you a fall, or dash you against something that you would find scarce pleasant; wherefore, if your heart misgives you, you were best not to come, for you would assuredly do yourself a mischief, and us no good at all." quoth then the doctor:--"you know me not as yet; 'tis perchance because i wear the gloves and the long robe that you misdoubt me. ah! did you but know what feats i have done in times past at bologna, when i used to go after the women with my comrades, you would be lost in amazement. god's faith! on one of those nights there was one of them, a poor sickly creature she was too, and stood not a cubit in height, who would not come with us; so first i treated her to many a good cuff, and then i took her up by main force, and carried her well-nigh as far as a cross-bow will send a bolt, and so caused her, willy-nilly, come with us. and on another occasion i mind me that, having none other with me but my servant, a little after the hour of ave maria, i passed beside the cemetery of the friars minors, and, though that very day a woman had been there interred, i had no fear at all. so on this score you may make your minds easy; for indeed i am a man of exceeding great courage and prowess. and to appear before you with due dignity, i will don my scarlet gown, in which i took my doctor's degree, and it remains to be seen if the company will not give me a hearty welcome, and make me captain out of hand. let me once be there, and you will see how things will go; else how is it that this countess, that has not yet seen me, is already so enamoured of me that she is minded to make me a knight of the bath? and whether i shall find knighthood agreeable, or know how to support the dignity well or ill, leave that to me." whereupon:--"well said, excellent well said," quoth buffalmacco: "but look to it you disappoint us not, either by not coming or by not being found, when we send for you; and this i say, because 'tis cold weather, and you medical gentlemen take great care of your health." "god forbid," replied the doctor, "i am none of your chilly folk; i fear not the cold: 'tis seldom indeed, when i leave my bed a nights, to answer the call of nature, as one must at times, that i do more than throw a pelisse over my doublet; so rest assured that i shall be there." so they parted; and towards nightfall the master found a pretext for leaving his wife, and privily got out his fine gown, which in due time he donned, and so hied him to the tombs, and having perched himself on one of them, huddled himself together, for 'twas mighty cold, to await the coming of the beast. meanwhile buffalmacco, who was a tall man and strong, provided himself with one of those dominos that were wont to be worn in certain revels which are now gone out of fashion; and enveloped in a black pelisse turned inside out, shewed like a bear, save that the domino had the face of a devil, and was furnished with horns: in which guise, bruno following close behind to see the sport, he hied him to the piazza of santa maria novella. and no sooner wist he that the master was on the tomb, than he fell a careering in a most wild and furious manner to and fro the piazza, and snorting and bellowing and gibbering like one demented, insomuch that, as soon as the master was ware of him, each several hair on his head stood on end, and he fell a trembling in every limb, being in sooth more timid than a woman, and wished himself safe at home: but as there he was, he strove might and main to keep his spirits up, so overmastering was his desire to see the marvels of which bruno and buffalmacco had told him. however, after a while buffalmacco allowed his fury to abate, and came quietly up to the tomb on which the master was, and stood still. the master, still all of a tremble with fear, could not at first make up his mind, whether to get on the beast's back, or no; but at length, doubting it might be the worse for him if he did not mount the beast, he overcame the one dread by the aid of the other, got down from the tomb, saying under his breath:--"god help me!" and seated himself very comfortably on the beast's back; and then, still quaking in every limb, he folded his arms as he had been bidden. buffalmacco now started, going on all-fours, at a very slow pace, in the direction of santa maria della scala, and so brought the master within a short distance of the convent of the ladies of ripoli. now, in that quarter there were divers trenches, into which the husbandmen of those parts were wont to discharge the countess of civillari, that she might afterwards serve them to manure their land. of one of which trenches, as he came by, buffalmacco skirted the edge, and seizing his opportunity, raised a hand, and caught the doctor by one of his feet, and threw him off his back and headforemost right into the trench, and then, making a terrific noise and frantic gestures as before, went bounding off by santa maria della scala towards the field of ognissanti, where he found bruno, who had betaken him thither that he might laugh at his ease; and there the two men in high glee took their stand to observe from a distance how the bemired doctor would behave. finding himself in so loathsome a place, the master struggled might and main to raise himself and get out; and though again and again he slipped back, and swallowed some drams of the ordure, yet, bemired from head to foot, woebegone and crestfallen, he did at last get out, leaving his hood behind him. then, removing as much of the filth as he might with his hands, knowing not what else to do, he got him home, where, by dint of much knocking, he at last gained admittance; and scarce was the door closed behind the malodorous master, when bruno and buffalmacco were at it, all agog to hear after what manner he would be received by his wife. they were rewarded by hearing her give him the soundest rating that ever bad husband got. "ah!" quoth she, "fine doings, these! thou hast been with some other woman, and wast minded to make a brave shew in thy scarlet gown. so i was not enough for thee! not enough for thee forsooth, i that might content a crowd! would they had choked thee with the filth in which they have soused thee; 'twas thy fit resting-place. now, to think that a physician of repute, and a married man, should go by night after strange women!" thus, and with much more to the like effect, while the doctor was busy washing himself, she ceased not to torment him until midnight. on the morrow, bruno and buffalmacco, having painted their bodies all over with livid patches to give them the appearance of having been thrashed, came to the doctor's house, and finding that he was already risen, went in, being saluted on all hands by a foul smell, for time had not yet served thoroughly to cleanse the house. the doctor, being informed that they were come to see him, advanced to meet them, and bade them good morning. whereto bruno and buffalmacco, having prepared their answer, replied:--"no good morning shall you have from us: rather we pray god to give you bad years enough to make an end of you, seeing that there lives no more arrant and faithless traitor. 'tis no fault of yours, if we, that did our best to honour and pleasure you, have not come by a dog's death; your faithlessness has cost us to-night as many sound blows as would more than suffice to keep an ass a trotting all the way from here to rome; besides which, we have been in peril of expulsion from the company in which we arranged for your enrolment. if you doubt our words, look but at our bodies, what a state they are in." and so, baring their breasts they gave him a glimpse of the patches they had painted there, and forthwith covered them up again. the doctor would have made them his excuses, and recounted his misfortunes, and how he had been thrown into the trench. but buffalmacco broke in with:--"would he had thrown you from the bridge into the arno! why must you needs mind you of god and the saints? did we not forewarn you?" "god's faith," returned the doctor, "that did i not." "how?" quoth buffalmacco, "you did not? you do so above a little; for he that we sent for you told us that you trembled like an aspen, and knew not where you were. you have played us a sorry trick; but never another shall do so; and as for you, we will give you such requital thereof as you deserve." the doctor now began to crave their pardon, and to implore them for god's sake not to expose him to shame, and used all the eloquence at his command to make his peace with them. and if he had honourably entreated them before, he thenceforth, for fear they should publish his disgrace, did so much more abundantly, and courted them both by entertaining them at his table and in other ways. and so you have heard how wisdom is imparted to those that get it not at bologna. (1) the distinguishing mark of a doctor in those days. fanfani, vocab. della lingua italiana, 1891, "batolo." (2) perhaps an allusion to some frightful picture. (3) about four miles from florence. (4) in the italian "artagoticamente," a word of boccaccio's own minting. (5) a venetian coin of extremely low value, being reckoned as 1/4 of the florentine quattrino. (6) i.e. without salt, that florentine symbol of wit, not being so readily procurable on a holiday as on working-days. (7) a public sink at florence. (8) in the contado of arezzo: the equivoque is tolerably obvious. (9) slang for an ill-kept jakes. (10) also slang: signifying a pyramidal pile of ordure. (11) broom-handle. (12) the meaning of this term may perhaps be divined from the sound. novel x. -a sicilian woman cunningly conveys from a merchant that which he has brought to palermo; he, making a shew of being come back thither with far greater store of goods than before, borrows money of her, and leaves her in lieu thereof water and tow. -how much in divers passages the queen's story moved the ladies to laughter, it boots not to ask: none was there in whose eyes the tears stood not full a dozen times for excess of merriment. however, it being ended, and dioneo witting that 'twas now his turn, thus spake he:--gracious ladies, 'tis patent to all that wiles are diverting in the degree of the wiliness of him that is by them beguiled. wherefore, albeit stories most goodly have been told by you all, i purpose to relate one which should afford you more pleasure than any that has been told, seeing that she that was beguiled was far more cunning in beguiling others than any of the beguiled of whom you have spoken. there was, and perhaps still is, a custom in all maritime countries that have ports, that all merchants arriving there with merchandise, should, on discharging, bring all their goods into a warehouse, called in many places "dogana," and maintained by the state, or the lord of the land; where those that are assigned to that office allot to each merchant, on receipt of an invoice of all his goods and the value thereof, a room in which he stores his goods under lock and key; whereupon the said officers of the dogana enter all the merchant's goods to his credit in the book of the dogana, and afterwards make him pay duty thereon, or on such part as he withdraws from the warehouse. by which book of the dogana the brokers not seldom find out the sorts and quantities of the merchandise that is there, and also who are the owners thereof, with whom, as occasion serves, they afterwards treat of exchanges, barters, sales and other modes of disposing of the goods. which custom obtained, as in many other places, so also at palermo in sicily, where in like manner there were and are not a few women, fair as fair can be, but foes to virtue, who by whoso knows them not would be reputed great and most virtuous ladies. and being given not merely to fleece but utterly to flay men, they no sooner espy a foreign merchant in the city, than they find out from the book of the dogana how much he has there and what he is good for; and then by caressing and amorous looks and gestures, and words of honeyed sweetness, they strive to entice and allure the merchant to their love, and not seldom have they succeeded, and wrested from him great part or the whole of his merchandise; and of some they have gotten goods and ship and flesh and bones, so delightsomely have they known how to ply the shears. now 'tis not long since one of our young florentines, niccolo da cignano by name, albeit he was called salabaetto, arrived there, being sent by his masters with all the woollen stuffs that he had not been able to dispose of at salerno fair, which might perhaps be worth five hundred florins of gold; and having given the invoice to the officers of the dogana and stored the goods, salabaetto was in no hurry to get them out of bond, but took a stroll or two about the city for his diversion. and as he was fresh-complexioned and fair and not a little debonair, it so befell that one of these ladies that plied the shears, and called herself jancofiore, began to ogle him. whereof he taking note, and deeming that she was a great lady, supposed that she was taken by his good looks, and cast about how he might manage this amour with all due discretion; wherefore, saying nought to a soul, he began to pass to and fro before her house. which she observing, occupied herself for a few days in inflaming his passion, and then affecting to be dying of love for him, sent privily to him a woman that she had in her service, and who was an adept in the arts of the procuress. she, after not a little palaver, told him, while the tears all but stood in her eyes, that for his handsome person and winsome air her mistress was so enamoured of him, that she found no peace by day or by night; and therefore, if 'twere agreeable to him, there was nought she desired so much as to meet him privily at a bagnio: whereupon she drew a ring from her purse, and gave it him by way of token from her mistress. overjoyed as ne'er another to hear such good news, salabaetto took the ring, and, after drawing it across his eyes and kissing it, put it on his finger, and told the good woman that, if madonna jancofiore loved him, she was well requited, for that he loved her more dearly than himself, and that he was ready to meet her wherever and whenever she might see fit. with which answer the procuress hied her back to her mistress, and shortly afterwards salabaetto was informed that he was to meet the lady at a certain bagnio at vespers of the ensuing day. so, saying nought to a soul of the matter, he hied him punctually at the appointed hour to the bagnio, and found that it had been taken by the lady; nor had he long to wait before two female slaves made their appearance, bearing on their heads, the one a great and goodly mattress of wadding, and the other a huge and well-filled basket; and having laid the mattress on a bedstead in one of the rooms of the bagnio, they covered it with a pair of sheets of the finest fabric, bordered with silk, and a quilt of the whitest cyprus buckram, with two daintily-embroidered pillows. the slaves then undressed and got into the bath, which they thoroughly washed and scrubbed: whither soon afterwards the lady, attended by other two female slaves, came, and made haste to greet salabaetto with the heartiest of cheer; and when, after heaving many a mighty sigh, she had embraced and kissed him:--"i know not," quoth she, "who but thou could have brought me to this, such a fire hast thou kindled in my soul, little dog of a tuscan!" whereupon she was pleased that they should undress, and get into the bath, and two of the slaves with them; which, accordingly, they did; and she herself, suffering none other to lay a hand upon him, did with wondrous care wash salabaetto from head to foot with soap perfumed with musk and cloves; after which she let the slaves wash and shampoo herself. the slaves then brought two spotless sheets of finest texture, which emitted such a scent of roses, that 'twas as if there was nought there but roses, in one of which having wrapped salabaetto, and in the other the lady, they bore them both to bed, where, the sheets in which they were enfolded being withdrawn by the slaves as soon as they had done sweating, they remained stark naked in the others. the slaves then took from the basket cruets of silver most goodly, and full, this of rose-water, that of water of orange-blossom, a third of water of jasmine-blossom, and a fourth of nanfa(1) water, wherewith they sprinkled them: after which, boxes of comfits and the finest wines being brought forth, they regaled them a while. to salabaetto 'twas as if he were in paradise; a thousand times he scanned the lady, who was indeed most beautiful; and he counted each hour as a hundred years until the slaves should get them gone, and he find himself in the lady's arms. at length, by the lady's command, the slaves departed, leaving a lighted torch in the room, and then the lady and salabaetto embraced, and to salabaetto's prodigious delight, for it seemed to him that she was all but dissolved for love of him, tarried there a good while. however, the time came when the lady must needs rise: so she called the slaves, with whose help they dressed, regaled them again for a while with wine and comfits, and washed their faces and hands with the odoriferous waters. then as they were going, quoth the lady to salabaetto:--"if it be agreeable to thee, i should deem it a very great favour if thou wouldst come to-night to sup and sleep with me." salabaetto, who, captivated by her beauty and her studied graciousness, never doubted but he was dear to her as her very heart, made answer:--"madam, there is nought you can desire but is in the last degree agreeable to me; wherefore to-night and ever 'tis my purpose to do whatsoever you may be pleased to command." so home the lady hied her, and having caused a brave shew to be made in her chamber with her dresses and other paraphernalia, and a grand supper to be prepared, awaited salabaetto; who, being come there as soon as 'twas dark, had of her a gladsome welcome, and was regaled with an excellent and well-served supper. after which, they repaired to the chamber, where he was saluted by a wondrous sweet odour of aloe-wood, and observed that the bed was profusely furnished with birds,(2) after the fashion of cyprus, and that not a few fine dresses were hanging upon the pegs. which circumstances did, one and all, beget in him the belief that this must be a great and wealthy lady; and, though he had heard a hint or two to the contrary touching her life, he would by no means credit them; nor, supposing that she had perchance taken another with guile, would he believe that the same thing might befall him. so to his exceeding great solace, he lay with her that night, and ever grew more afire for her. on the morrow, as she was investing him with a fair and dainty girdle of silver, with a goodly purse attached:--"sweet my salabaetto," quoth she, "prithee forget me not; even as my person, so is all that i have at thy pleasure, and all that i can at thy command." salabaetto then embraced and kissed her, and so bade her adieu, and betook him to the place where the merchants were wont to congregate. and so it befell that he, continuing to consort with her from time to time, and being never a denier the poorer thereby, disposed of his merchandise for ready money and at no small profit; whereof not by him but by another the lady was forthwith advised. and salabaetto being come to see her one evening, she greeted him gaily and gamesomely, and fell a kissing and hugging him, and made as if she were so afire for love of him that she was like to die thereof in his arms; and offered to give him two most goodly silver cups that she had, which salabaetto would not accept, having already had from her (taking one time with another) fully thirty florins of gold, while he had not been able to induce her to touch so much as a groat of his money. but when by this shew of passion and generosity she had thoroughly kindled his flame, in came, as she had arranged, one of her slaves, and spoke to her; whereupon out of the room she went, and after a while came back in tears, and threw herself prone on the bed, and set up the most dolorous lamentation that ever woman made. whereat salabaetto wondering, took her in his arms, and mingled his tears with hers, and said:--"alas! heart of my body! what ails thee thus of a sudden? wherefore art thou so distressed? ah! tell me the reason, my soul." the lady allowed him to run on in this strain for a good while, and then:--"alas! sweet my lord," quoth she, "i know not either what to do or what to say. i have but now received a letter from messina, in which my brother bids me sell, if need be, all that i have here, and send him without fail within eight days a thousand florins of gold: otherwise he will forfeit his head. i know not how to come by them so soon: had i but fifteen days, i would make a shift to raise them in a quarter where i might raise a much larger sum, or i would sell one of our estates; but, as this may not be, would i had been dead or e'er this bad news had reached me!" which said, affecting to be utterly broken-hearted, she ceased not to weep. salabaetto, the ardour of whose passion had in great measure deprived him of the sagacity which the circumstances demanded, supposed that the tears were genuine enough, and the words even more so. wherefore:--"madam," quoth he, "i could not furnish you with a thousand, but if five hundred florins of gold would suffice, they are at your service, if you think you could repay them within fifteen days; and you may deem yourself in luck's way, for 'twas only yesterday that i sold my woollens, which had i not done, i could not have lent you a groat." "alas" returned the lady, "then thou hast been in straits for money? oh! why didst thou not apply to me? though i have not a thousand at my command, i could have given thee quite a hundred, nay indeed two hundred florins. by what thou hast said thou hast made me hesitate to accept the service that thou proposest to render me." which words fairly delivered salabaetto into the lady's hands, insomuch that:--"madam," quoth he, "i would not have you decline my help for such a scruple; for had my need been as great as yours, i should certainly have applied to you." quoth then the lady:--"ah! salabaetto mine, well i wot that the love thou bearest me is a true and perfect love, seeing that, without waiting to be asked, thou dost so handsomely come to my aid with so large a sum of money. and albeit i was thine without this token of thy love, yet, assuredly, it has made me thine in an even greater degree; nor shall i ever forget that 'tis to thee i owe my brother's life. but god knows i take thy money from thee reluctantly, seeing that thou art a merchant, and 'tis by means of money that merchants conduct all their affairs; but, as necessity constrains me, and i have good hope of speedily repaying thee, i will even take it, and by way of security, if i should find no readier method, i will pawn all that i have here." which said, she burst into tears, and fell upon salabaetto, pressing her cheek upon his. salabaetto tried to comfort her; and having spent the night with her, on the morrow, being minded to shew himself her most devoted servant, brought her, without awaiting any reminder, five hundred fine florins of gold: which she, laughing at heart while the tears streamed from her eyes, took, salabaetto trusting her mere promise of repayment. now that the lady had gotten the money, the complexion of affairs began to alter; and whereas salabaetto had been wont to have free access to her, whenever he was so minded, now for one reason or another he was denied admittance six times out of seven; nor did she greet him with the same smile, or shower on him the same caresses, or do him the same cheer as of yore. so a month, two months, passed beyond the time when he was to have been repaid his money; and when he demanded it, he was put off with words. whereby salabaetto, being now ware of the cheat which his slender wit had suffered the evil-disposed woman to put upon him, and also that, having neither writing nor witness against her, he was entirely at her mercy in regard of his claim, and being, moreover, ashamed to lodge any complaint with any one, as well because he had been forewarned of her character, as because he dreaded the ridicule to which his folly justly exposed him, was chagrined beyond measure, and inly bewailed his simplicity. and his masters having written to him, bidding him change the money and remit it to them, he, being apprehensive that, making default as he must, he should, if he remained there, be detected, resolved to depart; and having taken ship, he repaired, not, as he should have done, to pisa, but to naples; where at that time resided our gossip, pietro dello canigiano, treasurer of the empress of constantinople, a man of great sagacity and acuteness, and a very great friend of salabaetto and his kinsfolk; to whom trusting in his great discretion, salabaetto after a while discovered his distress, telling him what he had done, and the sorry plight in which by consequence he stood, and craving his aid and counsel, that he might the more readily find means of livelihood there, for that he was minded never to go back to florence. impatient to hear of such folly:--"'twas ill done of thee," quoth canigiano, "thou hast misbehaved thyself, wronged thy masters, and squandered an exorbitant sum in lewdness; however, 'tis done, and we must consider of the remedy." and indeed, like the shrewd man that he was, he had already bethought him what was best to be done; and forthwith he imparted it to salabaetto. which expedient salabaetto approving, resolved to make the adventure; and having still a little money, and being furnished with a loan by canigiano, he provided himself with not a few bales well and closely corded, and bought some twenty oil-casks, which he filled, and having put all on shipboard, returned to palermo. there he gave the invoice of the bales, as also of the oil-casks, to the officers of the dogana, and having them all entered to his credit, laid them up in the store-rooms, saying that he purposed to leave them there until the arrival of other merchandise that he expected. which jancofiore learning, and being informed that the merchandise, that he had brought with him, was worth fully two thousand florins of gold, or even more, besides that which he expected, which was valued at more than three thousand florins of gold, bethought her that she had not aimed high enough, and that 'twere well to refund him the five hundred, if so she might make the greater part of the five thousand florins her own. wherefore she sent for him, and salabaetto, having learned his lesson of cunning, waited on her. feigning to know nought of the cargo he had brought with him, she received him with marvellous cheer, and began:--"lo, now, if thou wast angry with me because i did not repay thee thy money in due time:" but salabaetto interrupted her, saying with a laugh:--"madam 'tis true i was a little vexed, seeing that i would have plucked out my heart to pleasure you; but listen, and you shall learn the quality of my displeasure. such and so great is the love i bear you, that i have sold the best part of all that i possess, whereby i have already in this port merchandise to the value of more than two thousand florins, and expect from the levant other goods to the value of above three thousand florins, and mean to set up a warehouse in this city, and live here, to be ever near you, for that i deem myself more blessed in your love than any other lover that lives." whereupon:--"harkye, salabaetto," quoth the lady, "whatever advantages thee is mighty grateful to me, seeing that i love thee more than my very life, and right glad am i that thou art come back with intent to stay, for i hope to have many a good time with thee; but something i must say to thee by way of excuse, for that, whilst thou wast thinking of taking thy departure, there were times when thou wast disappointed of seeing me, and others when thou hadst not as gladsome a welcome as thou wast wont to have, and therewithal i kept not the time promised for the repayment of thy money. thou must know that i was then in exceeding great trouble and tribulation, and whoso is thus bested, love he another never so much, cannot greet him with as gladsome a mien, or be as attentive to him, as he had lief; and thou must further know that 'tis by no means an easy matter for a lady to come by a thousand florins of gold: why, 'tis every day a fresh lie, and never a promise kept; and so we in our turn must needs lie to others; and 'twas for this cause, and not for any fault of mine, that i did not repay thee thy money; however, i had it but a little while after thy departure, and had i known whither to send it, be sure i would have remitted it to thee; but, as that i wist not, i have kept it safe for thee." she then produced a purse, in which were the very same coins that he had brought her, and placed it in his hand, saying:--"count and see if there are five hundred there." 'twas the happiest moment salabaetto had yet known, as, having told them out, and found the sum exact, he made answer:--"madam, i know that you say sooth, and what you have done abundantly proves it; wherefore, and for the love i bear you, i warrant you there is no sum you might ask of me on any occasion of need, with which, if 'twere in my power, i would not accommodate you; whereof, when i am settled here, you will be able to assure yourself." having thus in words reinstated himself as her lover, he proceeded to treat her as his mistress, whereto she responded, doing all that was in her power to pleasure and honour him, and feigning to be in the last degree enamoured of him. but salabaetto, being minded to requite her guile with his own, went to her one evening, being bidden to sup and sleep with her, with an aspect so melancholy and dolorous, that he shewed as he had lief give up the ghost. jancofiore, as she embraced and kissed him, demanded of him the occasion of his melancholy. whereto he, having let her be instant with him a good while, made answer:--"i am undone, for that the ship, having aboard her the goods that i expected, has been taken by the corsairs of monaco, and held to ransom in ten thousand florins of gold, of which it falls to me to pay one thousand, and i have not a denier, for the five hundred thou repaidst me i sent forthwith to naples to buy stuffs for this market, and were i to sell the merchandise i have here, as 'tis not now the right time to sell, i should scarce get half the value; nor am i as yet so well known here as to come by any to help me at this juncture, and so what to do or what to say i know not; but this i know that, if i send not the money without delay, my merchandise will be taken to monaco, and i shall never touch aught of it again." whereat the lady was mightily annoyed, being apprehensive of losing all, and bethought her how she might prevent the goods going to monaco: wherefore:--"god knows," quoth she, "that for the love i bear thee i am not a little sorry for thee: but what boots it idly to distress oneself? had i the money, god knows i would lend it thee forthwith, but i have it not. one, indeed, there is that accommodated me a day or two ago with five hundred florins that i stood in need of, but he requires a heavy usance, not less than thirty on the hundred, and if thou shouldst have recourse to him, good security must be forthcoming. now for my part i am ready, so i may serve thee, to pledge all these dresses, and my person to boot, for as much as he will tend thee thereon; but how wilt thou secure the balance?" salabaetto divined the motive that prompted her thus to accommodate him, and that she was to lend the money herself; which suiting his purpose well, he first of all thanked her, and then said that, being constrained by necessity, he would not stand out against exorbitant terms, adding that, as to the balance, he would secure it upon the merchandise that he had at the dogana by causing it to be entered in the name of the lender; but that he must keep the key of the storerooms, as well that he might be able to shew the goods, if requested, as to make sure that none of them should be tampered with or changed or exchanged. the lady said that this was reasonable, and that 'twas excellent security. so, betimes on the morrow, the lady sent for a broker, in whom she reposed much trust, and having talked the matter over with him, gave him a thousand florins of gold, which the broker took to salabaetto, and thereupon had all that salabaetto had at the dogana entered in his name; they then had the script and counterscript made out, and, the arrangement thus concluded, went about their respective affairs. salabaetto lost no time in getting aboard a bark with his five hundred florins of gold, and being come to naples, sent thence a remittance which fully discharged his obligation to his masters that had entrusted him with the stuffs: he also paid all that he owed to pietro dello canigiano and all his other creditors, and made not a little merry with canigiano over the trick he had played the sicilian lady. he then departed from naples, and being minded to have done with mercantile affairs, betook him to ferrara. jancofiore, surprised at first by salabaetto's disappearance from palermo, waxed after a while suspicious; and, when she had waited fully two months, seeing that he did not return, she caused the broker to break open the store-rooms. and trying first of all the casks, she found them full of sea-water, save that in each there was perhaps a hog's-head of oil floating on the surface. then undoing the bales, she found them all, save two that contained stuffs, full of tow, and in short their whole contents put together were not worth more than two hundred florins. wherefore jancofiore, knowing herself to have been outdone, regretted long and bitterly the five hundred florins of gold that she had refunded, and still more the thousand that she had lent, repeating many a time to herself:--who with a tuscan has to do, had need of eyesight quick and true. thus, left with the loss and the laugh against her, she discovered that there were others as knowing as she. (1) neither the vocab. degli accad. della crusca nor the ricchezze attempts to define the precise nature of this scent, which fanfani identifies with that of the orange-blossom. (2) i.e. with a sort of musical boxes in the shape of birds. no sooner was dioneo's story ended, than lauretta, witting that therewith the end of her sovereignty was come, bestowed her meed of praise on pietro canigiano for his good counsel, and also on salabaetto for the equal sagacity which he displayed in carrying it out, and then, taking off the laurel wreath, set it on the head of emilia, saying graciously:--"i know not, madam, how debonair a queen you may prove, but at least we shall have in you a fair one. be it your care, then, that you exercise your authority in a manner answerable to your charms." which said, she resumed her seat. not so much to receive the crown, as to be thus commended to her face and before the company for that which ladies are wont to covet the most, emilia was a little shamefast; a tint like that of the newly-blown rose overspread her face, and a while she stood silent with downcast eyes: then, as the blush faded away, she raised them; and having given her seneschal her commands touching all matters pertaining to the company, thus she spake:--"sweet my ladies, 'tis matter of common experience that, when the oxen have swunken a part of the day under the coercive yoke, they are relieved thereof and loosed, and suffered to go seek their pasture at their own sweet will in the woods; nor can we fail to observe that gardens luxuriant with diversity of leafage are not less, but far more fair to see, than woods wherein is nought but oaks. wherefore i deem that, as for so many days our discourse has been confined within the bounds of certain laws, 'twill be not only meet but profitable for us, being in need of relaxation, to roam a while, and so recruit our strength to undergo the yoke once more. and therefore i am minded that to-morrow the sweet tenor of your discourse be not confined to any particular theme, but that you be at liberty to discourse on such wise as to each may seem best; for well assured am i that thus to speak of divers matters will be no less pleasurable than to limit ourselves to one topic; and by reason of this enlargement my successor in the sovereignty will find you more vigorous, and be therefore all the more forward to reimpose upon you the wonted restraint of our laws." having so said, she dismissed all the company until supper-time. all approved the wisdom of what the queen had said; and being risen betook them to their several diversions, the ladies to weave garlands and otherwise disport them, the young men to play and sing; and so they whiled away the hours until supper-time; which being come, they gathered about the fair fountain, and took their meal with gay and festal cheer. supper ended, they addressed them to their wonted pastime of song and dance. at the close of which the queen, notwithstanding the songs which divers of the company had already gladly accorded them, called for another from pamfilo, who without the least demur thus sang:-so great, o love, the bliss through thee i prove, so jocund my estate, that in thy flame to burn i bless my fate! such plenitude of joy my heart doth know of that high joy and rare, wherewith thou hast me blest, as, bounds disdaining, still doth overflow, and by my radiant air my blitheness manifest; for by thee thus possessed with love, where meeter 'twere to venerate, i still consume within thy flame elate. well wot i, love, no song may e'er reveal, nor any sign declare what in my heart is pent nay, might they so, that were i best conceal, whereof were others ware, 'twould serve but to torment me, whose is such content, that weak were words and all inadequate a tittle of my bliss to adumbrate. who would have dreamed that e'er in mine embrace her i should clip and fold whom there i still do feel, or as 'gainst her face e'er to lay my face attain such grace untold, and unimagined weal? wherefore my bliss i seal of mine own heart within the circuit strait, and still in thy sweet flame luxuriate. so ended pamfilo his song: whereto all the company responded in full chorus; nor was there any but gave to its words an inordinate degree of attention, endeavouring by conjecture to penetrate that which he intimated that 'twas meet he should keep secret. divers were the interpretations hazarded, but all were wide of the mark. at length, however, the queen, seeing that ladies and men alike were fain of rest, bade all betake them to bed. -endeth here the eighth day of the decameron, beginneth the ninth, in which, under the rule of emilia, discourse is had, at the discretion of each, of such matters as most commend themselves to each in turn. -the luminary, before whose splendour the night takes wing, had already changed the eighth heaven(1) from azure to the lighter blue,(2) and in the meads the flowerets were beginning to lift their heads, when emilia, being risen, roused her fair gossips, and, likewise, the young men. and so the queen leading the way at an easy pace, and the rest of the company following, they hied them to a copse at no great distance from the palace. where, being entered, they saw the goats and stags and other wild creatures, as if witting that in this time of pestilence they had nought to fear from the hunter, stand awaiting them with no more sign of fear than if they had been tamed: and so, making now towards this, now towards the other of them as if to touch them, they diverted themselves for a while by making them skip and run. but, as soon as the sun was in the ascendant, by common consent they turned back, and whoso met them, garlanded as they were with oak-leaves, and carrying store of fragrant herbs or flowers in their hands might well have said:--"either shall death not vanquish these, or they will meet it with a light heart." so, slowly wended they their way, now singing, now bandying quips and merry jests, to the palace, where they found all things in order meet, and their servants in blithe and merry cheer. a while they rested, nor went they to table until six ditties, each gayer than that which went before, had been sung by the young men and the ladies; which done, they washed their hands, and all by the queen's command were ranged by the seneschal at the table; and, the viands being served, they cheerily took their meal: wherefrom being risen, they trod some measures to the accompaniment of music; and then, by the queen's command, whoso would betook him to rest. however, the accustomed hour being come, they all gathered at the wonted spot for their discoursing, and the queen, bending her regard upon filomena, bade her make a beginning of the day's story-telling, which she with a smile did on this wise:-(1) i.e. in the ptolemaic system, the region of the fixed stars. (2) cilestro: a word for which we have no exact equivalent, the dominant note of the italian sky, when the sun is well up, being its intense luminosity. novel i. -madonna francesca, having two lovers, the one rinuccio, the other alessandro, by name, and loving neither of them, induces the one to simulate a corpse in a tomb, and the other to enter the tomb to fetch him out: whereby, neither satisfying her demands, she artfully rids herself of both. -madam, since so it pleases you, well pleased am i that in this vast, this boundless field of discourse, which you, our lady bountiful, have furnished us withal, 'tis mine to run the first course; wherein if i do well, i doubt not that those, who shall follow me, will do not only well but better. such, sweet my ladies, has been the tenor of our discourse, that times not a few the might of love, how great and singular it is, has been set forth, but yet i doubt the topic is not exhausted, nor would it be so, though we should continue to speak of nought else for the space of a full year. and as love not only leads lovers to debate with themselves whether they were not best to die, but also draws them into the houses of the dead in quest of the dead, i am minded in this regard to tell you a story, wherein you will not only discern the power of love, but will also learn how the ready wit of a worthy lady enabled her to disembarrass herself of two lovers, whose love was displeasing to her. know, then, that there dwelt aforetime in the city of pistoia a most beauteous widow lady, of whom it so befell that two of our citizens, the one rinuccio palermini, the other alessandro chiarmontesi, by name, tarrying at pistoia, for that they were banished from florence, became, neither witting how it stood with the other, in the last degree enamoured. wherefore each used all his arts to win the love of madonna francesca de' lazzari--such was the lady's name--and she, being thus continually plied with ambassages and entreaties on the part of both, and having indiscreetly lent ear to them from time to time, found it no easy matter discreetly to extricate herself, when she was minded to be rid of their pestering, until it occurred to her to adopt the following expedient, to wit, to require of each a service, such as, though not impracticable, she deemed none would actually perform, to the end that, they making default, she might have a decent and colourable pretext for refusing any longer to receive their ambassages. which expedient was on this wise. one day there died in pistoia, and was buried in a tomb outside the church of the friars minors, a man, who, though his forbears had been gentlefolk, was reputed the very worst man, not in pistoia only, but in all the world, and therewithal he was of form and feature so preternaturally hideous that whoso knew him not could scarce see him for the first time without a shudder. now, the lady pondering her design on the day of this man's death, it occurred to her that he might in a measure subserve its accomplishment: wherefore she said to her maid:--"thou knowest to what worry and annoyance i am daily put by the ambassages of these two florentines, rinuccio, and alessandro. now i am not disposed to gratify either of them with my love, and therefore, to shake them off, i am minded, as they make such great protestations, to put them to the proof by requiring of each something which i am sure he will not perform, and thus to rid myself of their pestering: so list what i mean to do. thou knowest that this morning there was interred in the ground of the friars minors this scannadio (such was the name of the bad man of whom we spoke but now) whose aspect, while he yet lived, appalled even the bravest among us. thou wilt therefore go privily, to alessandro, and say to him:--'madonna francesca sends thee word by me that the time is now come when thou mayst win that which thou hast so much desired, to wit, her love and joyance thereof, if thou be so minded, on the following terms. for a reason, which thou shalt learn hereafter, one of her kinsmen is to bring home to her to-night the corpse of scannadio, who was buried this morning; and she, standing in mortal dread of this dead man, would fain not see him; wherefore she prays thee to do her a great service, and be so good as to get thee this evening at the hour of first sleep to the tomb wherein scannadio is buried, and go in, and having wrapped thyself in his grave-clothes, lie there, as thou wert scannadio, himself, until one come for thee, when thou must say never a word, but let him carry thee forth, and bear thee to madonna francesca's house, where she will give thee welcome, and let thee stay with her, until thou art minded to depart, and, for the rest, thou wilt leave it to her.' and if he says that he will gladly do so, well and good; if not, then thou wilt tell him from me, never more to shew himself where i am, and, as he values his life, to have a care to send me no more ambassages. which done, thou wilt go to rinuccio palermini, and wilt say to him:--'madonna francesca lets thee know that she is ready in all respects to comply with thy wishes, so thou wilt do her a great service, which is on this wise: to-night, about midnight, thou must go to the tomb wherein was this morning interred scannadio, and saying never a word, whatever thou mayst hear or otherwise be ware of, bear him gently forth to madonna francesca's house, where thou shalt learn wherefore she requires this of thee, and shalt have thy solace of her; and if thou art not minded to obey her in this, see that thou never more send her ambassage.'" the maid did her mistress's errand, omitting nothing, to both the men, and received from each the same answer, to wit, that to pleasure the lady, he would adventure a journey to hell, to say nothing of entering a tomb. with which answer the maid returned to the lady, who waited to see if they would be such fools as to make it good. night came, and at the hour of first sleep alessandro chiarmontesi, stripped to his doublet, quitted his house, and bent his steps towards scannadio's tomb, with intent there to take the dead man's place. as he walked, there came upon him a great fear, and he fell a saying to himself:--ah! what a fool am i! whither go i? how know i that her kinsmen, having detected my love, and surmising that which is not, have not put her upon requiring this of me, in order that they may slay me in the tomb? in which event i alone should be the loser, for nought would ever be heard of it, so that they would escape scot-free. or how know i but that 'tis some machination of one of my ill-wishers, whom perchance she loves, and is therefore minded to abet? and again quoth he to himself:--but allowing that 'tis neither the one nor the other, and that her kinsmen are really to carry me to her house, i scarce believe that 'tis either that they would fain embrace scannadio's corpse themselves, or let her do so: rather it must be that they have a mind to perpetrate some outrage upon it, for that, perchance, he once did them an evil turn. she bids me say never a word, no matter what i may hear or be otherwise ware of. suppose they were to pluck out my eyes, or my teeth, or cut off my hands, or treat me to some other horse-play of the like sort, how then? how could i keep quiet? and if i open my mouth, they will either recognize me, and perchance do me a mischief, or, if they spare me, i shall have been at pains for nought, for they will not leave me with the lady, and she will say that i disobeyed her command, and i shall never have aught of her favours. as thus he communed with himself, he was on the point of turning back; but his overmastering love plied him with opposing arguments of such force that he kept on his way, and reached the tomb; which having opened, he entered, and after stripping scannadio, and wrapping himself in the grave-clothes, closed it, and laid himself down in scannadio's place. he then fell a thinking of the dead man, and his manner of life, and the things which he had heard tell of as happening by night, and in other less appalling places than the houses of the dead; whereby all the hairs of his head stood on end, and he momently expected scannadio to rise and cut his throat. however, the ardour of his love so fortified him that he overcame these and all other timorous apprehensions, and lay as if he were dead, awaiting what should betide him. towards midnight rinuccio, bent likewise upon fulfilling his lady's behest, sallied forth of his house, revolving as he went divers forebodings of possible contingencies, as that, having scannadio's corpse upon his shoulders, he might fall into the hands of the signory, and be condemned to the fire as a wizard, or that, should the affair get wind, it might embroil him with his kinsfolk, or the like, which gave him pause. but then with a revulsion of feeling:-shall i, quoth he to himself, deny this lady, whom i so much have loved and love, the very first thing that she asks of me? and that too when i am thereby to win her favour? no, though 'twere as much as my life is worth, far be it from me to fail of keeping my word. so on he fared, and arrived at the tomb, which he had no difficulty in opening, and being entered, laid hold of alessandro, who, though in mortal fear, had given no sign of life, by the feet, and dragged him forth, and having hoisted him on to his shoulders, bent his steps towards the lady's house. and as he went, being none too careful of alessandro, he swung him from time to time against one or other of the angles of certain benches that were by the wayside; and indeed the night was so dark and murky that he could not see where he was going. and when he was all but on the threshold of the lady's house (she standing within at a window with her maid, to mark if rinuccio would bring alessandro, and being already provided with an excuse for sending them both away), it so befell that the patrol of the signory, who were posted in the street in dead silence, being on the look-out for a certain bandit, hearing the tramp of rinuccio's feet, suddenly shewed a light, the better to know what was toward, and whither to go, and advancing targes and lances, cried out:--"who goes there?" whereupon rinuccio, having little leisure for deliberation, let alessandro fall, and took to flight as fast as his legs might carry him. alessandro, albeit encumbered by the graveclothes, which were very long, also jumped up and made off. by the light shewn by the patrol the lady had very plainly perceived rinuccio, with alessandro on his back, as also that alessandro had the grave-clothes upon him; and much did she marvel at the daring of both, but, for all that, she laughed heartily to see rinuccio drop alessandro, and alessandro run away. overjoyed at the turn the affair had taken, and praising god that he had rid her of their harass, she withdrew from the window, and betook her to her chamber, averring to her maid that for certain they must both be mightily in love with her, seeing that 'twas plain they had both done her bidding. crestfallen and cursing his evil fortune, rinuccio nevertheless went not home, but, as soon as the street was clear of the patrol, came back to the spot where he had dropped alessandro, and stooped down and began feeling about, if haply he might find him, and so do his devoir to the lady; but, as he found him not, he supposed the patrol must have borne him thence, and so at last home he went; as did also alessandro, knowing not what else to do, and deploring his mishap. on the morrow, scannadio's tomb being found open and empty, for alessandro had thrown the corpse into the vault below, all pistoia debated of the matter with no small diversity of opinion, the fools believing that scannadio had been carried off by devils. neither of the lovers, however, forbore to make suit to the lady for her favour and love, telling her what he had done, and what had happened, and praying her to have him excused that he had not perfectly carried out her instructions. but she, feigning to believe neither of them, disposed of each with the same curt answer, to wit, that, as he had not done her bidding, she would never do aught for him. novel ii. -an abbess rises in haste and in the dark, with intent to surprise an accused nun abed with her lover: thinking to put on her veil, she puts on instead the breeches of a priest that she has with her: the nun, espying her headgear, and doing her to wit thereof, is acquitted, and thenceforth finds it easier to forgather with her lover. -so ended filomena; and when all had commended the address shewn by the lady in ridding herself of the two lovers that she affected not, and contrariwise had censured the hardihood of the two lovers as not love but madness, the queen turned to elisa, and with a charming air:--"now, elisa, follow," quoth she: whereupon elisa began on this wise:--dearest ladies, 'twas cleverly done of madonna francesca, to disembarrass herself in the way we have heard: but i have to tell of a young nun, who by a happy retort, and the favour of fortune, delivered herself from imminent peril. and as you know that there are not a few most foolish folk, who, notwithstanding their folly, take upon themselves the governance and correction of others; so you may learn from my story that fortune at times justly puts them to shame; which befell the abbess, who was the superior of the nun of whom i am about to speak. you are to know, then, that in a convent in lombardy of very great repute for strict and holy living there was, among other ladies that there wore the veil, a young woman of noble family, and extraordinary beauty. now isabetta--for such was her name--having speech one day of one of her kinsmen at the grate, became enamoured of a fine young gallant that was with him; who, seeing her to be very fair, and reading her passion in her eyes, was kindled with a like flame for her: which mutual and unsolaced love they bore a great while not without great suffering to both. but at length, both being intent thereon, the gallant discovered a way by which he might with all secrecy visit his nun; and she approving, he paid her not one visit only, but many, to their no small mutual solace. but, while thus they continued their intercourse, it so befell that one night one of the sisters observed him take his leave of isabetta and depart, albeit neither he nor she was ware that they had thus been discovered. the sister imparted what she had seen to several others. at first they were minded to denounce her to the abbess, one madonna usimbalda, who was reputed by the nuns, and indeed by all that knew her, to be a good and holy woman; but on second thoughts they deemed it expedient, that there might be no room for denial, to cause the abbess to take her and the gallant in the act. so they held their peace, and arranged between them to keep her in watch and close espial, that they might catch her unawares. of which practice isabetta recking, witting nought, it so befell that one night, when she had her lover to see her, the sisters that were on the watch were soon ware of it, and at what they deemed the nick of time parted into two companies of which one mounted guard at the threshold of isabetta's cell, while the other hasted to the abbess's chamber, and knocking at the door, roused her, and as soon as they heard her voice, said:--"up, madam, without delay: we have discovered that isabetta has a young man with her in her cell." now that night the abbess had with her a priest whom she used not seldom to have conveyed to her in a chest; and the report of the sisters making her apprehensive lest for excess of zeal and hurry they should force the door open, she rose in a trice; and huddling on her clothes as best she might in the dark, instead of the veil that they wear, which they call the psalter, she caught up the priest's breeches, and having clapped them on her head, hied her forth, and locked the door behind her, saying:--"where is this woman accursed of god?" and so, guided by the sisters, all so agog to catch isabetta a sinning that they perceived not what manner of headgear the abbess wore, she made her way to the cell, and with their aid broke open the door; and entering they found the two lovers abed in one another's arms; who, as it were, thunderstruck to be thus surprised, lay there, witting not what to do. the sisters took the young nun forthwith, and by command of the abbess brought her to the chapter-house. the gallant, left behind in the cell, put on his clothes and waited to see how the affair would end, being minded to make as many nuns as he might come at pay dearly for any despite that might be done his mistress, and to bring her off with him. the abbess, seated in the chapter-house with all her nuns about her, and all eyes bent upon the culprit, began giving her the severest reprimand that ever woman got, for that by her disgraceful and abominable conduct, should it get wind, she had sullied the fair fame of the convent; whereto she added menaces most dire. shamefast and timorous, the culprit essayed no defence, and her silence begat pity of her in the rest; but, while the abbess waxed more and more voluble, it chanced that the girl raised her head and espied the abbess's headgear, and the points that hung down on this side and that. the significance whereof being by no means lost upon her, she quite plucked up heart, and:--"madam," quoth she, "so help you god, tie up your coif, and then you may say what you will to me." whereto the abbess, not understanding her, replied:--"what coif, lewd woman? so thou hast the effrontery to jest! think'st thou that what thou hast done is a matter meet for jests?" whereupon:--"madam," quoth the girl again, "i pray you, tie up your coif, and then you may say to me whatever you please." which occasioned not a few of the nuns to look up at the abbess's head, and the abbess herself to raise her hands thereto, and so she and they at one and the same time apprehended isabetta's meaning. wherefore the abbess, finding herself detected by all in the same sin, and that no disguise was possible, changed her tone, and held quite another sort of language than before, the upshot of which was that 'twas impossible to withstand the assaults of the flesh, and that, accordingly, observing due secrecy as theretofore, all might give themselves a good time, as they had opportunity. so, having dismissed isabetta to rejoin her lover in her cell, she herself returned to lie with her priest. and many a time thereafter, in spite of the envious, isabetta had her gallant to see her, the others, that lacked lovers, doing in secret the best they might to push their fortunes. novel iii. -master simone, at the instance of bruno and buffalmacco and nello, makes calandrino believe that he is with child. calandrino, accordingly, gives them capons and money for medicines, and is cured without being delivered. -when elisa had ended her story, and all had given thanks to god that he had vouchsafed the young nun a happy escape from the fangs of her envious companions, the queen bade filostrato follow suit; and without expecting a second command, thus filostrato began:--fairest my ladies, the uncouth judge from the marches, of whom i told you yesterday, took from the tip of my tongue a story of calandrino, which i was on the point of narrating: and as nought can be said of him without mightily enhancing our jollity, albeit not a little has already been said touching him and his comrades, i will now give you the story which i had meant yesterday to give you. who they were, this calandrino and the others that i am to tell of in this story, has already been sufficiently explained; wherefore, without more ado, i say that one of calandrino's aunts having died, leaving him two hundred pounds in petty cash, calandrino gave out that he was minded to purchase an estate, and, as if he had had ten thousand florins of gold to invest, engaged every broker in florence to treat for him, the negotiation always falling through, as soon as the price was named. bruno and buffalmacco, knowing what was afoot, told him again and again that he had better give himself a jolly time with them than go about buying earth as if he must needs make pellets;(1) but so far were they from effecting their purpose, that they could not even prevail upon him to give them a single meal. whereat as one day they grumbled, being joined by a comrade of theirs, one nello, also a painter, they all three took counsel how they might wet their whistle at calandrino's expense; and, their plan being soon concerted, the next morning calandrino was scarce gone out, when nello met him, saying:--"good day, calandrino:" whereto calandrino replied:--"god give thee a good day and a good year." nello then drew back a little, and looked him steadily in the face, until:--"what seest thou to stare at?" quoth calandrino. "hadst thou no pain in the night?" returned nello; "thou seemest not thyself to me." which calandrino no sooner heard, than he began to be disquieted, and:--"alas! how sayst thou?" quoth he. "what tak'st thou to be the matter with me?" "why, as to that i have nothing to say," returned nello; "but thou seemest to be quite changed: perchance 'tis not what i suppose;" and with that he left him. calandrino, anxious, though he could not in the least have said why, went on; and soon buffalmacco, who was not far off, and had observed him part from nello, made up to him, and greeted him, asking him if he was not in pain. "i cannot say," replied calandrino; "'twas but now that nello told me that i looked quite changed: can it be that there is aught the matter with me?" "aught?" quoth buffalmacco, "ay, indeed, there might be a trifle the matter with thee. thou look'st to be half dead, man." calandrino now began to think he must have a fever. and then up came bruno; and the first thing he said was:--"why, calandrino, how ill thou look'st! thy appearance is that of a corpse. how dost thou feel?" to be thus accosted by all three left no doubt in calandrino's mind that he was ill, and so:--"what shall i do?" quoth he, in a great fright. "my advice," replied bruno, "is that thou go home and get thee to bed and cover thee well up, and send thy water to master simone, who, as thou knowest, is such a friend of ours. he will tell thee at once what thou must do; and we will come to see thee, and will do aught that may be needful." and nello then joining them, they all three went home with calandrino, who, now quite spent, went straight to his room, and said to his wife:--"come now, wrap me well up; i feel very ill." and so he laid himself on the bed, and sent a maid with his water to master simone, who had then his shop in the mercato vecchio, at the sign of the pumpkin. whereupon quoth bruno to his comrades:--"you will stay here with him, and i will go hear what the doctor has to say, and if need be, will bring him hither." "prithee, do so, my friend," quoth calandrino, "and bring me word how it is with me, for i feel as how i cannot say in my inside." so bruno hied him to master simone, and before the maid arrived with the water, told him what was afoot. the master, thus primed, inspected the water, and then said to the maid:--"go tell calandrino to keep himself very warm, and i will come at once, and let him know what is the matter with him, and what he must do." with which message the maid was scarce returned, when the master and bruno arrived, and the master, having seated himself beside calandrino, felt his pulse, and by and by, in the presence of his wife, said:--"harkye, calandrino, i speak to thee as a friend, and i tell thee that what is amiss with thee is just that thou art with child." whereupon calandrino cried out querulously:--"woe's me! 'tis thy doing, tessa, for that thou must needs be uppermost: i told thee plainly what would come of it," whereat the lady, being not a little modest, coloured from brow to neck, and with downcast eyes, withdrew from the room, saying never a word by way of answer. calandrino ran on in the same plaintive strain:--"alas! woe's me! what shall i do? how shall i be delivered of this child? what passage can it find? ah! i see only too plainly that the lasciviousness of this wife of mine has been the death of me: god make her as wretched as i would fain be happy! were i as well as i am not, i would get me up and thrash her, till i left not a whole bone in her body, albeit it does but serve me right for letting her get the upper place; but if i do win through this, she shall never have it again; verily she might pine to death for it, but she should not have it." which to hear, bruno and buffalmacco and nello were like to burst with suppressed laughter, and master scimmione(2) laughed so frantically, that all his teeth were ready to start from his jaws. however, at length, in answer to calandrino's appeals and entreaties for counsel and succour:--"calandrino," quoth the master, "thou mayst dismiss thy fears, for, god be praised, we were apprised of thy state in such good time that with but little trouble, in the course of a few days, i shall set thee right; but 'twill cost a little." "woe's me," returned calandrino, "be it so, master, for the love of god: i have here two hundred pounds, with which i had thoughts of buying an estate: take them all, all, if you must have all, so only i may escape being delivered, for i know not how i should manage it, seeing that women, albeit 'tis much easier for them, do make such a noise in the hour of their labour, that i misdoubt me, if i suffered so, i should die before i was delivered." "disquiet not thyself," said the doctor: "i will have a potion distilled for thee; of rare virtue it is, and not a little palatable, and in the course of three days 'twill purge thee of all, and leave thee in better fettle than a fish; but thou wilt do well to be careful thereafter, and commit no such indiscretions again. now to make this potion we must have three pair of good fat capons, and, for divers other ingredients, thou wilt give one of thy friends here five pounds in small change to purchase them, and thou wilt have everything sent to my shop, and so, please god, i will send thee this distilled potion to-morrow morning, and thou wilt take a good beakerful each time." whereupon:--"be it as you bid, master mine," quoth calandrino, and handing bruno five pounds, and money enough to purchase three pair of capons, he begged him, if it were not too much trouble, to do him the service to buy these things for him. so away went the doctor, and made a little decoction by way of draught, and sent it him. bruno bought the capons and all else that was needed to furnish forth the feast, with which he and his comrades and the doctor regaled them. calandrino drank of the decoction for three mornings, after which he had a visit from his friends and the doctor, who felt his pulse, and then:--"beyond a doubt, calandrino," quoth he, "thou art cured, and so thou hast no more occasion to keep indoors, but needst have no fear to do whatever thou hast a mind to." much relieved, calandrino got up, and resumed his accustomed way of life, and, wherever he found any one to talk to, was loud in praise of master simone for the excellent manner in which he had cured him, causing him in three days without the least suffering to be quit of his pregnancy. and bruno and buffalmacco and nello were not a little pleased with themselves that they had so cleverly got the better of calandrino's niggardliness, albeit monna tessa, who was not deceived, murmured not a little against her husband. (1) i.e. bolts of clay for the cross-bow. (2) i.e. great ape: with a play on simone. novel iv. -cecco, son of messer fortarrigo, loses his all at play at buonconvento, besides the money of cecco, son of messer angiulieri; whom, running after him in his shirt and crying out that he has robbed him, he causes to be taken by peasants: he then puts on his clothes, mounts his palfrey, and leaves him to follow in his shirt. -all the company laughed beyond measure to hear what calandrino said touching his wife: but, when filostrato had done, neifile, being bidden by the queen, thus began:--noble ladies, were it not more difficult for men to evince their good sense and virtue than their folly and their vice, many would labour in vain to set bounds to their flow of words: whereof you have had a most conspicuous example in poor blundering calandrino, who, for the better cure of that with which in his simplicity he supposed himself to be afflicted, had no sort of need to discover in public his wife's secret pleasures. which affair has brought to my mind one that fell out contrariwise, inasmuch as the guile of one discomfited the good sense of another to the grievous loss and shame of the discomfited: the manner whereof i am minded to relate to you. 'tis not many years since there were in siena two young men, both of age, and both alike named cecco, the one being son of messer angiulieri, the other of messer fortarrigo. who, albeit in many other respects their dispositions accorded ill, agreed so well in one, to wit, that they both hated their fathers, that they became friends, and kept much together. now angiulieri, being a pretty fellow, and well-mannered, could not brook to live at siena on the allowance made him by his father, and learning that there was come into the march of ancona, as legate of the pope, a cardinal, to whom he was much bounden, resolved to resort to him there, thinking thereby to improve his circumstances. so, having acquainted his father with his purpose, he prevailed upon him to give him there and then all that he would have given him during the next six months, that he might have the wherewith to furnish himself with apparel and a good mount, so as to travel in a becoming manner. and as he was looking out for some one to attend him as his servant, fortarrigo, hearing of it, came presently to him and besought him with all earnestness to take him with him as his groom, or servant, or what he would, and he would be satisfied with his keep, without any salary whatsoever. whereto angiulieri made answer that he was not disposed to take him, not but that he well knew that he was competent for any service that might be required of him, but because he was given to play, and therewithal would at times get drunk. fortarrigo assured him with many an oath that he would be on his guard to commit neither fault, and added thereto such instant entreaties, that angiulieri was, as it were, vanquished, and consented. so one morning they took the road for buonconvento, being minded there to breakfast. now when angiulieri had breakfasted, as 'twas a very hot day, he had a bed made in the inn, and having undressed with fortarrigo's help, he composed himself to sleep, telling fortarrigo to call him on the stroke of none. angiulieri thus sleeping, fortarrigo repaired to the tavern, where, having slaked his thirst, he sate down to a game with some that were there, who speedily won from him all his money, and thereafter in like manner all the clothes he had on his back: wherefore he, being anxious to retrieve his losses, went, stripped as he was to his shirt, to the room where lay angiulieri; and seeing that he was sound asleep, he took from his purse all the money that he had, and so went back to the gaming-table, and staked it, and lost it all, as he had his own. by and by angiulieri awoke, and got up, and dressed, and called for fortarrigo; and as fortarrigo answered not, he supposed that he must have had too much to drink, and be sleeping it off somewhere, as was his wont. he accordingly determined to leave him alone; and doubting not to find a better servant at corsignano, he let saddle his palfrey and attach the valise; but when, being about to depart, he would have paid the host, never a coin could he come by. whereat there was no small stir, so that all the inn was in an uproar, angiulieri averring that he had been robbed in the house, and threatening to have them all arrested and taken to siena; when, lo, who should make his appearance but fortarrigo in his shirt, intent now to steal the clothes, as he had stolen the moneys, of angiulieri? and marking that angiulieri was accoutred for the road:--"how is this, angiulieri?" quoth he. "are we to start so soon? nay, but wait a little. one will be here presently that has my doublet in pawn for thirty-eight soldi; i doubt not he will return it me for thirty-five soldi, if i pay money down." and while they were yet talking, in came one that made it plain to angiulieri that 'twas fortarrigo that had robbed him of his money, for he told him the amount that fortarrigo had lost. whereat angiulieri, in a towering passion, rated fortarrigo right soundly, and, but that he stood more in fear of man than of god, would have suited action to word; and so, threatening to have him hanged by the neck and proclaimed an outlaw at the gallows-tree of siena, he mounted his horse. fortarrigo, making as if 'twas not to him, but to another, that angiulieri thus spoke, made answer:--"come now, angiulieri, we were best have done with all this idle talk, and consider the matter of substance: we can redeem for thirty-five soldi, if we pay forthwith, but if we wait till to-morrow, we shall not get off with less than thirty-eight, the full amount of the loan; and 'tis because i staked by his advice that he will make me this allowance. now why should not we save these three soldi?" whereat angiulieri waxed well-nigh desperate, more particularly that he marked that the bystanders were scanning him suspiciously, as if, so far from understanding that fortarrigo had staked and lost his, angiulieri's money, they gave him credit for still being in funds: so he cried out:--"what have i to do with thy doublet? 'tis high time thou wast hanged by the neck, that, not content with robbing me and gambling away my money, thou must needs also keep me in parley here and make mock of me, when i would fain be gone." fortarrigo, however, still persisted in making believe that angiulieri did not mean this for him, and only said:--"nay, but why wilt not thou save me these three soldi? think'st thou i can be of no more use to thee? prithee, an thou lov'st me, do me this turn. wherefore in such a hurry? we have time enough to get to torrenieri this evening. come now, out with thy purse. thou knowest i might search siena through, and not find a doublet that would suit me so well as this: and for all i let him have it for thirty-eight soldi, 'tis worth forty or more; so thou wilt wrong me twice over." vexed beyond measure that, after robbing him, fortarrigo should now keep him clavering about the matter, angiulieri made no answer, but turned his horse's head, and took the road for torrenieri. but fortarrigo with cunning malice trotted after him in his shirt, and 'twas still his doublet, his doublet, that he would have of him: and when they had thus ridden two good miles, and angiulieri was forcing the pace to get out of earshot of his pestering, fortarrigo espied some husbandmen in a field beside the road a little ahead of angiulieri, and fell a shouting to them amain:--"take thief! take thief!" whereupon they came up with their spades and their mattocks, and barred angiulieri's way, supposing that he must have robbed the man that came shouting after him in his shirt, and stopped him and apprehended him; and little indeed did it avail him to tell them who he was, and how the matter stood. for up came fortarrigo with a wrathful air, and:--"i know not," quoth he, "why i spare to kill thee on the spot, traitor, thief that thou art, thus to despoil me and give me the slip!" and then, turning to the peasants:--"you see, gentlemen," quoth he, "in what a trim he left me in the inn, after gambling away all that he had with him and on him. well indeed may i say that under god 'tis to you i owe it that i have thus come by my own again: for which cause i shall ever be beholden to you." angiulieri also had his say; but his words passed unheeded. fortarrigo with the help of the peasants compelled him to dismount; and having stripped him, donned his clothes, mounted his horse, and leaving him barefoot and in his shirt, rode back to siena, giving out on all hands that he had won the palfrey and the clothes from angiulieri. so angiulieri, having thought to present himself to the cardinal in the march a wealthy man, returned to buonconvento poor and in his shirt; and being ashamed for the time to shew himself in siena, pledged the nag that fortarrigo had ridden for a suit of clothes, and betook him to his kinsfolk at corsignano, where he tarried, until he received a fresh supply of money from his father. thus, then, fortarrigo's guile disconcerted angiulieri's judicious purpose, albeit when time and occasion served, it was not left unrequited. novel v. -calandrino being enamoured of a damsel, bruno gives him a scroll, averring that, if he but touch her therewith, she will go with him: he is found with her by his wife who subjects him to a most severe and vexatious examination. -so, at no great length, ended neifile her story, which the company allowed to pass with none too much laughter or remark: whereupon the queen, turning to fiammetta, bade her follow suit. fiammetta, with mien most gladsome, made answer that she willingly obeyed, and thus began:--as i doubt not, ye know, ladies most debonair, be the topic of discourse never so well worn, it will still continue to please, if the speaker knows how to make due choice of time and occasion meet. wherefore, considering the reason for which we are here (how that 'tis to make merry and speed the time gaily, and that merely), i deem that there is nought that may afford us mirth and solace but here may find time and occasion meet, and, after serving a thousand turns of discourse, should still prove not unpleasing for another thousand. wherefore, notwithstanding that of calandrino and his doings not a little has from time to time been said among us, yet, considering that, as a while ago filostrato observed, there is nought that concerns him that is not entertaining, i will make bold to add to the preceding stories another, which i might well, had i been minded to deviate from the truth, have disguised, and so recounted it to you, under other names; but as whoso in telling a story diverges from the truth does thereby in no small measure diminish the delight of his hearers, i purpose for the reason aforesaid to give you the narrative in proper form. niccolo cornacchini, one of our citizens, and a man of wealth, had among other estates a fine one at camerata, on which he had a grand house built, and engaged bruno and buffalmacco to paint it throughout; in which task, for that 'twas by no means light, they associated with them nello and calandrino, and so set to work. there were a few rooms in the house provided with beds and other furniture, and an old female servant lived there as caretaker, but otherwise the house was unoccupied, for which cause niccolo's son, filippo, being a young man and a bachelor, was wont sometimes to bring thither a woman for his pleasure, and after keeping her there for a few days to escort her thence again. now on one of these occasions it befell that he brought thither one niccolosa, whom a vile fellow, named mangione, kept in a house at camaldoli as a common prostitute. and a fine piece of flesh she was, and wore fine clothes, and for one of her sort, knew how to comport herself becomingly and talk agreeably. now one day at high noon forth tripped the damsel from her chamber in a white gown, her locks braided about her head, to wash her hands and face at a well that was in the courtyard of the house, and, while she was so engaged, it befell that calandrino came there for water, and greeted her familiarly. having returned his salutation, she, rather because calandrino struck her as something out of the common, than for any other interest she felt in him, regarded him attentively. calandrino did the like by her, and being smitten by her beauty, found reasons enough why he should not go back to his comrades with the water; but, as he knew not who she was, he made not bold to address her. she, upon whom his gaze was not lost, being minded to amuse herself at his expense, let her glance from time to time rest upon him, while she heaved a slight sigh or two. whereby calandrino was forthwith captivated, and tarried in the courtyard, until filippo called her back into the chamber. returned to his work, calandrino sighed like a furnace: which bruno, who was ever regardful of his doings for the diversion they afforded him, failed not to mark, and by and by:--"what the devil is amiss with thee, comrade calandrino?" quoth he. "thou dost nought but puff and blow." "comrade," replied calandrino, "i should be in luck, had i but one to help me." "how so?" quoth bruno. "why," returned calandrino, "'tis not to go farther, but there is a damsel below, fairer than a lamia, and so mightily in love with me that 'twould astonish thee. i observed it but now, when i went to fetch the water." "nay, but, calandrino, make sure she be not filippo's wife," quoth bruno. "i doubt 'tis even so," replied calandrino, "for he called her and she joined him in the chamber; but what signifies it? i would circumvent christ himself in such case, not to say filippo. of a truth, comrade, i tell thee she pleases me i could not say how." "comrade," returned bruno, "i will find out for thee who she is, and if she be filippo's wife, two words from me will make it all straight for thee, for she is much my friend. but how shall we prevent buffalmacco knowing it? i can never have a word with her but he is with me." "as to buffalmacco," replied calandrino: "i care not if he do know it; but let us make sure that it come not to nello's ears, for he is of kin to monna tessa, and would spoil it all." whereto:--"thou art in the right," returned bruno. now bruno knew what the damsel was, for he had seen her arrive, and moreover filippo had told him. so, calandrino having given over working for a while, and betaken him to her, bruno acquainted nello and buffalmacco with the whole story; and thereupon they privily concerted how to entreat him in regard of this love affair. wherefore, upon his return, quoth bruno softly:--"didst see her?" "ay, woe's me!" replied calandrino: "she has stricken me to the death." quoth bruno:--"i will go see if she be the lady i take her to be, and if i find that 'tis so, leave the rest to me." whereupon down went bruno, and found filippo and the damsel, and fully apprised them what sort of fellow calandrino was, and what he had told them, and concerted with them what each should do and say, that they might have a merry time together over calandrino's love affair. he then rejoined calandrino, saying:--"'tis the very same; and therefore the affair needs very delicate handling, for, if filippo were but ware thereof, not all arno's waters would suffice to cleanse us. however, what should i say to her from thee, if by chance i should get speech of her?" "i'faith," replied calandrino, "why, first, first of all, thou wilt tell her that i wish her a thousand bushels of the good seed of generation, and then that i am her servant, and if she is fain of--aught--thou tak'st me?" "ay," quoth bruno, "leave it to me." supper-time came; and, the day's work done, they went down into the courtyard, filippo and niccolosa being there, and there they tarried a while to advance calandrino's suit. calandrino's gaze was soon riveted on niccolosa, and such and so strange and startling were the gestures that he made that they would have given sight to the blind. she on her part used all her arts to inflame his passion, primed as she had been by bruno, and diverted beyond measure as she was by calandrino's antics, while filippo, buffalmacco and the rest feigned to be occupied in converse, and to see nought of what passed. however, after a while, to calandrino's extreme disgust, they took their leave; and as they bent their steps towards florence:--"i warrant thee," quoth bruno to calandrino, "she wastes away for thee like ice in the sunlight; by the body o' god, if thou wert to bring thy rebeck, and sing her one or two of thy love-songs, she'd throw herself out of window to be with thee." quoth calandrino:--"think'st thou, comrade, think'st thou, 'twere well i brought it?" "ay, indeed," returned bruno. whereupon:--"ah! comrade," quoth calandrino, "so thou wouldst not believe me when i told thee to-day? of a truth i perceive there's ne'er another knows so well what he would be at as i. who but i would have known how so soon to win the love of a lady like that? lucky indeed might they deem themselves, if they did it, those young gallants that go about, day and night, up and down, a strumming on the one-stringed viol, and would not know how to gather a handful of nuts once in a millennium. mayst thou be by to see when i bring her the rebeck! thou wilt see fine sport. list well what i say: i am not so old as i look; and she knows it right well: ay, and anyhow i will soon let her know it, when i come to grapple her. by the very body of christ i will have such sport with her, that she will follow me as any love-sick maid follows her swain." "oh!" quoth bruno, "i doubt not thou wilt make her thy prey: and i seem to see thee bite her dainty vermeil mouth and her cheeks, that shew as twin roses, with thy teeth, that are as so many lute-pegs, and afterwards devour her bodily." so encouraged, calandrino fancied himself already in action, and went about singing and capering in such high glee that 'twas as if he would burst his skin. and so next day he brought the rebeck, and to the no small amusement of all the company sang several songs to her. and, in short, by frequently seeing her, he waxed so mad with passion that he gave over working; and a thousand times a day he would run now to the window, now to the door, and anon to the courtyard on the chance of catching sight of her; nor did she, astutely following bruno's instructions, fail to afford him abundance of opportunity. bruno played the go-between, bearing him her answers to all his messages, and sometimes bringing him messages from her. when she was not at home, which was most frequently the case, he would send him letters from her, in which she gave great encouragement to his hopes, at the same time giving him to understand that she was at the house of her kinsfolk, where as yet he might not visit her. on this wise bruno and buffalmacco so managed the affair as to divert themselves inordinately, causing him to send her, as at her request, now an ivory comb, now a purse, now a little knife, and other such dainty trifles; in return for which they brought him, now and again, a counterfeit ring of no value, with which calandrino was marvellously pleased. and calandrino, to stimulate their zeal in his interest, would entertain them hospitably at table, and otherwise flatter them. now, when they had thus kept him in play for two good months, and the affair was just where it had been, calandrino, seeing that the work was coming to an end, and bethinking him that, if it did so before he had brought his love affair to a successful issue, he must give up all hopes of ever so doing, began to be very instant and importunate with bruno. so, in the presence of the damsel, and by preconcert with her and filippo, quoth bruno to calandrino:--"harkye, comrade, this lady has vowed to me a thousand times that she will do as thou wouldst have her, and as, for all that, she does nought to pleasure thee, i am of opinion that she leads thee by the nose: wherefore, as she keeps not her promises, we will make her do so, willy-nilly, if thou art so minded." "nay, but, for the love of god, so be it," replied calandrino, "and that speedily." "darest thou touch her, then, with a scroll that i shall give thee?" quoth bruno. "i dare," replied calandrino. "fetch me, then," quoth bruno, "a bit of the skin of an unborn lamb, a live bat, three grains of incense, and a blessed candle; and leave the rest to me." to catch the bat taxed all calandrino's art and craft for the whole of the evening; but having at length taken him, he brought him with the other matters to bruno: who, having withdrawn into a room by himself, wrote on the skin some cabalistic jargon, and handed it to him, saying:--"know, calandrino, that, if thou touch her with this scroll, she will follow thee forthwith, and do whatever thou shalt wish. wherefore, should filippo go abroad to-day, get thee somehow up to her, and touch her; and then go into the barn that is hereby--'tis the best place we have, for never a soul goes there--and thou wilt see that she will come there too. when she is there, thou wottest well what to do." calandrino, overjoyed as ne'er another, took the scroll, saying only:--"comrade, leave that to me." now nello, whom calandrino mistrusted, entered with no less zest than the others into the affair, and was their confederate for calandrino's discomfiture; accordingly by bruno's direction he hied to florence, and finding monna tessa:--"thou hast scarce forgotten, tessa," quoth he, "what a beating calandrino gave thee, without the least cause, that day when he came home with the stones from mugnone; for which i would have thee be avenged, and, so thou wilt not, call me no more kinsman or friend. he is fallen in love with a lady up there, who is abandoned enough to go closeting herself not seldom with him, and 'tis but a short while since they made assignation to forgather forthwith: so i would have thee go there, and surprise him in the act, and give him a sound trouncing." which when the lady heard, she deemed it no laughing matter; but started up and broke out with:--"alas, the arrant knave! is't thus he treats me? by the holy rood, never fear but i will pay him out!" and wrapping herself in her cloak, and taking a young woman with her for companion, she sped more at a run than at a walk, escorted by nello, up to camerata. bruno, espying her from afar, said to filippo:--"lo, here comes our friend." whereupon filippo went to the place where calandrino and the others were at work, and said:--"my masters, i must needs go at once to florence; slacken not on that account." and so off he went, and hid himself where, unobserved, he might see what calandrino would do. calandrino waited only until he saw that filippo was at some distance, and then he went down into the courtyard, where he found niccolosa alone, and fell a talking with her. she, knowing well what she had to do, drew close to him, and shewed him a little more familiarity than she was wont: whereupon calandrino touched her with the scroll, and having so done, saying never a word, bent his steps towards the barn, whither niccolosa followed him, and being entered, shut the door, and forthwith embraced him, threw him down on the straw that lay there, and got astride of him, and holding him fast by the arms about the shoulders, suffered him not to approach his face to hers, but gazing upon him, as if he were the delight of her heart:--"o calandrino, sweet my calandrino," quoth she, "heart of my body, my very soul, my bliss, my consolation, ah! how long have i yearned to hold thee in my arms and have thee all my own! thy endearing ways have utterly disarmed me; thou hast made prize of my heart with thy rebeck. do i indeed hold thee in mine embrace?" calandrino, scarce able to move, murmured:--"ah! sweet my soul, suffer me to kiss thee." whereto:--"nay, but thou art too hasty," replied niccolosa. "let me first feast mine eyes on thee; let me but sate them with this sweet face of thine." meanwhile bruno and buffalmacco had joined filippo, so that what passed was seen and heard by all three. and while calandrino was thus intent to kiss niccolosa, lo, up came nello with monna tessa. "by god, i swear they are both there," ejaculated nello, as they entered the doorway; but the lady, now fairly furious, laid hold of him and thrust him aside, and rushing in, espied niccolosa astride of calandrino. niccolosa no sooner caught sight of the lady, than up she jumped, and in a trice was beside filippo. monna tessa fell upon calandrino, who was still on the floor, planted her nails in his face, and scratched it all over: she then seized him by the hair, and hauling him to and fro about the barn:--"foul, pestilent cur," quoth she, "is this the way thou treatest me? thou old fool! a murrain on the love i have borne thee! hast thou not enough to do at home, that thou must needs go falling in love with strange women? and a fine lover thou wouldst make! dost not know thyself, knave? dost not know thyself, wretch? thou, from whose whole body 'twere not possible to wring enough sap for a sauce! god's faith, 'twas not tessa that got thee with child: god's curse on her, whoever she was: verily she must be a poor creature to be enamoured of a jewel of thy rare quality." at sight of his wife, calandrino, suspended, as it were, between life and death, ventured no defence; but, his face torn to shreds, his hair and clothes all disordered, fumbled about for his capuche, which having found, up he got, and humbly besought his wife not to publish the matter, unless she were minded that he should be cut to pieces, for that she that was with him was the wife of the master of the house. "then god give her a bad year," replied the lady. whereupon bruno and buffalmacco, who by this time had laughed their fill with filippo and niccolosa, came up as if attracted by the noise; and after not a little ado pacified the lady, and counselled calandrino to go back to florence, and stay there, lest filippo should get wind of the affair, and do him a mischief. so calandrino, crestfallen and woebegone, got him back to florence with his face torn to shreds; where, daring not to shew himself at camerata again, he endured day and night the grievous torment of his wife's vituperation. such was the issue, to which, after ministering not a little mirth to his comrades, as also to niccolosa and filippo, this ardent lover brought his amour. novel vi. -two young men lodge at an inn, of whom the one lies with the host's daughter, his wife by inadvertence lying with the other. he that lay with the daughter afterwards gets into her father's bed and tells him all, taking him to be his comrade. they bandy words: whereupon the good woman, apprehending the circumstances, gets her to bed with her daughter, and by divers apt words re-establishes perfect accord. -calandrino as on former occasions, so also on this, moved the company to laughter. however, when the ladies had done talking of his doings, the queen called for a story from pamfilo, who thus spoke:--worshipful ladies, this niccolosa, that calandrino loved, has brought to my mind a story of another niccolosa; which i am minded to tell you, because 'twill shew you how a good woman by her quick apprehension avoided a great scandal. in the plain of mugnone there was not long ago a good man that furnished travellers with meat and drink for money, and, for that he was in poor circumstances, and had but a little house, gave not lodging to every comer, but only to a few that he knew, and if they were hard bested. now the good man had to wife a very fine woman, and by her had two children, to wit, a pretty and winsome girl of some fifteen or sixteen summers, as yet unmarried, and a little boy, not yet one year old, whom the mother suckled at her own breast. the girl had found favour in the eyes of a goodly and mannerly young gentleman of our city, who was not seldom in those parts, and loved her to the point of passion. and she, being mightily flattered to be loved by such a gallant, studied how to comport herself so debonairly as to retain his regard, and while she did so, grew likewise enamoured of him; and divers times, by consent of both their love had had its fruition, but that pinuccio--such was the gallant's name--shrank from the disgrace that 'twould bring upon the girl and himself alike. but, as his passion daily waxed apace, pinuccio, yearning to find himself abed with her, bethought him that he were best contrive to lodge with her father, deeming, from what he knew of her father's economy, that, if he did so, he might effect his purpose, and never a soul be the wiser: which idea no sooner struck him, than he set about carrying it into effect. so, late one evening pinuccio and a trusty comrade, adriano by name, to whom he had confided his love, hired two nags, and having set upon them two valises, filled with straw or such-like stuff, sallied forth of florence, and rode by a circuitous route to the plain of mugnone, which they reached after nightfall; and having fetched a compass, so that it might seem as if they were coming from romagna, they rode up to the good man's house, and knocked at the door. the good man, knowing them both very well, opened to them forthwith: whereupon:--"thou must even put us up to-night," quoth pinuccio; "we thought to get into florence, but, for all the speed we could make, we are but arrived here, as thou seest, at this hour." "pinuccio," replied the host, "thou well knowest that i can but make a sorry shift to lodge gentlemen like you; but yet, as night has overtaken you here, and time serves not to betake you elsewhere, i will gladly give you such accommodation as i may." the two gallants then dismounted and entered the inn, and having first looked to their horses, brought out some supper that they had carried with them, and supped with the host. now the host had but one little bedroom, in which were three beds, set, as conveniently as he could contrive, two on one side of the room, and the third on the opposite side, but, for all that, there was scarce room enough to pass through. the host had the least discomfortable of the three beds made up for the two friends; and having quartered them there, some little while afterwards, both being awake, but feigning to be asleep, he caused his daughter to get into one of the other two beds, while he and his wife took their places in the third, the good woman setting the cradle, in which was her little boy, beside the bed. such, then, being the partition made of the beds, pinuccio, who had taken exact note thereof, waited only until he deemed all but himself to be asleep, and then got softly up and stole to the bed in which lay his beloved, and laid himself beside her; and she according him albeit a timorous yet a gladsome welcome, he stayed there, taking with her that solace of which both were most fain. pinuccio being thus with the girl, it chanced that certain things, being overset by a cat, fell with a noise that aroused the good woman, who, fearing that it might be a matter of more consequence, got up as best she might in the dark, and betook her to the place whence the noise seemed to proceed. at the same time adriano, not by reason of the noise, which he heeded not, but perchance to answer the call of nature, also got up, and questing about for a convenient place, came upon the cradle beside the good woman's bed; and not being able otherwise to go by, took it up, and set it beside his own bed, and when he had accomplished his purpose, went back, and giving never a thought to the cradle got him to bed. the good woman searched until she found that the accident was no such matter as she had supposed; so without troubling to strike a light to investigate it further, she reproved the cat, and returned to the room, and groped her way straight to the bed in which her husband lay asleep; but not finding the cradle there, quoth she to herself:--alas! blunderer that i am, what was i about? god's faith! i was going straight to the guests' bed; and proceeding a little further, she found the cradle, and laid herself down by adriano in the bed that was beside it, taking adriano for her husband; and adriano, who was still awake, received her with all due benignity, and tackled her more than once to her no small delight. meanwhile pinuccio fearing lest sleep should overtake him while he was yet with his mistress, and having satisfied his desire, got up and left her, to return to his bed; but when he got there, coming upon the cradle, he supposed that 'twas the host's bed; and so going a little further, he laid him down beside the host, who thereupon awoke. supposing that he had adriano beside him:--"i warrant thee," quoth pinuccio to the host, "there was never so sweet a piece of flesh as niccolosa: by the body of god, such delight have i had of her as never had man of woman; and, mark me, since i left thee, i have gotten me up to the farm some six times." which tidings the host being none too well pleased to learn, said first of all to himself:--what the devil does this fellow here? then, his resentment getting the better of his prudence:--"'tis a gross affront thou hast put upon me, pinuccio," quoth he; "nor know i what occasion thou hast to do me such a wrong; but by the body of god i will pay thee out." pinuccio, who was not the most discreet of gallants, albeit he was now apprised of his error, instead of doing his best to repair it, retorted:--"and how wilt thou pay me out? what canst thou do?" "hark what high words our guests are at together!" quoth meanwhile the host's wife to adriano, deeming that she spoke to her husband. "let them be," replied adriano with a laugh:--"god give them a bad year: they drank too much yestereve." the good woman had already half recognized her husband's angry tones, and now that she heard adriano's voice, she at once knew where she was and with whom. accordingly, being a discreet woman, she started up, and saying never a word, took her child's cradle, and, though there was not a ray of light in the room, bore it, divining rather than feeling her way, to the side of the bed in which her daughter slept; and then, as if aroused by the noise made by her husband, she called him, and asked what he and pinuccio were bandying words about. "hearest thou not," replied the husband, "what he says he has this very night done to niccolosa?" "tush! he lies in the throat," returned the good woman: "he has not lain with niccolosa; for what time he might have done so, i laid me beside her myself, and i have been wide awake ever since; and thou art a fool to believe him. you men take so many cups before going to bed that then you dream, and walk in your sleep, and imagine wonders. 'tis a great pity you do not break your necks. what does pinuccio there? why keeps he not in his own bed?" whereupon adriano, in his turn, seeing how adroitly the good woman cloaked her own and her daughter's shame:--"pinuccio," quoth he, "i have told thee a hundred times, that thou shouldst not walk about at night; for this thy bad habit of getting up in thy dreams and relating thy dreams for truth will get thee into a scrape some time or another: come back, and god send thee a bad night." hearing adriano thus confirm what his wife had said, the host began to think that pinuccio must be really dreaming; so he took him by the shoulder, and fell a shaking him, and calling him by his name, saying:--"pinuccio, wake up, and go back to thy bed." pinuccio, taking his cue from what he had heard, began as a dreamer would be like to do, to talk wanderingly; whereat the host laughed amain. then, feigning to be aroused by the shaking, pinuccio uttered adriano's name, saying:--"is't already day, that thou callest me?" "ay, 'tis so," quoth adriano: "come hither." whereupon pinuccio, making as if he were mighty drowsy, got him up from beside the host, and back to bed with adriano. on the morrow, when they were risen, the host fell a laughing and making merry touching pinuccio and his dreams. and so the jest passed from mouth to mouth, while the gallants' horses were groomed and saddled, and their valises adjusted: which done, they drank with the host, mounted and rode to florence, no less pleased with the manner than with the matter of the night's adventure. nor, afterwards, did pinuccio fail to find other means of meeting niccolosa, who assured her mother that he had unquestionably dreamed. for which cause the good woman, calling to mind adriano's embrace, accounted herself the only one that had watched. novel vii. -talano di molese dreams that a wolf tears and rends all the neck and face of his wife: he gives her warning thereof, which she heeds not, and the dream comes true. -when pamfilo had brought his story to a close, and all had commended the good woman's quick perception, the queen bade pampinea tell hers; and thus pampinea began:--a while ago, debonair my ladies, we held discourse of the truths that dreams shew forth, which not a few of us deride; for which cause, albeit the topic has been handled before, i shall not spare to tell you that which not long ago befell a neighbour of mine, for that she disbelieved a dream that her husband had. i wot not if you knew talano di molese, a man right worthy to be had in honour; who, having married a young wife--margarita by name--fair as e'er another, but without her match for whimsical, fractious, and perverse humours, insomuch that there was nought she would do at the instance of another, either for his or her own good, found her behaviour most grievous to bear, but was fain to endure what he might not cure. now it so befell that talano and margarita being together at an estate that talano had in the contado, he, sleeping, saw in a dream a very beautiful wood that was on the estate at no great distance from the house, and his lady there walking. and as she went, there leapt forth upon her a huge and fierce wolf that griped her by the throat, and bore her down to the ground, and (she shrieking the while for succour) would have carried her off by main force; but she got quit of his jaws, albeit her neck and face shewed as quite disfigured. on the morrow, as soon as he was risen, talano said to his wife:--"albeit for thy perversity i have not yet known a single good day with thee, yet i should be sorry, wife, that harm should befall thee; and therefore, if thou take my advice, thou wilt not stir out of doors to-day." "wherefore?" quoth the lady; and thereupon he recounted to her all his dream. the lady shook her head, saying:--"who means ill, dreams ill. thou makest as if thou wast mighty tender of me, but thou bodest of me in thy dream that which thou wouldst fain see betide me. i warrant thee that to-day and all days i will have a care to avoid this or any other calamity that might gladden thy heart." whereupon:--"well wist i," replied talano, "that thou wouldst so say, for such is ever the requital of those that comb scurfy heads; but whatever thou mayst be pleased to believe, i for my part speak to thee for thy good, and again i advise thee to keep indoors to-day, or at least not to walk in the wood." "good," returned the lady, "i will look to it," and then she began communing with herself on this wise:--didst mark how artfully he thinks to have scared me from going into the wood to-day? doubtless 'tis that he has an assignation there with some light o' love, with whom he had rather i did not find him. ah! he would sup well with the blind, and what a fool were i to believe him! but i warrant he will be disappointed, and needs must i, though i stay there all day long, see what commerce it is that he will adventure in to-day. having so said, she quitted the house on one side, while her husband did so on the other; and forthwith, shunning observation as best she might, she hied her to the wood, and hid her where 'twas most dense, and there waited on the alert, and glancing, now this way and now that, to see if any were coming. and while thus she stood, nor ever a thought of a wolf crossed her mind, lo, forth of a close covert hard by came a wolf of monstrous size and appalling aspect, and scarce had she time to say, god help me! before he sprang upon her and griped her by the throat so tightly that she might not utter a cry, but, passive as any lambkin, was borne off by him, and had certainly been strangled, had he not encountered some shepherds, who with shouts compelled him to let her go. the shepherds recognized the poor hapless woman, and bore her home, where the physicians by dint of long and careful treatment cured her; howbeit the whole of her throat and part of her face remained so disfigured that, fair as she had been before, she was ever thereafter most foul and hideous to look upon. wherefore, being ashamed to shew her face, she did many a time bitterly deplore her perversity, in that, when it would have cost her nothing, she would nevertheless pay no heed to the true dream of her husband. novel viii. -biondello gulls ciacco in the matter of a breakfast: for which prank ciacco is cunningly avenged on biondello, causing him to be shamefully beaten. -all the company by common consent pronounced it no dream but a vision that talano had had in his sleep, so exactly, no circumstance lacking, had it fallen out according as he had seen it. however, as soon as all had done speaking, the queen bade lauretta follow suit; which lauretta did on this wise:--as, most discreet my ladies, those that have preceded me to-day have almost all taken their cue from somewhat that has been said before, so, prompted by the stern vengeance taken by the scholar in pampinea's narrative of yesterday, i am minded to tell you of a vengeance that was indeed less savage, but for all that grievous enough to him on whom it was wreaked. wherefore i say that there was once at florence one that all folk called ciacco, a man second to none that ever lived for inordinate gluttony, who, lacking the means to support the expenditure which his gluttony demanded, and being, for the rest, well-mannered and well furnished with excellent and merry jests, did, without turning exactly court jester, cultivate a somewhat biting wit, and loved to frequent the houses of the rich, and such as kept good tables; whither, bidden or unbidden, he not seldom resorted for breakfast or supper. there was also in those days at florence one that was called biondello, a man very short of stature, and not a little debonair, more trim than any fly, with his blond locks surmounted by a coif, and never a hair out of place; and he and ciacco were two of a trade. now one morning in lent biondello, being in the fish-market purchasing two mighty fat lampreys for messer vieri de' cerchi, was observed thus engaged by ciacco, who came up to him, and:--"what means this?" quoth he. "why," replied biondello, "'tis that yestereve messer corso donati had three lampreys much finer than these and a sturgeon sent to his house, but as they did not suffice for a breakfast that he is to give certain gentlemen, he has commissioned me to buy him these two beside. wilt thou not be there?" "ay, marry, that will i," returned ciacco. and in what he deemed due time he hied him to messer corso donati's house, where he found him with some of his neighbours not yet gone to breakfast. and being asked by messer corso with what intent he was come, he answered:--"i am come, sir, to breakfast with you and your company." "and welcome art thou," returned messer corso, "go we then to breakfast, for 'tis now the time." so to table they went, where nought was set before them but pease and the inward part of the tunny salted, and afterwards the common fish of the arno fried. wherefore ciacco, not a little wroth at the trick that he perceived biondello had played him, resolved to pay him out. and not many days after biondello, who had meanwhile had many a laugh with his friends over ciacco's discomfiture, met him, and after greeting him, asked him with a laugh what messer corso's lampreys had been like. "that question," replied ciacco, "thou wilt be able to answer much better than i before eight days are gone by." and parting from biondello upon the word, he went forthwith and hired a cozening rogue, and having thrust a glass bottle into his hand, brought him within sight of the loggia de' cavicciuli; and there, pointing to a knight, one messer filippo argenti, a tall man and stout, and of a high courage, and haughty, choleric and cross-grained as ne'er another, he said to him:--"thou wilt go, flask in hand, to messer filippo, and wilt say to him:--'i am sent to you, sir, by biondello, who entreats you to be pleased to colour this flask for him with some of your good red wine, for that he is minded to have a good time with his catamites.' and of all things have a care that he lay not hands upon thee, for he would make thee rue the day, and would spoil my sport." "have i aught else to say?" enquired the rogue. "nothing more," returned ciacco: "and now get thee gone, and when thou hast delivered the message, bring me back the flask, and i will pay thee." so away went the rogue, and did the errand to messer filippo, who forthwith, being a hasty man, jumped to the conclusion that biondello, whom he knew, was making mock of him, and while an angry flush overspread his face:--"colour the flask, forsooth!" quoth he, "and 'catamites!' god send thee and him a bad year!" and therewith up he started, and reached forward to lay hold of the rogue, who, being on the alert, gave him the slip and was off, and reported messer filippo's answer to ciacco, who had observed what had passed. having paid the rogue, ciacco rested not until he had found biondello, to whom:--"wast thou but now," quoth he, "at the loggia de' cavicciuli?" "indeed no," replied biondello: "wherefore such a question?" "because," returned ciacco, "i may tell thee that thou art sought for by messer filippo, for what cause i know not." "good," quoth biondello, "i will go thither and speak with him." so away went biondello, and ciacco followed him to see what course the affair would take. now having failed to catch the rogue, messer filippo was still very wroth, and inly fumed and fretted, being unable to make out aught from what the rogue had said save that biondello was set on by some one or another to flout him. and while thus he vexed his spirit, up came biondello; whom he no sooner espied than he made for him, and dealt him a mighty blow in the face, and tore his hair and coif, and cast his capuche on the ground, and to his "alas, sir, what means this?" still beating him amain:--"traitor," cried he; "i will give thee to know what it means to send me such a message. 'colour the flask,' forsooth, and 'catamites!' dost take me for a stripling, to be befooled by thee?" and therewith he pummelled biondello's face all over with a pair of fists that were liker to iron than aught else, until it was but a mass of bruises; he also tore and dishevelled all his hair, tumbled him in the mud, rent all his clothes upon his back, and that without allowing him breathing-space to ask why he thus used him, or so much as utter a word. "colour me the flask!" and "catamites!" rang in his ears; but what the words signified he knew not. in the end very badly beaten, and in very sorry and ragged trim, many folk having gathered around them, they, albeit not without the utmost difficulty, rescued him from messer filippo's hands, and told him why messer filippo had thus used him, censuring him for sending him such a message, and adding that thenceforth he would know messer filippo better, and that he was not a man to be trifled with. biondello told them in tearful exculpation that he had never sent for wine to messer filippo: then, when they had put him in a little better trim, crestfallen and woebegone, he went home imputing his misadventure to ciacco. and when, many days afterwards, the marks of his ill-usage being gone from his face, he began to go abroad again, it chanced that ciacco met him, and with a laugh:--"biondello," quoth he, "how didst thou relish messer filippo's wine?" "why, as to that," replied biondello, "would thou hadst relished the lampreys of messer corso as much!" "so!" returned ciacco, "such meat as thou then gavest me, thou mayst henceforth give me, as often as thou art so minded; and i will give thee even such drink as i have given thee." so biondello, witting that against ciacco his might was not equal to his spite, prayed god for his peace, and was careful never to flout him again. novel ix. -two young men ask counsel of solomon; the one, how he is to make himself beloved, the other, how he is to reduce an unruly wife to order. the king bids the one to love, and the other to go to the bridge of geese. -none now remained to tell save the queen, unless she were minded to infringe dioneo's privilege. wherefore, when the ladies had laughed their fill over the misfortunes of biondello, thus gaily the queen began:--observe we, lovesome ladies, the order of things with a sound mind, and we shall readily perceive that we women are one and all subjected by nature and custom and law unto man, by him to be ruled and governed at his discretion; wherefore she, that would fain enjoy quietude and solace and comfort with the man to whom she belongs, ought not only to be chaste but lowly, patient and obedient: the which is the discreet wife's chief and most precious possession. and if the laws, which in all matters have regard unto the common weal, and use and wont or custom (call it what you will), a power very great and to be had in awe, should not suffice to school us thereto; yet abundantly clear is the witness of nature, which has fashioned our frames delicate and sensitive, and our spirits timorous and fearful, and has decreed that our bodily strength shall be slight, our voices tunable, and our movements graceful; which qualities do all avouch that we have need of others' governance. and whoso has need of succour and governance ought in all reason to be obedient and submissive and reverent towards his governor. and whom have we to govern and succour us save men? 'tis then our bounden duty to give men all honour and submit ourselves unto them: from which rule if any deviate, i deem her most deserving not only of grave censure but of severe chastisement. which reflections, albeit they are not new to me, i am now led to make by what but a little while ago pampinea told us touching the perverse wife of talano, on whom god bestowed that chastisement which the husband had omitted; and accordingly it jumps with my judgment that all such women as deviate from the graciousness, kindliness and compliancy, which nature and custom and law prescribe, merit, as i said, stern and severe chastisement. wherefore, as a salutary medicine for the healing of those of us who may be afflicted with this disease, i am minded to relate to you that which was once delivered by solomon by way of counsel in such a case. which let none that stands not in need of such physic deem to be meant for her, albeit a proverb is current among men; to wit:- good steed, bad steed, alike need the rowel's prick, good wife, bad wife, alike demand the stick. which whoso should construe as a merry conceit would find you all ready enough to acknowledge its truth. but even in its moral significance i say that it ought to command assent. for women are all by nature apt to be swayed and to fall; and therefore, for the correction of the wrong-doing of such as transgress the bounds assigned to them, there is need of the stick punitive; and also for the maintenance of virtue in others, that they transgress not these appointed bounds, there is need of the stick auxiliary and deterrent. however, to cut short this preachment, and to come to that which i purpose to tell you, i say: that the bruit of the incomparable renown of the prodigious wisdom of solomon, as also of the exceeding great liberality with which he accorded proof thereof to all that craved such assurance, being gone forth over well-nigh all the earth, many from divers parts were wont to resort to him for counsel in matters of most pressing and arduous importance; among whom was a young man, melisso by name, a very wealthy nobleman, who was, as had been his fathers before him, of lazistan, and there dwelt. and as melisso fared toward jerusalem, on his departure from antioch he fell in with another young man, giosefo by name, who was going the same way, and with whom, after the manner of travellers, he entered into converse. melisso, having learned from giosefo, who and whence he was, asked him whither he went, and on what errand: whereupon giosefo made an answer that he was going to seek counsel of solomon, how he should deal with his wife, who had not her match among women for unruliness and perversity, insomuch that neither entreaties nor blandishments nor aught else availed him to bring her to a better frame. and thereupon he in like manner asked melisso whence he was, and whither he was bound, and on what errand: whereto:--"of lazistan, i," replied melisso, "and like thyself in evil plight; for albeit i am wealthy and spend my substance freely in hospitably entertaining and honourably entreating my fellow-citizens, yet for all that, passing strange though it be to think upon, i find never a soul to love me; and therefore i am bound to the self-same place as thou, to be advised how it may come to pass that i be beloved." so the two men fared on together, and being arrived at jerusalem, were, by the good offices of one of solomon's barons, ushered into his presence, and melisso having briefly laid his case before the king, was answered in one word:--"love." which said, melisso was forthwith dismissed, and giosefo discovered the reason of his coming. to whom solomon made no answer but:--"get thee to the bridge of geese." whereupon giosefo was likewise promptly ushered out of the king's presence, and finding melisso awaiting him, told him what manner of answer he had gotten. which utterances of the king the two men pondered, but finding therein nought that was helpful or relevant to their need, they doubted the king had but mocked them, and set forth upon their homeward journey. now when they had been some days on the road, they came to a river, which was spanned by a fine bridge, and a great caravan of sumpter mules and horses being about to cross, they must needs tarry, until the caravan had passed by. the more part of which had done so, when it chanced that a mule turned sulky, as we know they will not seldom do, and stood stock still; wherefore a muleteer took a stick and fell a beating the mule therewith, albeit at first with no great vigour, to urge the mule forward. the mule, however, swerving, now to this, now to the other side of the bridge, and sometimes facing about, utterly refused to go forward. whereat the muleteer, wroth beyond measure, fell a belabouring him with the stick now on the head, now on the flanks, and anon on the croup, never so lustily, but all to no purpose. which caused melisso and giosefo ofttimes to say to him:--"how now, caitiff? what is this thou doest? wouldst kill the beast? why not try if thou canst not manage him kindly and gently? he would start sooner so than for this cudgelling of thine." to whom:--"you know your horses," replied the muleteer, "and i know my mule: leave me to deal with him." which said, he resumed his cudgelling of the mule, and laid about him on this side and on that to such purpose that he started him; and so the honours of the day rested with the muleteer. now, as the two young men were leaving the bridge behind them, giosefo asked a good man that sate at its head what the bridge was called, and was answered:--"sir, 'tis called the bridge of geese." which giosefo no sooner heard than he called to mind solomon's words, and turning to melisso:--"now, comrade, i warrant thee i may yet find solomon's counsel sound and good, for that i knew not how to beat my wife is abundantly clear to me; and this muleteer has shewn me what i have to do." now some days afterwards they arrived at antioch, where giosefo prevailed upon melisso to tarry with him and rest a day or two; and meeting with but a sorry welcome on the part of his wife, he told her to take her orders as to supper from melisso, who, seeing that such was giosefo's will, briefly gave her his instructions; which the lady, as had been her wont, not only did not obey, but contravened in almost every particular. which giosefo marking:--"wast thou not told," quoth he angrily, "after what fashion thou wast to order the supper?" whereto:--"so!" replied the lady haughtily: "what means this? if thou hast a mind to sup, why take not thy supper? no matter what i was told, 'tis thus i saw fit to order it. if it like thee, so be it: if not, 'tis thine affair." melisso heard the lady with surprise and inward disapprobation: giosefo retorted:--"ay wife, thou art still as thou wast used to be; but i will make thee mend thy manners." then, turning to melisso:--"friend," quoth he, "thou wilt soon prove the worth of solomon's counsel: but, prithee, let it not irk thee to look on, and deem that what i shall do is but done in sport; and if thou shouldst be disposed to stand in my way, bear in mind how we were answered by the muleteer, when we pitied his mule." "i am in thy house," replied melisso, "and thy pleasure is to me law." thereupon giosefo took a stout cudgel cut from an oak sapling, and hied him into the room whither the lady had withdrawn from the table in high dudgeon, seized her by the hair, threw her on to the floor at his feet, and fell a beating her amain with the cudgel. the lady at first uttered a shriek or two, from which she passed to threats; but seeing that, for all that, giosefo slackened not, by the time she was thoroughly well thrashed, she began to cry him mercy, imploring him not to kill her, and adding that henceforth his will should be to her for law. but still giosefo gave not over, but with ever fresh fury dealt her mighty swingeing blows, now about the ribs, now on the haunches, now over the shoulders; nor had he done with the fair lady, until, in short, he had left never a bone or other part of her person whole, and he was fairly spent. then, returning to melisso:--"to-morrow," quoth he, "we shall see whether 'get thee to the bridge of geese' will prove to have been sound advice or no." and so, having rested a while, and then washed his hands, he supped with melisso. with great pain the poor lady got upon her feet and laid herself on her bed, and having there taken such rest as she might, rose betimes on the morrow, and craved to know of giosefo what he was minded to have to breakfast. giosefo, laughing with melisso over the message, gave her his directions, and when in due time they came to breakfast, they found everything excellently ordered according as it had been commanded: for which cause the counsel, which they had at first failed to understand, now received their highest commendation. some few days later melisso, having taken leave of giosefo, went home, and told a wise man the counsel he had gotten from solomon. whereupon:--"and no truer or sounder advice could he have given thee," quoth the sage: "thou knowest that thou lovest never a soul, and that the honours thou payest and the services thou renderest to others are not prompted by love of them, but by love of display. love, then, as solomon bade thee, and thou shalt be loved." on such wise was the unruly chastised; and the young man, learning to love, was beloved. novel x. -dom gianni at the instance of his gossip pietro uses an enchantment to transform pietro's wife into a mare; but, when he comes to attach the tail, gossip pietro, by saying that he will have none of the tail, makes the enchantment of no effect. -the queen's story evoked some murmurs from the ladies and some laughter from the young men; however, when they were silent, dioneo thus began:--dainty my ladies, a black crow among a flock of white doves enhances their beauty more than would a white swan; and so, when many sages are met together, their ripe wisdom not only shews the brighter and goodlier for the presence of one that is not so wise, but may even derive pleasure and diversion therefrom. wherefore as you, my ladies, are one and all most discreet and judicious, i, who know myself to be somewhat scant of sense, should, for that by my demerit i make your merit shew the more glorious, be more dear to you, than if by my greater merit i eclipsed yours, and by consequence should have more ample license to reveal myself to you as i am; and therefore have more patient sufferance on your part than would be due to me, were i more discreet, in the relation of the tale which i am about to tell you. 'twill be, then, a story none too long, wherefrom you may gather with what exactitude it behoves folk to observe the injunctions of those that for any purpose use an enchantment, and how slight an error committed therein make bring to nought all the work of the enchanter. a year or so ago there was at barletta a priest named dom gianni di barolo, who, to eke out the scanty pittance his church afforded him, set a pack-saddle upon his mare, and took to going the round of the fairs of apulia, buying and selling merchandise. and so it befell that he clapped up a close acquaintance with one pietro da tresanti, who plied the same trade as he, albeit instead of a mare he had but an ass; whom in token of friendship and good-fellowship dom gianni after the apulian fashion called ever gossip pietro, and had him to his house and there lodged and honourably entreated him as often as he came to barletta. gossip pietro on his part, albeit he was very poor and had but a little cot at tresanti, that scarce sufficed for himself, his fair, young wife, and their ass, nevertheless, whenever dom gianni arrived at tresanti, made him welcome, and did him the honours of his house as best he might, in requital of the hospitality which he received at barletta. however, as gossip pietro had but one little bed, in which he slept with his fair wife, 'twas not in his power to lodge dom gianni as comfortably as he would have liked; but the priest's mare being quartered beside the ass in a little stable, the priest himself must needs lie beside her on the straw. many a time when the priest came, the wife, knowing how honourably he entreated her husband at barletta, would fain have gone to sleep with a neighbour, one zita carapresa di giudice leo, that the priest might share the bed with her husband, and many a time had she told the priest so howbeit he would never agree to it, and on one occasion:--"gossip gemmata," quoth he, "trouble not thyself about me; i am well lodged; for, when i am so minded, i turn the mare into a fine lass and dally with her, and then, when i would, i turn her back into a mare; wherefore i could ill brook to part from her." the young woman, wondering but believing, told her husband what the priest had said, adding:--"if he is even such a friend as thou sayst, why dost thou not get him to teach thee the enchantment, so that thou mayst turn me into a mare, and have both ass and mare for thine occasions? we should then make twice as much gain as we do, and thou couldst turn me back into a woman when we came home at night." gossip pietro, whose wit was somewhat blunt, believed that 'twas as she said, approved her counsel, and began adjuring dom gianni, as persuasively as he might, to teach him the incantation. dom gianni did his best to wean him of his folly; but as all was in vain:--"lo, now," quoth he, "as you are both bent on it, we will be up, as is our wont, before the sun to-morrow morning, and i will shew you how 'tis done. the truth is that 'tis in the attachment of the tail that the great difficulty lies, as thou wilt see." scarce a wink of sleep had either gossip pietro or gossip gemmata that night, so great was their anxiety; and towards daybreak up they got, and called dom gianni; who, being risen, came in his shirt into gossip pietro's little bedroom, and:--"i know not," quoth he, "that there is another soul in the world for whom i would do this, save you, my gossips; however, as you will have it so, i will do it, but it behoves you to do exactly as i bid you, if you would have the enchantment work." they promised obedience, and dom gianni thereupon took a light, which he handed to gossip pietro, saying:--"let nought that i shall do or say escape thee; and have a care, so thou wouldst not ruin all, to say never a word, whatever thou mayst see or hear; and pray god that the tail may be securely attached." so gossip pietro took the light, and again promised obedience; dom gianni caused gossip gemmata to strip herself stark naked, and stand on all fours like a mare, at the same time strictly charging her that, whatever might happen, she must utter no word. then, touching her head and face:--"be this a fine head of a mare," quoth he; in like manner touching her hair, he said:--"be this a fine mane of a mare;" touching her arms:--"be these fine legs and fine hooves of a mare;" then, as he touched her breast and felt its firm roundness, and there awoke and arose one that was not called:--"and be this a fine breast of a mare," quoth he; and in like manner he dealt with her back, belly, croup, thighs, and legs. last of all, the work being complete save for the tail, he lifted his shirt and took in his hand the tool with which he was used to plant men, and forthwith thrust it into the furrow made for it, saying:--"and be this a fine tail of a mare." whereat gossip pietro, who had followed everything very heedfully to that point, disapproving that last particular, exclaimed:--"no! dom gianni, i'll have no tail, i'll have no tail." the essential juice, by which all plants are propagated, was already discharged, when dom gianni withdrew the tool, saying:--"alas! gossip pietro, what hast thou done? did i not tell thee to say never a word, no matter what thou mightst see? the mare was all but made; but by speaking thou hast spoiled all; and 'tis not possible to repeat the enchantment." "well and good," replied gossip pietro, "i would have none of that tail. why saidst thou not to me:--'make it thou'? and besides, thou wast attaching it too low." "'twas because," returned dom gianni, "thou wouldst not have known, on the first essay, how to attach it so well as i." whereupon the young woman stood up, and in all good faith said to her husband:--"fool that thou art, wherefore hast thou brought to nought what had been for the good of us both? when didst thou ever see mare without a tail? so help me god, poor as thou art, thou deservest to be poorer still." so, after gossip pietro's ill-timed speech, there being no way left of turning the young woman into a mare, downcast and melancholy she resumed her clothes; and gossip pietro plied his old trade with his ass, and went with dom gianni to the fair of bitonto, and never asked him so to serve him again. what laughter this story drew from the ladies, who understood it better than dioneo had wished, may be left to the imagination of the fair one that now laughs thereat. however, as the stories were ended, and the sun now shone with a tempered radiance, the queen, witting that the end of her sovereignty was come, stood up and took off the crown, and set it on the head of pamfilo, whom alone it now remained thus to honour; and said with a smile:--"my lord, 'tis a great burden that falls upon thee, seeing that thou, coming last, art bound to make good my shortcomings and those of my predecessors; which god give thee grace to accomplish, even as he has given me grace to make thee king." with gladsome acknowledgment of the honour:--"i doubt not," replied pamfilo, "that, thanks to your noble qualities and those of my other subjects, i shall win even such praise as those that have borne sway before me." then, following the example of his predecessors, he made all meet arrangements in concert with the seneschal: after which, he turned to the expectant ladies, and thus spoke:--"enamoured my ladies, emilia, our queen of to-day, deeming it proper to allow you an interval of rest to recruit your powers, gave you license to discourse of such matters as should most commend themselves to each in turn; and as thereby you are now rested, i judge that 'tis meet to revert to our accustomed rule. wherefore i ordain that for to-morrow you do each of you take thought how you may discourse of the ensuing theme: to wit, of such as in matters of love, or otherwise, have done something with liberality or magnificence. by the telling, and (still more) by the doing of such things, your spirits will assuredly be duly attuned and animated to emprise high and noble; whereby our life, which cannot but be brief, seeing that 'tis enshrined in a mortal body, fame shall perpetuate in glory; which whoso serves not the belly, as do the beasts, must not only covet, but with all zeal seek after and labour to attain." the gay company having, one and all, approved the theme, rose at a word from their new king, and betook them to their wonted pastimes, and so, according as they severally had most lief, diverted them, until they blithely reunited for supper, which being served with all due care and despatched, they rose up to dance, as they were wont, and when they had sung, perhaps, a thousand ditties, fitter to please by their words than by any excellence of musical art, the king bade neifile sing one on her own account. and promptly and graciously, with voice clear and blithe, thus neifile sang:-in prime of maidenhood, and fair and feat 'mid spring's fresh foison chant i merrily: thanks be to love and to my fancies sweet. as o'er the grassy mead i, glancing, fare, i mark it white and yellow and vermeil dight with flowers, the thorny rose, the lily white: and all alike to his face i compare, who, loving, hath me ta'en, and me shall e'er hold bounden to his will, sith i am she that in his will findeth her joy complete. whereof if so it be that i do find any that i most like to him approve, that pluck i straight and kiss with words of love, discovering all, as, best i may, my mind; yea, all my heart's desire; and then entwined i set it in the chaplet daintily, and with my yellow tresses bind and pleat. and as mine eyes do drink in the delight which the flower yields them, even so my mind, fired with his sweet love, doth such solace find, as he himself were present to the sight: but never word of mine discover might that which the flower's sweet smell awakes in me: witness the true tale that my sighs repeat. for from my bosom gentle and hot they fly, not like the gusty sighs that others heave, whenas they languish and do sorely grieve; and to my love incontinent they hie: whereof when he is ware, he, by and by, to meward hasting, cometh suddenly, when:--"lest i faint," i cry, "come, i entreat." the king and all the ladies did not a little commend neifile's song; after which, as the night was far spent, the king bade all go to rest until the morrow. -endeth here the ninth day of the decameron, and beginneth the tenth, in which, under the rule of pamfilo, discourse is had of such as in matters of love, or otherwise, have done something with liberality or magnificence. -some cloudlets in the west still shewed a vermeil flush, albeit those of the eastern sky, as the sun's rays smote them anear, were already fringed as with most lucent gold, when uprose pamfilo, and roused the ladies and his comrades. and all the company being assembled, and choice made of the place whither they should betake them for their diversion, he, accompanied by filomena and fiammetta, led the way at a slow pace, followed by all the rest. so fared they no little space, beguiling the time with talk of their future way of life, whereof there was much to tell and much to answer, until, as the sun gained strength, they returned, having made quite a long round, to the palace; and being gathered about the fountain, such as were so minded drank somewhat from beakers rinsed in its pure waters; and then in the delicious shade of the garden they hied them hither and thither, taking their pleasure until breakfast-time. their meal taken, they slept as they were wont; and then, at a spot chosen by the king, they reassembled, where neifile, having received his command to lead the way, blithely thus began. novel i. -a knight in the service of the king of spain deems himself ill requited. wherefore the king, by most cogent proof, shews him that the blame rests not with him, but with the knight's own evil fortune; after which, he bestows upon him a noble gift. -highly graced, indeed, do i deem myself, honourable my ladies, that our king should have given to me the precedence in a matter so arduous to tell of as magnificence: for, as the sun irradiates all the heaven with his glory and beauty, even so does magnificence enhance the purity and the splendour of every other virtue. i shall therefore tell you a story, which, to my thinking, is not a little pretty; and which, assuredly, it must be profitable to call to mind. you are to know, then, that, among other honourable knights that from days of old even until now have dwelt in our city, one, and perchance the worthiest of all, was messer ruggieri de' figiovanni. who, being wealthy and magnanimous, reflecting on the customs and manner of life of tuscany, perceived that by tarrying there he was like to find little or no occasion of shewing his mettle, and accordingly resolved to pass some time at the court of alfonso, king of spain, who for the fame of his high qualities was without a peer among the potentates of his age. so, being well provided with arms and horses and retinue suitable to his rank, he hied him to spain, where he was graciously received by the king. there tarrying accordingly, messer ruggieri very soon, as well by the splendid style in which he lived as by the prodigious feats of arms that he did, gave folk to know his high desert. now, having tarried there some while, and observed the king's ways with much care, and how he would grant castles, cities, or baronies, to this, that, or the other of his subjects, he deemed that the king shewed therein but little judgment, seeing that he would give them to men that merited them not. and for that nought was given to him, he, knowing his merit, deemed himself gravely injured in reputation; wherefore he made up his mind to depart the realm, and to that end craved license of the king; which the king granted him, and therewith gave him one of the best and finest mules that was ever ridden, a gift which messer ruggieri, as he had a long journey to make, did not a little appreciate. the king then bade one of his discreet domestics contrive, as best he might, to ride with messer ruggieri on such wise that it might not appear that he did so by the king's command, and charge his memory with whatever messer ruggieri might say of him, so that he might be able to repeat it; which done, he was on the very next morning to bid ruggieri return to the king forthwith. the king's agent was on the alert, and no sooner was ruggieri out of the city, than without any manner of difficulty he joined his company, giving out that he was going towards italy. as thus they rode, talking of divers matters, messer ruggieri being mounted on the mule given him by the king:--"methinks," quoth the other, it being then hard upon tierce, "that 'twere well to give the beasts a voidance;" and by and by, being come to a convenient place, they voided all the beasts save the mule. then, as they continued their journey, the squire hearkening attentively to the knight's words, they came to a river, and while there they watered the beasts, the mule made a voidance in the stream. whereat:--"ah, foul fall thee, beast," quoth messer ruggieri, "that art even as thy master, that gave thee to me!" which remark, as also many another that fell from ruggieri as they rode together throughout the day, the squire stored in his memory; but never another word did he hear ruggieri say touching the king, that was not laudatory to the last degree. on the morrow, when they were gotten to horse, and had set their faces towards tuscany, the squire apprised ruggieri of the king's command, and thereupon ruggieri turned back. on his arrival the king, having already heard what he had said touching the mule, gave him gladsome greeting, and asked him wherefore he had likened him to the mule, or rather the mule to him. whereto messer ruggieri answered frankly:--"my lord, i likened you to the mule, for that, as you bestow your gifts where 'tis not meet, and where meet it were, bestow them not, so the mule where 'twas meet, voided not, and where 'twas not meet, voided." "messer ruggieri," replied the king, "'tis not because i have not discerned in you a knight most good and true, for whose desert no gift were too great, that i have not bestowed on you such gifts as i have bestowed upon many others, who in comparison of you are nothing worth: the fault is none of mine but solely of your fortune, which would not suffer me; and that this which i say is true, i will make abundantly plain to you." "my lord," returned messer ruggieri, "mortified am i, not that you gave me no gift, for thereof i had no desire, being too rich, but that you made no sign of recognition of my desert; however, i deem your explanation sound and honourable, and whatever you shall be pleased that i should see, that gladly will i, albeit i believe you without attestation." the king then led him into one of the great halls, in which, by his preordinance, were two chests closed under lock and key, and, not a few others being present, said to him:--"messer ruggieri, one these chests contains my crown, sceptre and orb, with many a fine girdle, buckle, ring, and whatever else of jewellery i possess; the other is full of earth: choose then, and whichever you shall choose, be it yours; thereby you will discover whether 'tis due to me or to your fortune that your deserts have lacked requital." such being the king's pleasure, messer ruggieri chose one of the chests, which at the king's command being opened and found to be that which contained the earth:--"now, messer ruggieri," quoth the king with a laugh, "your own eyes may warrant you of the truth of what i say touching fortune; but verily your merit demands that i take arms against her in your cause. i know that you are not minded to become a spaniard, and therefore i shall give you neither castle nor city; but that chest, which fortune denied you, i bestow on you in her despite, that you may take it with you to your own country, and there with your neighbours justly vaunt yourself of your deserts, attested by my gifts." messer ruggieri took the chest, and having thanked the king in a manner befitting such a gift, returned therewith, well pleased, to tuscany. novel ii. -ghino di tacco captures the abbot of cluny, cures him of a disorder of the stomach, and releases him. the abbot, on his return to the court of rome, reconciles ghino with pope boniface, and makes him prior of the hospital. -when an end was made of extolling the magnificence shewn by king alfonso towards the florentine knight, the king, who had listened to the story with no small pleasure, bade elisa follow suit; and forthwith elisa began:--dainty my ladies, undeniable it is that for a king to be magnificent, and to entreat magnificently one that has done him service, is a great matter, and meet for commendation. what then shall we say when the tale is of a dignitary of the church that shewed wondrous magnificence towards one whom he might well have entreated as an enemy, and not have been blamed by a soul? assuredly nought else than that what in the king was virtue was in the prelate nothing less than a miracle, seeing that for superlative greed the clergy, one and all, outdo us women, and wage war to the knife upon every form of liberality. and albeit all men are by nature prone to avenge their wrongs, 'tis notorious that the clergy, however they may preach longsuffering, and commend of all things the forgiving of trespasses, are more quick and hot to be avenged than the rest of mankind. now this, to wit, after what manner a prelate shewed magnificence, will be made manifest to you in my story. ghino di tacco, a man redoubtable by reason of his truculence and his high-handed deeds, being banished from siena, and at enmity with the counts of santa fiore, raised radicofani in revolt against the church of rome, and there abiding, harried all the surrounding country with his soldiers, plundering all wayfarers. now pope boniface viii. being at rome, there came to court the abbot of cluny, who is reputed one of the wealthiest prelates in the world; and having there gotten a disorder of the stomach, he was advised by the physicians to go to the baths of siena, where (they averred) he would certainly be cured. so, having obtained the pope's leave, reckless of the bruit of ghino's exploits, he took the road, being attended by a great and well-equipped train of sumpter-horses and servants. ghino di tacco, getting wind of his approach, spread his nets to such purpose as without the loss of so much as a boy to surround the abbot, with all his servants and effects, in a strait pass, from which there was no exit. which done, he sent one of his men, the cunningest of them all, with a sufficient retinue to the abbot, who most lovingly on ghino's part besought the abbot to come and visit ghino at the castle. whereto the abbot, very wroth, made answer that he would none of it, for that nought had he to do with ghino; but that he purposed to continue his journey, and would fain see who would hinder him. "sir," returned the envoy, assuming a humble tone, "you are come to a part of the country where we have no fear of aught save the might of god, and where excommunications and interdicts are one and all under the ban; wherefore you were best be pleased to shew yourself agreeable to ghino in this particular." as they thus spoke, ghino's soldiers shewed themselves on every side, and it being thus manifest to the abbot that he and his company were taken prisoners, he, albeit mightily incensed, suffered himself with all his train and effects to be conducted by the envoy to the castle; where the abbot, being alighted, was lodged in a small and very dark and discomfortable room, while his retinue, according to their several conditions, were provided with comfortable quarters in divers parts of the castle, the horses well stabled and all the effects secured, none being in any wise tampered with. which done, ghino hied him to the abbot, and:--"sir," quoth he, "ghino, whose guest you are, sends me to entreat you to be pleased to inform him of your destination, and the purpose of your journey." the abbot, vailing his pride like a wise man, told whither he was bound and for what purpose. whereupon ghino left him, casting about how he might cure him without a bath. to which end he kept a great fire ever burning in the little chamber, and had it closely guarded, and returned not to the abbot until the ensuing morning, when he brought him in a spotless napkin two slices of toast and a great beaker of vernaccia of corniglia, being of the abbot's own vintage; and:--"sir," quoth he to the abbot, "ghino, as a young man, made his studies in medicine, and avers that he then learned that there is no better treatment for disorder of the stomach than that which he will afford you, whereof the matters that i bring you are the beginning; wherefore take them and be of good cheer." the abbot, being far too hungry to make many words about the matter, ate (albeit in high dudgeon) the toast, and drank the vernaccia; which done, he enlarged on his wrongs in a high tone, with much questioning and perpending; and above all he demanded to see ghino. part of what the abbot said ghino disregarded as of no substance, to other part he replied courteously enough; and having assured him that ghino would visit him as soon as might be, he took his leave of him; nor did he return until the morrow, when he brought him toast and vernaccia in the same quantity as before; and so he kept him several days: then, having marked that the abbot had eaten some dried beans that he had secretly brought and left there of set purpose, he asked him in ghino's name how he felt in the stomach. "were i but out of ghino's hands," replied the abbot, "i should feel myself well, indeed: next to which, i desire most of all a good breakfast, so excellent a cure have his medicines wrought on me." whereupon ghino caused the abbot's servants to furnish a goodly chamber with the abbot's own effects, and there on the morrow make ready a grand banquet, at which all the abbot's suite and not a few of the garrison being assembled, he hied him to the abbot, and:--"sir," quoth he, "'tis time you left the infirmary, seeing that you now feel yourself well;" and so saying, he took him by the hand, and led him into the chamber made ready for him, and having left him there with his own people, made it his chief concern that the banquet should be magnificent. the abbot's spirits revived as he found himself again among his men, with whom he talked a while, telling them how he had been entreated, wherewith they contrasted the signal honour which they, on the other hand, had, one and all, received from ghino. breakfast-time came, and with order meet the abbot and the rest were regaled with good viands and good wines, ghino still suffering not the abbot to know who he was. but when the abbot had thus passed several days, ghino, having first had all his effects collected in a saloon, and all his horses, to the poorest jade, in the courtyard below, hied him to the abbot and asked him how he felt, and if he deemed himself strong enough to ride. the abbot replied that he was quite strong enough, and that 'twould be well indeed with him, were he once out of ghino's hands. ghino then led him into the saloon in which were his effects and all his retinue, and having brought him to a window, whence he might see all his horses:--"sir abbot," quoth he, "you must know that 'tis not for that he has an evil heart, but because, being a gentleman, he is banished from his home, and reduced to poverty, and has not a few powerful enemies, that in defence of his life and honour, ghino di tacco, whom you see before you, has become a robber of highways and an enemy to the court of rome. but such as i am, i have cured you of your malady of the stomach, and taking you to be a worthy lord, i purpose not to treat you as i would another, from whom, were he in my hands, as you are, i should take such part of his goods as i should think fit; but i shall leave it to you, upon consideration of my need, to assign to me such portion of your goods as you yourself shall determine. here are they before you undiminished and unimpaired, and from this window you may see your horses below in the courtyard; wherefore take the part or take the whole, as you may see fit, and be it at your option to tarry here, or go hence, from this hour forth." the abbot marvelled to hear a highway robber speak thus liberally, and such was his gratification that his wrath and fierce resentment departed from him, nay, were transformed into kindness, insomuch that in all cordial amity he hasted to embrace ghino, saying:--"by god i swear, that to gain the friendship of a man such i now deem thee to be, i would be content to suffer much greater wrong than that which until now, meseemed, thou hadst done me. cursed be fortune that constrains thee to ply so censurable a trade." which said, he selected a very few things, and none superfluous, from his ample store, and having done likewise with the horses, ceded all else to ghino, and hied him back to rome; where, seeing him, the pope, who to his great grief had heard of his capture, asked him what benefit he had gotten from the baths. whereto the abbot made answer with a smile:--"holy father, i found nearer here than the baths a worthy physician who has wrought a most excellent cure on me:" he then recounted all the circumstances, whereat the pope laughed. afterwards, still pursuing the topic, the abbot, yielding to the promptings of magnificence, asked a favour of the pope; who, expecting that he would ask somewhat else than he did, liberally promised to give him whatever he should demand. whereupon:--"holy father," quoth the abbot, "that which i would crave of you is that you restore ghino di tacco, my physician, to your favour; seeing that among the good men and true and meritorious that i have known, he is by no means of the least account. and for the evil life that he leads, i impute it to fortune rather than to him: change then his fortune, by giving him the means whereby he may live in manner befitting his rank, and i doubt not that in a little while your judgment of him will jump with mine." whereto the pope, being magnanimous, and an admirer of good men and true, made answer that so he would gladly do, if ghino should prove to be such as the abbot said; and that he would have him brought under safe conduct to rome. thither accordingly under safe conduct came ghino, to the abbot's great delight; nor had he been long at court before the pope approved his worth, and restored him to his favour, granting him a great office, to wit, that of prior of the hospital, whereof he made him knight. which office he held for the rest of his life, being ever a friend and vassal of holy church and the abbot of cluny. novel iii. -mitridanes, holding nathan in despite by reason of his courtesy, journeys with intent to kill him, and falling in with him unawares, is advised by him how to compass his end. following his advice, he finds him in a copse, and recognizing him, is shame-stricken, and becomes his friend. -verily like to a miracle seemed it to all to hear that a prelate had done aught with magnificence; but when the ladies had made an end of their remarks, the king bade filostrato follow suit; and forthwith filostrato began:--noble ladies, great was the magnificence of the king of spain, and perchance a thing unheard-of the magnificence of the abbot of cluny; but peradventure 'twill seem not a whit less marvellous to you to hear of one who, to shew liberality towards another, did resolve artfully to yield to him his blood, nay, his very life, for which the other thirsted, and had so done, had the other chosen to take them, as i shall shew you in a little story. beyond all question, if we may believe the report of certain genoese, and other folk that have been in those regions, there dwelt of yore in the parts of cathay one nathan, a man of noble lineage and incomparable wealth. who, having a seat hard by a road, by which whoso would travel from the west eastward, or from the east westward, must needs pass, and being magnanimous and liberal, and zealous to approve himself such in act, did set on work cunning artificers not a few, and cause one of the finest and largest and most luxurious palaces that ever were seen, to be there builded and furnished in the goodliest manner with all things meet for the reception and honourable entertainment of gentlemen. and so, keeping a great array of excellent servants, he courteously and hospitably did the honours of his house to whoso came and went: in which laudable way of life he persevered, until not only the east, but well-nigh all the west had heard his fame; which thus, what time he was well-stricken in years, albeit not for that cause grown weary of shewing courtesy, reached the ears of one mitridanes, a young man of a country not far distant. who, knowing himself to be no less wealthy than nathan, grew envious of the renown that he had of his good deeds, and resolved to obliterate, or at least to obscure it, by a yet greater liberality. so he had built for himself a palace like that of nathan, of which he did the honours with a lavish courtesy that none had ever equalled, to whoso came or went that way; and verily in a short while he became famous enough. now it so befell that on a day when the young man was all alone in the courtyard of the palace, there came in by one of the gates a poor woman, who asked of him an alms, and had it; but, not content therewith, came again to him by the second gate, and asked another alms, and had it, and after the like sort did even unto the twelfth time; but, she returning for the thirteenth time:--"my good woman," quoth mitridanes, "thou art not a little pertinacious in thy begging:" howbeit he gave her an alms. whereupon:--"ah! the wondrous liberality of nathan!" quoth the beldam:--"thirty-two gates are there to his palace, by every one of which i have entered, and asking alms of him, was never--for aught he shewed--recognized, or refused, and here, though i have entered as yet by but thirteen gates, i am recognized and reprimanded." and therewith she departed, and returned no more. mitridanes, who accounted the mention of nathan's fame an abatement of his own, was kindled by her words with a frenzy of wrath, and began thus to commune with himself:--alas! when shall i attain to the grandeur of nathan's liberality, to say nought of transcending it, as i would fain, seeing that in the veriest trifles i cannot approach him? of a surety my labour is in vain, if i rid not the earth of him: which, since old age relieves me not of him, i must forthwith do with mine own hands. and in the flush of his despite up he started, and giving none to know of his purpose, got to horse with a small company, and after three days arrived at the place where nathan abode; and having enjoined his comrades to make as if they were none of his, and knew him not, and to go quarter themselves as best they might until they had his further orders, he, being thus alone, towards evening came upon nathan, also alone, at no great distance from his splendid palace. nathan was recreating himself by a walk, and was very simply clad; so that mitridanes, knowing him not, asked him if he could shew him where nathan dwelt. "my son," replied nathan gladsomely, "that can none in these parts better than i; wherefore, so it please thee, i will bring thee thither." the young man replied that 'twould be mighty agreeable to him, but that, if so it might be, he had a mind to be neither known nor seen by nathan. "and herein also," returned nathan, "since 'tis thy pleasure, i will gratify thee." whereupon mitridanes dismounted, and with nathan, who soon engaged him in delightsome discourse, walked to the goodly palace. arrived there nathan caused one of his servants take the young man's horse, and drawing close to him, bade him in a whisper to see to it without delay that none in the house should tell the young man that he was nathan: and so 'twas done. being come into the palace, nathan quartered mitridanes in a most goodly chamber, where none saw him but those whom he had appointed to wait upon him; and he himself kept him company, doing him all possible honour. of whom mitridanes, albeit he reverenced him as a father, yet, being thus with him, forbore not to ask who he was. whereto nathan made answer:--"i am a petty servant of nathan: old as i am, i have been with him since my childhood, and never has he advanced me to higher office than this wherein thou seest me: wherefore, howsoever other folk may praise him, little cause have i to do so." which words afforded mitridanes some hope of carrying his wicked purpose into effect with more of plan and less of risk than had otherwise been possible. by and by nathan very courteously asked him who he was, and what business brought him thither; offering him such counsel and aid as he might be able to afford him. mitridanes hesitated a while to reply: but at last he resolved to trust him, and when with no little circumlocution he had demanded of him fidelity, counsel and aid, he fully discovered to him who he was, and the purpose and motive of his coming thither. now, albeit to hear mitridanes thus unfold his horrid design caused nathan no small inward commotion, yet 'twas not long before courageously and composedly he thus made answer:--"noble was thy father, mitridanes, and thou art minded to shew thyself not unworthy of him by this lofty emprise of thine, to wit, of being liberal to all comers: and for that thou art envious of nathan's merit i greatly commend thee; for were many envious for a like cause, the world, from being a most wretched, would soon become a happy place. doubt not that i shall keep secret the design which thou hast confided to me, for the furtherance whereof 'tis good advice rather than substantial aid that i have to offer thee. which advice is this. hence, perhaps half a mile off, thou mayst see a copse, in which almost every morning nathan is wont to walk, taking his pleasure, for quite a long while: 'twill be an easy matter for thee to find him there, and deal with him as thou mayst be minded. now, shouldst thou slay him, thou wilt get thee home with less risk of let, if thou take not the path by which thou camest hither, but that which thou seest issue from the copse on the left, for, though 'tis somewhat more rough, it leads more directly to thy house, and will be safer for thee." possessed of this information, mitridanes, when nathan had left him, privily apprised his comrades, who were likewise lodged in the palace, of the place where they were to await him on the ensuing day; which being come, nathan, inflexibly determined to act in all respects according to the advice which he had given mitridanes, hied him forth to the copse unattended, to meet his death. mitridanes, being risen, took his bow and sword, for other arms he had none with him, mounted his horse, and rode to the copse, through which, while he was yet some way off, he saw nathan passing, quite alone. and being minded, before he fell upon him, to see his face and hear the sound of his voice, as, riding at a smart pace, he came up with him, he laid hold of him by his head-gear, exclaiming:--"greybeard, thou art a dead man." whereto nathan answered nought but:--"then 'tis but my desert." but mitridanes, hearing the voice, and scanning the face, forthwith knew him for the same man that had welcomed him heartily, consorted with him familiarly, and counselled him faithfully; whereby his wrath presently subsided, and gave place to shame. wherefore, casting away the sword that he held drawn in act to strike, he sprang from his horse, and weeping, threw himself at nathan's feet, saying:--"your liberality, dearest father, i acknowledge to be beyond all question, seeing with what craft you did plot your coming hither to yield me your life, for which, by mine own avowal, you knew that i, albeit cause i had none, did thirst. but god, more regardful of my duty than i myself, has now, in this moment of supreme stress, opened the eyes of my mind, that wretched envy had fast sealed. the prompter was your compliance, the greater is the debt of penitence that i owe you for my fault; wherefore wreak even such vengeance upon me as you may deem answerable to my transgression." but nathan raised mitridanes to his feet, and tenderly embraced him, saying:--"my son, thy enterprise, howsoever thou mayst denote it, whether evil or otherwise, was not such that thou shouldst crave, or i give, pardon thereof; for 'twas not in malice but in that thou wouldst fain have been reputed better than i that thou ensuedst it. doubt then no more of me; nay, rest assured that none that lives bears thee such love as i, who know the loftiness of thy spirit, bent not to heap up wealth, as do the caitiffs, but to dispense in bounty thine accumulated store. think it no shame that to enhance thy reputation thou wouldst have slain me; nor deem that i marvel thereat. to slay not one man, as thou wast minded, but countless multitudes, to waste whole countries with fire, and to raze cities to the ground has been well-nigh the sole art, by which the mightiest emperors and the greatest kings have extended their dominions, and by consequence their fame. wherefore, if thou, to increase thy fame, wouldst fain have slain me, 'twas nothing marvellous or strange, but wonted." whereto mitridanes made answer, not to excuse his wicked design, but to commend the seemly excuse found for it by nathan, whom at length he told how beyond measure he marvelled that nathan had not only been consenting to the enterprise, but had aided him therein by his counsel. but nathan answered:--"liefer had i, mitridanes, that thou didst not marvel either at my consent or at my counsel, for that, since i was my own master and of a mind to that emprise whereon thou art also bent, never a soul came to my house, but, so far as in me lay, i gave him all that he asked of me. thou camest, lusting for my life; and so, when i heard thee crave it of me, i forthwith, that thou mightst not be the only guest to depart hence ill content, resolved to give it thee; and to that end i gave thee such counsel as i deemed would serve thee both to the taking of my life and the preservation of thine own. wherefore yet again i bid thee, nay, i entreat thee, if so thou art minded, to take it for thy satisfaction: i know not how i could better bestow it. i have had the use of it now for some eighty years, and pleasure and solace thereof; and i know that, by the course of nature and the common lot of man and all things mundane, it can continue to be mine for but a little while; and so i deem that 'twere much better to bestow it, as i have ever bestowed and dispensed my wealth, than to keep it, until, against my will, it be reft from me by nature. 'twere but a trifle, though 'twere a hundred years: how insignificant, then, the six or eight years that are all i have to give! take it, then, if thou hadst lief, take it, i pray thee; for, long as i have lived here, none have i found but thee to desire it; nor know i when i may find another, if thou take it not, to demand it of me. and if, peradventure, i should find one such, yet i know that the longer i keep it, the less its worth will be; wherefore, ere it be thus cheapened, take it, i implore thee." sore shame-stricken, mitridanes made answer:--"now god forefend that i should so much as harbour, as but now i did, such a thought, not to say do such a deed, as to wrest from you a thing so precious as your life, the years whereof, so far from abridging, i would gladly supplement with mine own." "so then," rejoined nathan promptly, "thou wouldst, if thou couldst, add thy years to mine, and cause me to serve thee as i never yet served any man, to wit, to take from thee that which is thine, i that never took aught from a soul!" "ay, that would i," returned mitridanes. "then," quoth nathan, "do as i shall bid thee. thou art young: tarry here in my house, and call thyself nathan; and i will get me to thy house, and ever call myself mitridanes." whereto mitridanes made answer:--"were i but able to discharge this trust, as you have been and are, scarce would i hesitate to accept your offer; but, as too sure am i that aught that i might do would but serve to lower nathan's fame, and i am not minded to mar that in another which i cannot mend in myself, accept it i will not." after which and the like interchange of delectable discourse, nathan and mitridanes, by nathan's desire, returned to the palace; where nathan for some days honourably entreated mitridanes, and by his sage counsel confirmed and encouraged him in his high and noble resolve; after which, mitridanes, being minded to return home with his company, took his leave of nathan, fully persuaded that 'twas not possible to surpass him in liberality. novel iv. -messer gentile de' carisendi, being come from modena, disinters a lady that he loves, who has been buried for dead. she, being reanimated, gives birth to a male child; and messer gentile restores her, with her son, to niccoluccio caccianimico, her husband. -a thing marvellous seemed it to all that for liberality a man should be ready to sacrifice his own life; and herein they averred that nathan had without doubt left the king of spain and the abbot of cluny behind. however, when they had discussed the matter diversely and at large, the king, bending his regard on lauretta, signified to her his will that she should tell; and forthwith, accordingly, lauretta began:--goodly matters are they and magnificent that have been recounted to you, young ladies; nay, so much of our field of discourse is already filled by their grandeur, that for us that are yet to tell, there is, methinks, no room left, unless we seek our topic there where matter of discourse germane to every theme does most richly abound, to wit, in the affairs of love. for which cause, as also for that our time of life cannot but make us especially inclinable thereto, i am minded that my story shall be of a feat of magnificence done by a lover: which, all things considered, will, peradventure, seem to you inferior to none that have been shewn you; so it be true that to possess the beloved one, men will part with their treasures, forget their enmities, and jeopardize their own lives, their honour and their reputation, in a thousand ways. know, then, that at bologna, that most famous city of lombardy, there dwelt a knight, messer gentile carisendi by name, worshipful alike for his noble lineage and his native worth: who in his youth, being enamoured of a young gentlewoman named madonna catalina, wife of one niccoluccio caccianimico, and well-nigh despairing, for that the lady gave him but a sorry requital of his love, betook him to modena, being called thither as podesta. now what time he was there, niccoluccio being also away from bologna, and his lady gone, for that she was with child, to lie in at a house she had some three miles or so from the city, it befell that she was suddenly smitten with a sore malady of such and so virulent a quality that it left no sign of life in her, so that the very physicians pronounced her dead. and for that the women that were nearest of kin to her professed to have been told by her, that she was not so far gone in pregnancy that the child could be perfectly formed, they, without more ado, laid her in a tomb in a neighbouring church, and after long lamentation closed it upon her. whereof messer gentile being forthwith apprised by one of his friends, did, for all she had been most niggardly to him of her favour, grieve not a little, and at length fell a communing with himself on this wise:--so, madonna catalina, thou art dead! while thou livedst, never a glance of thine might i have; wherefore, now that thou art dead, 'tis but right that i go take a kiss from thee. 'twas night while he thus mused; and forthwith, observing strict secrecy in his departure, he got him to horse with a single servant, and halted not until he was come to the place where the lady was interred; and having opened the tomb he cautiously entered it. then, having lain down beside her, he set his face against hers; and again and again, weeping profusely the while, he kissed it. but as 'tis matter of common knowledge that the desires of men, and more especially of lovers, know no bounds, but crave ever an ampler satisfaction; even so messer gentile, albeit he had been minded to tarry there no longer, now said to himself:--wherefore touch i not her bosom a while? i have never yet touched it, nor shall i ever touch it again. obeying which impulse, he laid his hand on her bosom, and keeping it there some time, felt, as he thought, her heart faintly beating. whereupon, banishing all fear, and examining the body with closer attention, he discovered that life was not extinct, though he judged it but scant and flickering: and so, aided by his servant, he bore her, as gently as he might, out of the tomb; and set her before him upon his horse, and brought her privily to his house at bologna, where dwelt his wise and worthy mother, who, being fully apprised by him of the circumstances, took pity on the lady, and had a huge fire kindled, and a bath made ready, whereby she restored her to life. whereof the first sign she gave was to heave a great sigh, and murmur:--"alas! where am i?" to which the worthy lady made answer:--"be of good cheer; thou art well lodged." by and by the lady, coming to herself, looked about her; and finding herself she knew not where, and seeing messer gentile before her, was filled with wonder, and besought his mother to tell her how she came to be there. messer gentile thereupon told her all. sore distressed thereat, the lady, after a while, thanked him as best she might; after which she besought him by the love that he had borne her, and of his courtesy, that she might, while she tarried in his house, be spared aught that could impair her honour and her husband's; and that at daybreak he would suffer her to return home. "madam," replied messer gentile, "however i did affect you in time past, since god in his goodness has, by means of the love i bore you, restored you to me alive, i mean not now, or at any time hereafter, to entreat you either here or elsewhere, save as a dear sister; but yet the service i have to-night rendered you merits some guerdon, and therefore lief had i that you deny me not a favour which i shall ask of you." whereto the lady graciously made answer that she would be prompt to grant it, so only it were in her power, and consonant with her honour. said then messer gentile:--"your kinsfolk, madam, one and all, nay, all the folk in bologna are fully persuaded that you are dead: there is therefore none to expect you at home: wherefore the favour i crave of you is this, that you will be pleased to tarry privily here with my mother, until such time--which will be speedily--as i return from modena. and 'tis for that i purpose to make solemn and joyous donation of you to your husband in presence of the most honourable folk of this city that i ask of you this grace." mindful of what she owed the knight, and witting that what he craved was seemly, the lady, albeit she yearned not a little to gladden her kinsfolk with the sight of her in the flesh, consented to do as messer gentile besought her, and thereto pledged him her faith. and scarce had she done so, when she felt that the hour of her travail was come; and so, tenderly succoured by messer gentile's mother, she not long after gave birth to a fine boy. which event did mightily enhance her own and messer gentile's happiness. then, having made all meet provision for her, and left word that she was to be tended as if she were his own wife, messer gentile, observing strict secrecy, returned to modena. his time of office there ended, in anticipation of his return to bologna, he appointed for the morning of his arrival in the city a great and goodly banquet at his house, whereto were bidden not a few of the gentlemen of bologna, and among them niccoluccio caccianimico. whom, when he was returned and dismounted, he found awaiting him, as also the lady, fairer and more healthful than ever, and her little son doing well; and so with a gladness beyond compare he ranged his guests at table, and regaled them with many a course magnificently served. and towards the close of the feast, having premonished the lady of his intention, and concerted with her how she should behave, thus he spoke:--"gentlemen, i mind me to have once heard tell of (as i deem it) a delightsome custom which they have in persia; to wit, that, when one would do his friend especial honour, he bids him to his house, and there shews him that treasure, be it wife, or mistress, or daughter, or what not, that he holds most dear; assuring him that yet more gladly, were it possible, he would shew him his heart. which custom i am minded to observe here in bologna. you, of your courtesy, have honoured my feast with your presence, and i propose to do you honour in the persian fashion, by shewing you that which in all the world i do, and must ever, hold most dear. but before i do so, tell me, i pray you, how you conceive of a nice question that i shall lay before you. suppose that one has in his house a good and most faithful servant, who falls sick of a grievous disorder; and that the master tarries not for the death of the servant, but has him borne out into the open street, and concerns himself no more with him: that then a stranger comes by, is moved to pity of the sick man, and takes him to his house, and by careful tendance and at no small cost restores him to his wonted health. now i would fain know whether the first master has in equity any just cause to complain of or be aggrieved with the second master, if he retain the servant in his employ, and refuse to restore him, when so required." the gentlemen discussed the matter after divers fashions, and all agreed in one sentence, which they committed to niccoluccio caccianimico, for that he was an eloquent and accomplished speaker, to deliver on the part of them all. niccoluccio began by commending the persian custom: after which he said that he and the others were all of the same opinion, to wit, that the first master had no longer any right in his servant, since he had not only abandoned but cast him forth; and that by virtue of the second master's kind usage of him he must be deemed to have become his servant; wherefore, by keeping him, he did the first master no mischief, no violence, no wrong. whereupon the rest that were at the table said, one and all, being worthy men, that their judgment jumped with niccoluccio's answer. the knight, well pleased with the answer, and that 'twas niccoluccio that gave it, affirmed that he was of the same opinion; adding:--"'tis now time that i shew you that honour which i promised you." he then called two of his servants, and sent them to the lady, whom he had caused to be apparelled and adorned with splendour, charging them to pray her to be pleased to come and gladden the gentlemen with her presence. so she, bearing in her arms her most lovely little son, came, attended by the two servants, into the saloon, and by the knight's direction, took a seat beside a worthy gentleman: whereupon:--"gentlemen," quoth the knight, "this is the treasure that i hold, and mean ever to hold, more dear than aught else. behold, and judge whether i have good cause." the gentlemen said not a little in her honour and praise, averring that the knight ought indeed to hold her dear: then, as they regarded her more attentively, there were not a few that would have pronounced her to be the very woman that she was, had they not believed that woman to be dead. but none scanned her so closely as niccoluccio, who, the knight being withdrawn a little space, could no longer refrain his eager desire to know who she might be, but asked her whether she were of bologna, or from other parts. the lady, hearing her husband's voice, could scarce forbear to answer; but yet, not to disconcert the knight's plan, she kept silence. another asked her if that was her little boy; and yet another, if she were messer gentile's wife, or in any other wise his connection. to none of whom she vouchsafed an answer. then, messer gentile coming up:--"sir," quoth one of the guests, "this treasure of yours is goodly indeed; but she seems to be dumb: is she so?" "gentlemen," quoth messer gentile, "that she has not as yet spoken is no small evidence of her virtue." "then tell us, you, who she is," returned the other. "that," quoth the knight, "will i right gladly, so you but promise me, that, no matter what i may say, none of you will stir from his place, until i have ended my story." all gave the required promise, and when the tables had been cleared, messer gentile, being seated beside the lady, thus spoke:--"gentlemen, this lady is that loyal and faithful servant, touching whom a brief while ago i propounded to you my question, whom her own folk held none too dear, but cast out into the open street as a thing vile and no longer good for aught, but i took thence, and by my careful tendance wrested from the clutch of death; whom god, regardful of my good will, has changed from the appalling aspect of a corpse to the thing of beauty that you see before you. but for your fuller understanding of this occurrence, i will briefly explain it to you." he then recounted to them in detail all that had happened from his first becoming enamoured of the lady to that very hour whereto they hearkened with no small wonder; after which:--"and so," he added, "unless you, and more especially niccoluccio, are now of another opinion than you were a brief while ago, the lady rightly belongs to me, nor can any man lawfully reclaim her of me." none answered, for all were intent to hear what more he would say. but, while niccoluccio, and some others that were there, wept for sympathy, messer gentile stood up, and took the little boy in his arms and the lady by the hand, and approached niccoluccio, saying:--"rise, my gossip: i do not, indeed, restore thee thy wife, whom thy kinsfolk and hers cast forth; but i am minded to give thee this lady, my gossip, with this her little boy, whom i know well to be thy son, and whom i held at the font, and named gentile: and i pray thee that she be not the less dear to thee for that she has tarried three months in my house; for i swear to thee by that god, who, peradventure, ordained that i should be enamoured of her, to the end that my love might be, as it has been, the occasion of her restoration to life, that never with her father, or her mother, or with thee, did she live more virtuously than with my mother in my house." which said, he turned to the lady, saying:--"madam, i now release you from all promises made to me, and so deliver you to niccoluccio." then, leaving the lady and the child in niccoluccio's embrace, he returned to his seat. thus to receive his wife and son was to niccoluccio a delight great in the measure of its remoteness from his hope. wherefore in the most honourable terms at his command he thanked the knight, whom all the rest, weeping for sympathy, greatly commended for what he had done, as did also all that heard thereof. the lady, welcomed home with wondrous cheer, was long a portent to the bolognese, who gazed on her as on one raised from the dead. messer gentile lived ever after as the friend of niccoluccio, and his and the lady's kinsfolk. now what shall be your verdict, gracious ladies? a king's largess, though it was of his sceptre and crown, an abbot's reconciliation, at no cost to himself, of a malefactor with the pope, or an old man's submission of his throat to the knife of his enemy--will you adjudge that such acts as these are comparable to the deed of messer gentile? who, though young, and burning with passion, and deeming himself justly entitled to that which the heedlessness of another had discarded, and he by good fortune had recovered, not only tempered his ardour with honour, but having that which with his whole soul he had long been bent on wresting from another, did with liberality restore it. assuredly none of the feats aforesaid seem to me like unto this. novel v. -madonna dianora craves of messer ansaldo a garden that shall be as fair in january as in may. messer ansaldo binds himself to a necromancer, and thereby gives her the garden. her husband gives her leave to do messer ansaldo's pleasure: he, being apprised of her husband's liberality, releases her from her promise; and the necromancer releases messer ansaldo from his bond, and will take nought of his. -each of the gay company had with superlative commendation extolled messer gentile to the skies, when the king bade emilia follow suit; and with a good courage, as burning to speak, thus emilia began:--delicate my ladies, none can justly say that 'twas not magnificently done of messer gentile; but if it be alleged that 'twas the last degree of magnificence, 'twill perchance not be difficult to shew that more was possible, as is my purpose in the little story that i shall tell you. in friuli, a country which, though its air is shrewd, is pleasantly diversified by fine mountains and not a few rivers and clear fountains, is a city called udine, where dwelt of yore a fair and noble lady, madonna dianora by name, wife of a wealthy grandee named giliberto, a very pleasant gentleman, and debonair. now this lady, for her high qualities, was in the last degree beloved by a great and noble baron, messer ansaldo gradense by name, a man of no little consequence, and whose fame for feats of arms and courtesy was spread far and wide. but, though with all a lover's ardour he left nought undone that he might do to win her love, and to that end frequently plied her with his ambassages, 'twas all in vain. and the lady being distressed by his importunity, and that, refuse as she might all that he asked of her, he none the less continued to love her and press his suit upon her, bethought her how she might rid herself of him by requiring of him an extraordinary and, as she deemed, impossible feat. so one day, a woman that came oftentimes from him to her being with her:--"good woman," quoth she, "thou hast many a time affirmed that messer ansaldo loves me above all else; and thou hast made proffer to me on his part of wondrous rich gifts which i am minded he keep to himself, for that i could never bring myself to love him or pleasure him for their sake; but, if i might be certified that he loves me as much as thou sayst, then without a doubt i should not fail to love him, and do his pleasure; wherefore, so he give me the assurance that i shall require, i shall be at his command." "what is it, madam," returned the good woman, "that you would have him do?" "this," replied the lady; "i would have this next ensuing january, hard by this city, a garden full of green grass and flowers and flowering trees, just as if it were may; and if he cannot provide me with this garden, bid him never again send either thee or any other to me, for that, should he harass me any further, i shall no longer keep silence, as i have hitherto done, but shall make my complaint to my husband and all my kinsmen, and it shall go hard but i will be quit of him." the gentleman being apprised of his lady's stipulation and promise, notwithstanding that he deemed it no easy matter, nay, a thing almost impossible, to satisfy her, and knew besides that 'twas but to deprive him of all hope that she made the demand, did nevertheless resolve to do his endeavour to comply with it, and causing search to be made in divers parts of the world, if any he might find to afford him counsel or aid, he lit upon one, who for a substantial reward offered to do the thing by necromancy. so messer ansaldo, having struck the bargain with him for an exceeding great sum of money, gleefully expected the appointed time. which being come with extreme cold, insomuch that there was nought but snow and ice, the adept on the night before the calends of january wrought with his spells to such purpose that on the morrow, as was averred by eye-witnesses, there appeared in a meadow hard by the city one of the most beautiful gardens that was ever seen, with no lack of grass and trees and fruits of all sorts. at sight whereof messer ansaldo was overjoyed, and caused some of the finest fruits and flowers that it contained to be gathered, and privily presented to his lady, whom he bade come and see the garden that she had craved, that thereby she might have assurance of his love, and mind her of the promise that she had given him and confirmed with an oath, and, as a loyal lady, take thought for its performance. when she saw the flowers and fruits, the lady, who had already heard not a few folk speak of the wondrous garden, began to repent her of her promise. but for all that, being fond of strange sights, she hied her with many other ladies of the city to see the garden, and having gazed on it with wonderment, and commended it not a little, she went home the saddest woman alive, bethinking her to what it bound her: and so great was her distress that she might not well conceal it; but, being written on her face, 'twas marked by her husband, who was minded by all means to know the cause thereof. the lady long time kept silence: but at last she yielded to his urgency, and discovered to him the whole matter from first to last. whereat giliberto was at first very wroth; but on second thoughts, considering the purity of the lady's purpose, he was better advised, and dismissing his anger:--"dianora," quoth he, "'tis not the act of a discreet or virtuous lady to give ear to messages of such a sort, nor to enter into any compact touching her chastity with any man on any terms. words that the ears convey to the heart have a potency greater than is commonly supposed, and there is scarce aught that lovers will not find possible. 'twas then ill done of thee in the first instance to hearken, as afterwards to make the compact; but, for that i know the purity of thy soul, that thou mayst be quit of thy promise, i will grant thee that which, perchance, no other man would grant, being also swayed thereto by fear of the necromancer, whom messer ansaldo, shouldst thou play him false, might, peradventure, cause to do us a mischief. i am minded, then, that thou go to him, and contrive, if on any wise thou canst, to get thee quit of this promise without loss of virtue; but if otherwise it may not be, then for the nonce thou mayst yield him thy body, but not thy soul." whereat the lady, weeping, would none of such a favour at her husband's hands. but giliberto, for all the lady's protestations, was minded that so it should be. accordingly, on the morrow about dawn, apparelled none too ornately, preceded by two servants and followed by a chambermaid, the lady hied her to messer ansaldo's house. apprised that his lady was come to see him, messer ansaldo, marvelling not a little, rose, and having called the necromancer:--"i am minded," quoth he, "that thou see what goodly gain i have gotten by thine art." and the twain having met the lady, ansaldo gave way to no unruly appetite, but received her with a seemly obeisance; and then the three repaired to a goodly chamber, where there was a great fire, and having caused the lady to be seated, thus spoke ansaldo:--"madam, if the love that i have so long borne you merit any guerdon, i pray you that it be not grievous to you to discover to me the true occasion of your coming to me at this hour, and thus accompanied." shamefast, and the tears all but standing in her eyes, the lady made answer:--"sir 'tis neither love that i bear you, nor pledged you, that brings me hither, but the command of my husband, who, regarding rather the pains you have had of your unbridled passion than his own or my honour, has sent me hither; and for that he commands it, i, for the nonce, am entirely at your pleasure." if messer ansaldo had marvelled to hear of the lady's coming, he now marvelled much more, and touched by giliberto's liberality, and passing from passion to compassion:--"now, god forbid, madam," quoth he, "that, it being as you say, i should wound the honour of him that has compassion on my love; wherefore, no otherwise than as if you were my sister shall you abide here, while you are so minded, and be free to depart at your pleasure; nor crave i aught of you but that you shall convey from me to your husband such thanks as you shall deem meet for courtesy such as his has been, and entreat me ever henceforth as your brother and servant." whereat overjoyed in the last degree:--"nought," quoth the lady, "by what i noted of your behaviour, could ever have caused me to anticipate other sequel of my coming hither than this which i see is your will, and for which i shall ever be your debtor." she then took her leave, and, attended by a guard of honour, returned to giliberto, and told him what had passed; between whom and messer ansaldo there was thenceforth a most close and loyal friendship. now the liberality shewn by giliberto towards messer ansaldo, and by messer ansaldo towards the lady, having been marked by the necromancer, when messer ansaldo made ready to give him the promised reward:--"now god forbid," quoth he, "that, as i have seen giliberto liberal in regard of his honour, and you liberal in regard of your love, i be not in like manner liberal in regard of my reward, which accordingly, witting that 'tis in good hands, i am minded that you keep." the knight was abashed, and strove hard to induce him to take, if not the whole, at least a part of the money; but finding that his labour was in vain, and that the necromancer, having caused his garden to vanish after the third day, was minded to depart, he bade him adieu. and the carnal love he had borne the lady being spent, he burned for her thereafter with a flame of honourable affection. now what shall be our verdict in this case, lovesome ladies? a lady, as it were dead, and a love grown lukewarm for utter hopelessness! shall we set a liberality shewn in such a case above this liberality of messer ansaldo, loving yet as ardently, and hoping, perchance, yet more ardently than ever, and holding in his hands the prize that he had so long pursued? folly indeed should i deem it to compare that liberality with this. novel vi. -king charles the old, being conqueror, falls in love with a young maiden, and afterward growing ashamed of his folly bestows her and her sister honourably in marriage. -who might fully recount with what diversity of argument the ladies debated which of the three, giliberto, or messer ansaldo, or the necromancer, behaved with the most liberality in the affair of madonna dianora? too long were it to tell. however, when the king had allowed them to dispute a while, he, with a glance at fiammetta, bade her rescue them from their wrangling by telling her story. fiammetta made no demur, but thus began:--illustrious my ladies, i have ever been of opinion that in companies like ours one should speak so explicitly that the import of what is said should never by excessive circumscription afford matter for disputation; which is much more in place among students in the schools, than among us, whose powers are scarce adequate to the management of the distaff and the spindle. wherefore i, that had in mind a matter of, perchance, some nicety, now that i see you all at variance touching the matters last mooted, am minded to lay it aside, and tell you somewhat else, which concerns a man by no means of slight account, but a valiant king, being a chivalrous action that he did, albeit in no wise thereto actuated by his honour. there is none of you but may not seldom have heard tell of king charles the old, or the first, by whose magnificent emprise, and the ensuing victory gained over king manfred, the ghibellines were driven forth of florence, and the guelfs returned thither. for which cause a knight, messer neri degli uberti by name, departing florence with his household and not a little money, resolved to fix his abode under no other sway than that of king charles. and being fain of a lonely place in which to end his days in peace, he betook him to castello da mare di stabia; and there, perchance a cross-bow-shot from the other houses of the place, amid the olives and hazels and chestnuts that abound in those parts, he bought an estate, on which he built a goodly house and commodious, with a pleasant garden beside it, in the midst of which, having no lack of running water, he set, after our florentine fashion, a pond fair and clear, and speedily filled it with fish. and while thus he lived, daily occupying himself with nought else but how to make his garden more fair, it befell that king charles in the hot season betook him to castello da mare to refresh himself a while, and hearing of the beauty of messer neri's garden, was desirous to view it. and having learned to whom it belonged, he bethought him that, as the knight was an adherent of the party opposed to him, he would use more familiarity towards him than he would otherwise have done; and so he sent him word that he and four comrades would sup privily with him in his garden on the ensuing evening. messer neri felt himself much honoured; and having made his preparations with magnificence, and arranged the order of the ceremonies with his household, did all he could and knew to make the king cordially welcome to his fair garden. when the king had viewed the garden throughout, as also messer neri's house, and commended them, he washed, and seated himself at one of the tables, which were set beside the pond, and bade count guy de montfort, who was one of his companions, sit on one side of him, and messer neri on the other, and the other three to serve, as they should be directed by messer neri. the dishes that were set before them were dainty, the wines excellent and rare, the order of the repast very fair and commendable, without the least noise or aught else that might distress; whereon the king bestowed no stinted praise. as thus he gaily supped, well-pleased with the lovely spot, there came into the garden two young maidens, each perhaps fifteen years old, blonde both, their golden tresses falling all in ringlets about them, and crowned with a dainty garland of periwinkle-flowers; and so delicate and fair of face were they that they shewed liker to angels than aught else, each clad in a robe of finest linen, white as snow upon their flesh, close-fitting as might be from the waist up, but below the waist ample, like a pavilion to the feet. she that was foremost bore on her shoulders a pair of nets, which she held with her left hand, carrying in her right a long pole. her companion followed, bearing on her left shoulder a frying-pan, under her left arm a bundle of faggots, and in her left hand a tripod, while in the other hand she carried a cruse of oil and a lighted taper. at sight of whom the king marvelled, and gazed intent to learn what it might import. the two young maidens came forward with becoming modesty, and did obeisance to the king; which done they hied them to the place of ingress to the pond, and she that had the frying-pan having set it down, and afterward the other things, took the pole that the other carried, and so they both went down into the pond, being covered by its waters to their breasts. whereupon one of messer neri's servants, having forthwith lit a fire, and set the tripod on the faggots and oil therein, addressed himself to wait, until some fish should be thrown to him by the girls. who, the one searching with the pole in those parts where she knew the fish lay hid, while the other made ready the nets, did in a brief space of time, to the exceeding great delight of the king, who watched them attentively, catch fish not a few, which they tossed to the servant, who set them, before the life was well out of them, in the frying-pan. after which, the maidens, as pre-arranged, addressed them to catch some of the finest fish, and cast them on to the table before the king, and count guy, and their father. the fish wriggled about the table to the prodigious delight of the king, who in like manner took some of them, and courteously returned them to the girls; with which sport they diverted them, until the servant had cooked the fish that had been given him: which, by messer neri's command, were set before the king rather as a side-dish than as aught very rare or delicious. when the girls saw that all the fish were cooked, and that there was no occasion for them to catch any more, they came forth of the pond, their fine white garments cleaving everywhere close to their flesh so as to hide scarce any part of their delicate persons, took up again the things that they had brought, and passing modestly before the king, returned to the house. the king, and the count, and the other gentlemen that waited, had regarded the maidens with no little attention, and had, one and all, inly bestowed on them no little praise, as being fair and shapely, and therewithal sweet and debonair; but 'twas in the king's eyes that they especially found favour. indeed, as they came forth of the water, the king had scanned each part of their bodies so intently that, had one then pricked him, he would not have felt it, and his thoughts afterwards dwelling upon them, though he knew not who they were, nor how they came to be there, he felt stir within his heart a most ardent desire to pleasure them, whereby he knew very well that, if he took not care, he would grow enamoured; howbeit he knew not whether of the twain pleased him the more, so like was each to the other. having thus brooded a while, he turned to messer neri, and asked who the two damsels were. whereto:--"sire," replied messer neri, "they are my twin daughters, and they are called, the one, ginevra the fair, and the other, isotta the blonde." whereupon the king was loud in praise of them, and exhorted messer neri to bestow them in marriage. to which messer neri demurred, for that he no longer had the means. and nought of the supper now remaining to serve, save the fruit, in came the two young damsels in gowns of taffeta very fine, bearing in their hands two vast silver salvers full of divers fruits, such as the season yielded, and set them on the table before the king. which done, they withdrew a little space and fell a singing to music a ditty, of which the opening words were as follows:- love, many words would not suffice there where i am come to tell. and so dulcet and delightsome was the strain that to the king, his eyes and ears alike charmed, it seemed as if all the nine orders of angels were descended there to sing. the song ended, they knelt and respectfully craved the king's leave to depart; which, though sorely against his will, he gave them with a forced gaiety. supper ended, the king and his companions, having remounted their horses, took leave of messer neri, and conversing of divers matters, returned to the royal quarters; where the king, still harbouring his secret passion, nor, despite affairs of state that supervened, being able to forget the beauty and sweetness of ginevra the fair, for whose sake he likewise loved her twin sister, was so limed by love that he could scarce think of aught else. so, feigning other reasons, he consorted familiarly with messer neri, and did much frequent his garden, that he might see ginevra. and at length, being unable to endure his suffering any longer, and being minded, for that he could devise no other expedient, to despoil their father not only of the one but of the other damsel also, he discovered both his love and his project to count guy; who, being a good man and true, thus made answer:--"sire, your tale causes me not a little astonishment, and that more especially because of your conversation from your childhood to this very day, i have, methinks, known more than any other man. and as no such passion did i ever mark in you, even in your youth, when love should more readily have fixed you with his fangs, as now i discern, when you are already on the verge of old age, 'tis to me so strange, so surprising that you should veritably love, that i deem it little short of a miracle. and were it meet for me to reprove you, well wot i the language i should hold to you, considering that you are yet in arms in a realm but lately won, among a people as yet unknown to you, and wily and treacherous in the extreme, and that the gravest anxieties and matters of high policy engross your mind, so that you are not as yet able to sit you down, and nevertheless amid all these weighty concerns you have given harbourage to false, flattering love. this is not the wisdom of a great king, but the folly of a feather-pated boy. and moreover, what is far worse, you say that you are resolved to despoil this poor knight of his two daughters, whom, entertaining you in his house, and honouring you to the best of his power, he brought into your presence all but naked, testifying thereby, how great is his faith in you, and how assured he is that you are a king, and not a devouring wolf. have you so soon forgotten that 'twas manfred's outrageous usage of his subjects that opened you the way into this realm? what treachery was he ever guilty of that better merited eternal torment, than 'twould be in you to wrest from one that honourably entreats you at once his hope and his consolation? what would be said of you if so you should do? perchance you deem that 'twould suffice to say:--'i did it because he is a ghibelline.' is it then consistent with the justice of a king that those, be they who they may, who seek his protection, as this man has sought yours, should be entreated after this sort? king, i bid you remember that exceeding great as is your glory to have vanquished manfred, yet to conquer oneself is a still greater glory: wherefore you, to whom belongs the correction of others, see to it that you conquer yourself, and refrain this unruly passion; and let not such a blot mar the splendour of your achievements." sore stricken at heart by the count's words, and the more mortified that he acknowledged their truth, the king heaved a fervent sigh or two, and then:--"count," quoth he, "that enemy there is none, however mighty, but to the practised warrior is weak enough and easy to conquer in comparison of his own appetite, i make no doubt, but, great though the struggle will be and immeasurable the force that it demands, so shrewdly galled am i by your words, that not many days will have gone by before i shall without fail have done enough to shew you that i, that am the conqueror of others, am no less able to gain the victory over myself." and indeed but a few days thereafter, the king, on his return to naples, being minded at once to leave himself no excuse for dishonourable conduct, and to recompense the knight for his honourable entreatment of him, did, albeit 'twas hard for him to endow another with that which he had most ardently desired for himself, none the less resolve to bestow the two damsels in marriage, and that not as messer neri's daughters, but as his own. wherefore, messer neri consenting, he provided both with magnificent dowries, and gave ginevra the fair to messer maffeo da palizzi, and isotta the blonde to messer guglielmo della magna, noble knights and great barons both; which done, sad at heart beyond measure, he betook him to apulia, and by incessant travail did so mortify his vehement appetite that he snapped and broke in pieces the fetters of love, and for the rest of his days was no more vexed by such passion. perchance there will be those who say that 'tis but a trifle for a king to bestow two girls in marriage; nor shall i dispute it: but say we that a king in love bestowed in marriage her whom he loved, neither having taken nor taking, of his love, leaf or flower or fruit; then this i say was a feat great indeed, nay, as great as might be. after such a sort then did this magnificent king, at once generously rewarding the noble knight, commendably honouring the damsels that he loved, and stoutly subduing himself. novel vii. -king pedro, being apprised of the fervent love borne him by lisa, who thereof is sick, comforts her, and forthwith gives her in marriage to a young gentleman, and having kissed her on the brow, ever after professes himself her knight. -when fiammetta was come to the end of her story, and not a little praise had been accorded to the virile magnificence of king charles, albeit one there was of the ladies, who, being a ghibelline, joined not therein, pampinea, having received the king's command, thus began:--none is there of discernment, worshipful my ladies, that would say otherwise than you have said touching good king charles, unless for some other cause she bear him a grudge; however, for that there comes to my mind the, perchance no less honourable, entreatment of one of our florentine girls by one of his adversaries, i am minded to recount the same to you. what time the french were driven forth of sicily there dwelt at palermo one of our florentines, that was an apothecary, bernardo puccini by name, a man of great wealth, that by his lady had an only and exceeding fair daughter, then of marriageable age. now king pedro of arragon, being instated in the sovereignty of the island, did at palermo make with his barons marvellous celebration thereof; during which, as he tilted after the catalan fashion, it befell that bernardo's daughter, lisa by name, being with other ladies at a window, did thence espy him in the course, whereat being prodigiously delighted, she regarded him again and again, and grew fervently enamoured of him; nor yet, when the festivities were ended, and she was at home with her father, was there aught she could think of but this her exalted and aspiring love. in regard whereof that which most irked her was her sense of her low rank, which scarce permitted her any hope of a happy issue; but, for all that, give over her love for the king she would not; nor yet, for fear of worse to come, dared she discover it. the king, meanwhile, recking, witting nothing of the matter, her suffering waxed immeasurable, intolerable; and her love ever growing with ever fresh accessions of melancholy, the fair maiden, overborne at last, fell sick, and visibly day by day wasted like snow in sunlight. distraught with grief thereat, her father and mother afforded her such succour as they might with words of good cheer, and counsel of physicians, and physic; but all to no purpose; for that she in despair of her love was resolved no more to live. now her father assuring her that there was no whim of hers but should be gratified, the fancy took her that, if she might find apt means, she would, before she died, make her love and her resolve known to the king: wherefore one day she besought her father to cause minuccio d'arezzo, to come to her; which minuccio, was a singer and musician of those days, reputed most skilful, and well seen of king pedro. bernardo, deeming that lisa desired but to hear him play and sing a while, conveyed her message to him; and he, being an agreeable fellow, came to her forthwith, and after giving her some words of loving cheer, sweetly discoursed some airs upon his viol, and then sang her some songs; whereby, while he thought to comfort her, he did but add fire and flame to her love. presently the girl said that she would fain say a few words to him in private, and when all else were withdrawn from the chamber:--"minuccio," quoth she, "thee have i chosen, deeming thee most trusty, to be the keeper of my secret, relying upon thee in the first place never to betray it to a soul, and next to lend me in regard thereof such aid as thou mayst be able; and so i pray thee to do. thou must know, then, minuccio mine, that on the day when our lord king pedro held the great festival in celebration of his triumph, i, seeing him tilt, was so smitten with love of him that thereof was kindled within my soul the fire which has brought me, as thou seest, to this pass; and knowing how ill it beseems me to love a king, and being unable, i say not to banish it from my heart, but so much as to bring it within bounds, and finding it exceeding grievous to bear, i have made choice of death as the lesser pain; and die i shall. but should he wot not of my love before i die, sore disconsolate should i depart; and knowing not by whom more aptly than by thee i might give him to know this my frame, i am minded to entrust the communication thereof to thee; which office i entreat thee not to refuse, and having discharged it, to let me know, that dying thus consoled, i may depart this pain." which said, she silently wept. marvelling at the loftiness of the girl's spirit and her desperate determination, minuccio commiserated her not a little; and presently it occurred to him that there was a way in which he might honourably serve her: wherefore:--"lisa," quoth he, "my faith i plight thee, wherein thou mayst place sure confidence that i shall never play thee false, and lauding thy high emprise, to wit, the setting thine affections upon so great a king, i proffer thee mine aid, whereby, so thou wilt be of good cheer, i hope, and believe, that, before thou shalt see the third day from now go by, i shall have brought thee tidings which will be to thee for an exceeding great joy; and, not to lose time, i will set to work at once." and so lisa, assuring him that she would be of good cheer, and plying him afresh with instant obsecrations, bade him godspeed; and minuccio, having taken leave of her, hied him to one mico da siena, a very expert rhymester of those days, who at his instant request made the ensuing song:-hence hie thee, love; and hasting to my king, give him to know what torment dire i bear, how that to death i fare, still close, for fear, my passion harbouring. lo, love, to thee with clasped hands i turn, and pray thee seek him where he tarrieth, and tell him how i oft for him do yearn, so sweetly he my heart enamoureth; and of the fire, wherewith i throughly burn, i think to die, but may the hour uneath say, when my grievous pain shall with my breath surcease; till when, neither may fear nor shame the least abate the flame. ah! to his ears my woeful story bring. since of him i was first enamoured, never hast thou, o love, my fearful heart with any such fond hope encouraged, as e'er its message to him to impart, to him, my lord, that me so sore bested holds: dying thus, 'twere grievous to depart: perchance, were he to know my cruel smart, 'twould not displease him; might i but make bold my soul to him to unfold, and shew him all my woeful languishing. love, since 'twas not thy will me to accord such boldness as that e'er unto my king i may discover my sad heart's full hoard, or any word or sign thereof him bring: this all my prayer to thee, o sweet my lord: hie thee to him, and so him whispering mind of the day i saw him tourneying with all his paladins environed, and grew enamoured ev'n to my very heart's disrupturing. which words minuccio forthwith set to music after a soft and plaintive fashion befitting their sense; and on the third day thereafter hied him to court, while king pedro was yet at breakfast. and being bidden by the king to sing something to the accompaniment of his viol, he gave them this song with such sweet concord of words and music that all the folk that were in the king's hall seemed, as it were, entranced, so intent and absorbed stood they to listen, and the king rather more than the rest. and when minuccio had done singing, the king asked whence the song came, that, as far as he knew, he had never heard it before. "sire," replied minuccio, "'tis not yet three days since 'twas made, words and music alike." and being asked by the king in regard of whom 'twas made:--"i dare not," quoth he, "discover such a secret save to you alone." bent on hearing the story, the king, when the tables were cleared, took minuccio into his privy chamber; and there minuccio told him everything exactly as he had heard it from lisa's lips. whereby the king was much gratified, and lauded the maiden not a little, and said that a girl of such high spirit merited considerate treatment, and bade minuccio be his envoy to her, and comfort her, and tell her that without fail that very day at vespers he would come to visit her. overjoyed to bear the girl such gladsome tidings, minuccio tarried not, but hied him back to the girl with his viol, and being closeted with her, told her all that had passed, and then sang the song to the accompaniment of his viol. whereby the girl was so cheered and delighted that forthwith there appeared most marked and manifest signs of the amendment of her health, while with passionate longing (albeit none in the house knew or divined it) she awaited the vesper hour, when she was to see her lord. knowing the girl very well, and how fair she was, and pondering divers times on what minuccio had told him, the king, being a prince of a liberal and kindly disposition, grew ever more compassionate. so, about vespers, he mounted his horse, and rode forth, as if for mere pleasure, and being come to the apothecary's house, demanded access to a very goodly garden that the apothecary had, and having dismounted, after a while enquired of bernardo touching his daughter, and whether he had yet bestowed her in marriage. "sire," replied bernardo, "she is not yet married; and indeed she has been and still is very ill howbeit since none she is wonderfully amended." the significance of which amendment being forthwith apprehended by the king:--"in good faith," quoth he, "'twere a pity so fair a creature were reft from the world so early; we would go in and visit her." and presently, attended only by two of his lords and bernardo, he betook him to her chamber, where being entered, he drew nigh the bed, whereon the girl half reclined, half sate in eager expectation of his coming; and taking her by the hand:--"madonna," quoth he, "what means this? a maiden like you should be the comfort of others, and you suffer yourself to languish. we would entreat you that for love of us you be of good cheer, so as speedily to recover your health." to feel the touch of his hand whom she loved above all else, the girl, albeit somewhat shamefast, was so enraptured that 'twas as if she was in paradise; and as soon as she was able:--"my lord," she said, "'twas the endeavour, weak as i am, to sustain a most grievous burden that brought this sickness upon me; but 'twill not be long ere you will see me quit thereof, thanks to your courtesy." the hidden meaning of which words was apprehended only by the king, who momently made more account of the girl, and again and again inly cursed fortune, that had decreed that she should be the daughter of such a man. and yet a while he tarried with her, and comforted her, and so took his leave. which gracious behaviour of the king was not a little commended, and accounted a signal honour to the apothecary and his daughter. the girl, glad at heart as was ever lady of her lover, mended with reviving hope, and in a few days recovered her health, and therewith more than all her wonted beauty. whereupon the king, having taken counsel with the queen how to reward so great a love, got him one day to horse with a great company of his barons, and hied him to the apothecary's house; and being come into the garden, he sent for the apothecary and his daughter; and there, being joined by the queen with not a few ladies, who received the girl into their company, they made such cheer as 'twas a wonder to see. and after a while the king and queen having called lisa to them, quoth the king:--"honourable damsel, by the great love that you have borne us we are moved greatly to honour you; and we trust that, for love of us, the honour that we design for you will be acceptable to you. now 'tis thus we would honour you: to wit, that, seeing that you are of marriageable age, we would have you take for husband him that we shall give you; albeit 'tis none the less our purpose ever to call ourself your knight, demanding no other tribute of all your love but one sole kiss." scarlet from brow to neck, the girl, making the king's pleasure her own, thus with a low voice replied:--"my lord, very sure am i that, should it come to be known that i was grown enamoured of you, most folk would hold me for a fool, deeming, perchance, that i was out of my mind, and witless alike of my own rank and yours; but god, who alone reads the hearts of us mortals, knows that even then, when first i did affect you, i wist that you were the king, and i but the daughter of bernardo the apothecary, and that to suffer my passion to soar so high did ill become me; but, as you know far better than i, none loves of set and discreet purpose, but only according to the dictates of impulse and fancy; which law my forces, albeit not seldom opposed, being powerless to withstand, i loved and still love and shall ever love you. but as no sooner knew i myself subjugated to your love, than i vowed to have ever no will but yours; therefore not only am i compliant to take right gladly him whom you shall be pleased to give me for husband, thereby conferring upon me great honour and dignity; but if you should bid me tarry in the fire, delighted were i to obey, so thereby i might pleasure you. how far it beseems me to have you, my king, for my knight, you best know; and therefore i say nought thereof; nor will the kiss which you crave as your sole tribute of my love be granted you save by leave of my lady the queen. natheless, may you have of this great graciousness that you and my lady the queen have shewn me, and which i may not requite, abundant recompense in the blessing and favour of god;" and so she was silent. the queen was mightily delighted with the girl's answer, and deemed her as discreet as the king had said. the king then sent for the girl's father and mother, and being assured that his intention had their approval, summoned to his presence a young man, perdicone by name, that was of gentle birth, but in poor circumstances, and put certain rings into his hand, and (he nowise gainsaying) wedded him to lisa. which done, besides jewels many and precious that he and the queen gave the girl, he forthwith bestowed upon perdicone two domains, right goodly and of ample revenues, to wit, ceffalu and calatabellotta, saying:--"we give them to thee for thy wife's dowry; what we have in store for thee thou wilt learn hereafter." which said, he turned to the girl, and:--"now," quoth he, "we are minded to cull that fruit which is due to us of thy love;" and so, taking her head between both his hands, he kissed her brow. wherefore, great was the joy of perdicone, and the father and mother of lisa, and lisa herself, and mighty the cheer they made, and gaily did they celebrate the nuptials. and, as many affirm, right well did the king keep his promise to the girl; for that ever, while he lived, he called himself her knight, nor went to any passage of arms bearing other device than that which he had from her. now 'tis by doing after this sort that sovereigns win the hearts of their subjects, give others occasion of well-doing, and gain for themselves an imperishable renown. at which mark few or none in our times have bent the bow of their understanding, the more part of the princes having become but cruel tyrants. novel viii. -sophronia, albeit she deems herself wife to gisippus, is wife to titus quintius fulvus, and goes with him to rome, where gisippus arrives in indigence, and deeming himself scorned by titus, to compass his own death, avers that he has slain a man. titus recognizes him, and to save his life, alleges that 'twas he that slew the man: whereof he that did the deed being witness, he discovers himself as the murderer. whereby it comes to pass that they are all three liberated by octavianus; and titus gives gisippus his sister to wife, and shares with him all his substance. -so ceased pampinea; and when all the ladies, and most of all the ghibelline, had commended king pedro, filomena by command of the king thus began:--magnificent my ladies, who wots not that there is nought so great but kings, when they have a mind, may accomplish it? as also that 'tis of them that magnificence is most especially demanded? now whoso, being powerful, does that which it appertains to him to do, does well; but therein is no such matter of marvel, or occasion of extolling him to the skies, as in his deed, of whom, for that his power is slight, less is demanded. wherefore, as you are so profuse of your words in exaltation of the fine deeds, as you deem them, of monarchs, i make no manner of doubt, but that the doings of our peers must seem to you yet more delectable and commendable, when they equal or surpass those of kings. accordingly 'tis a transaction, laudable and magnificent, that passed between two citizens, who were friends, that i purpose to recount to you in my story. i say, then, that what time octavianus caesar, not as yet hight augustus, but being in the office called triumvirate, swayed the empire of rome, there dwelt at rome a gentleman, publius quintius fulvus by name, who, having a son, titus quintius fulvus, that was a very prodigy of wit, sent him to athens to study philosophy, and to the best of his power commended him to a nobleman of that city, chremes by name, who was his very old friend. chremes lodged titus in his own house with his son gisippus, and placed both titus and gisippus under a philosopher named aristippus, to learn of him his doctrine. and the two youths, thus keeping together, found each the other's conversation so congruous with his own, that there grew up between them a friendship so close and brotherly that 'twas never broken by aught but death; nor knew either rest or solace save when he was with the other. so, gifted alike with pre-eminent subtlety of wit, they entered on their studies, and with even pace and prodigious applause scaled together the glorious heights of philosophy. in which way of life, to the exceeding great delight of chremes, who entreated titus as no less his son than gisippus, they continued for full three years. at the end whereof, it befell (after the common course of things mundane) that chremes (being now aged) departed this life. whom with equal grief they mourned as a common father; and the friends and kinsfolk of chremes were alike at a loss to determine whether of the twain stood in need of the more consolation upon the bereavement. some months afterward the friends and kinsfolk of gisippus came to him and exhorted him, as did also titus, to take a wife, and found him a maiden, wondrous fair, of one of the most noble houses of athens, her name sophronia, and her age about fifteen years. so a time was appointed for their nuptials, and one day, when 'twas near at hand, gisippus bade titus come see the maiden, whom as yet he had not seen; and they being come into her house, and she sitting betwixt them, titus, as he were fain to observe with care the several charms of his friend's wife that was to be, surveyed her with the closest attention, and being delighted beyond measure with all that he saw, grew, as inly he extolled her charms to the skies, enamoured of her with a love as ardent, albeit he gave no sign of it, as ever lover bore to lady. however, after they had tarried a while with her, they took their leave, and went home, where titus repaired to his chamber, and there gave himself over to solitary musing on the damsel's charms, and the longer he brooded, the more he burned for her. whereon as he reflected, having heaved many a fervent sigh, thus he began to commune with himself:--ah! woe worth thy life, titus! whom makest thou the mistress of thy soul, thy love, thy hope? knowest thou not that by reason as well of thy honourable entreatment by chremes and his kin as of the wholehearted friendship that is between thee and gisippus, it behoves thee to have his betrothed in even such pious regard as if she were thy sister? whither art thou suffering beguiling love, delusive hope, to hurry thee? open the eyes of thine understanding, and see thyself, wretched man, as thou art; obey the dictates of thy reason, refrain thy carnal appetite, control thine inordinate desires, and give thy thoughts another bent; join battle with thy lust at the outset, and conquer thyself while there is yet time. this which thou wouldst have is not meet, is not seemly: this which thou art minded to ensue, thou wouldst rather, though thou wert, as thou art not, sure of its attainment, eschew, hadst thou but the respect thou shouldst have, for the claims of true friendship. so, then, titus, what wilt thou do? what but abandon this unseemly love, if thou wouldst do as it behoves thee? but then, as he remembered sophronia, his thoughts took the contrary direction, and he recanted all he had said, musing on this wise:--the laws of love are of force above all others; they abrogate not only the law of human friendship, but the law divine itself. how many times ere now has father loved daughter, brother sister, step-mother step-son? aberrations far more notable than that a friend should love his friend's wife, which has happened a thousand times. besides which, i am young, and youth is altogether subject to the laws of love. love's pleasure, then, should be mine. the seemly is for folk of riper years. 'tis not in my power to will aught save that which love wills. so beauteous is this damsel that there is none but should love her; and if i love her, who am young, who can justly censure me? i love her not because she is the affianced of gisippus; no matter whose she was, i should love her all the same. herein is fortune to blame, that gave her to my friend, gisippus, rather than to another. and if she is worthy of love, as for beauty she is, gisippus, if he should come to know that i love her, ought to be less jealous than another. then, scorning himself that he should indulge such thoughts, he relapsed into the opposing mood, albeit not to abide there, but ever veering to and fro, he spent not only the whole of that day and the ensuing night, but many others; insomuch that, being able neither to eat nor to sleep, he grew so weak that he was fain to take to his bed. gisippus, who had marked his moodiness for some days, and now saw that he was fairly sick, was much distressed; and with sedulous care, never quitting his side, he tended, and strove as best he might to comfort, him, not seldom and most earnestly demanding to know of him the cause of his melancholy and his sickness. many were the subterfuges to which titus resorted; but, as gisippus was not to be put off with his fables, finding himself hard pressed by him, with sighs and sobs he made answer on this wise:--"gisippus, had such been the will of the gods, i were fain rather to die than to live, seeing that fortune has brought me to a strait in which needs must my virtue be put to the ordeal, and, to my most grievous shame, 'tis found wanting: whereof i confidently expect my due reward, to wit, death, which will be more welcome to me than to live, haunted ever by the memory of my baseness, which, as there is nought that from thee i either should or can conceal, i, not without burning shame, will discover to thee." and so he recounted the whole story from first to last, the occasion of his melancholy, its several moods, their conflict, and with which of them the victory rested, averring that he was dying of love for sophronia, and that, knowing how ill such love beseemed him, he had, for penance, elected to die, and deemed the end was now not far off. gisippus, hearing his words and seeing his tears, for a while knew not what to say, being himself smitten with the damsel's charms, albeit in a less degree than titus; but ere long he made up his mind that sophronia must be less dear to him than his friend's life. and so, moved to tears by his friend's tears:--"titus," quoth he between his sobs, "but that thou art in need of comfort, i should reproach thee, that thou hast offended against our friendship in that thou hast so long kept close from me this most distressful passion; and albeit thou didst deem it unseemly, yet unseemly things should no more than things seemly be withheld from a friend, for that, as a friend rejoices with his friend in things seemly, so he does his endeavour to wean his friend from things unseemly: but enough of this for the nonce: i pass to that which, i wot, is of greater moment. if thou ardently lovest sophronia, my affianced, so far from marvelling thereat, i should greatly marvel were it not so, knowing how fair she is, and how noble is thy soul, and thus the apter to be swayed by passion, the more excelling is she by whom thou art charmed. and the juster the cause thou hast to love sophronia, the greater is the injustice with which thou complainest of fortune (albeit thou dost it not in so many words) for giving her to me, as if thy love of her had been seemly, had she belonged to any other but me; whereas, if thou art still the wise man thou wast wont to be, thou must know that to none could fortune have assigned her, with such good cause for thee to thank her, as to me. had any other had her, albeit thy love had been seemly, he had loved her as his own, rather than as thine; which, if thou deem me even such a friend to thee as i am, thou wilt not apprehend from me, seeing that i mind me not that, since we were friends, i had ever aught that was not as much thine as mine. and so should i entreat thee herein as in all other matters, were the affair gone so far that nought else were possible; but as it is, i can make thee sole possessor of her; and so i mean to do; for i know not what cause thou shouldst have to prize my friendship, if, where in seemly sort it might be done, i knew not how to surrender my will to thine. 'tis true that sophronia is my betrothed, and that i loved her much, and had great cheer in expectation of the nuptials: but as thou, being much more discerning than i, dost more fervently affect this rare prize, rest assured that she will enter my chamber not mine but thine. wherefore, away with thy moodiness, banish thy melancholy, recover thy lost health, thy heartiness and jollity, and gladsomely, even from this very hour, anticipate the guerdon of thy love, a love worthier far than mine." delightful as was the prospect with which hope flattered titus, as he heard gisippus thus speak, no less was the shame with which right reason affected him, admonishing him that the greater was the liberality of gisippus, the less it would become him to profit thereby. wherefore, still weeping, he thus constrained himself to make answer:--"gisippus, thy generous and true friendship leaves me in no doubt as to the manner in which it becomes me to act. god forefend that her, whom, as to the more worthy, he has given to thee, i should ever accept of thee for mine. had he seen fit that she should be mine, far be it from thee or any other to suppose that he would ever have awarded her to thee. renounce not, then, that which thy choice and wise counsel and his gift have made thine, and leave me, to whom, as unworthy, he has appointed no such happiness, to waste my life in tears; for either i shall conquer my grief, which will be grateful to thee, or it will conquer me, and so i shall be quit of my pain." quoth then gisippus:--"if our friendship, titus, is of such a sort as may entitle me to enforce thee to ensue behests of mine, or as may induce thee of thine own free will to ensue the same, such is the use to which, most of all, i am minded to put it; and if thou lend not considerate ear unto my prayers, i shall by force, that force which is lawful in the interest of a friend, make sophronia thine. i know the might of love, how redoubtable it is, and how, not once only, but oftentimes, it has brought ill-starred lovers to a miserable death; and thee i see so hard bested that turn back thou mightst not, nor get the better of thy grief, but holding on thy course, must succumb, and perish, and without doubt i should speedily follow thee. and so, had i no other cause to love thee, thy life is precious to me in that my own is bound up with it. sophronia, then, shall be thine; for thou wouldst not lightly find another so much to thy mind, and i shall readily find another to love, and so shall content both thee and me. in which matter, peradventure, i might not be so liberal, were wives so scarce or hard to find as are friends; wherefore, as 'tis so easy a matter for me to find another wife, i had liefer--i say not lose her, for in giving her to thee lose her i shall not, but only transfer her to one that is my alter ego, and that to her advantage--i had liefer, i say, transfer her to thee than lose thee. and so, if aught my prayers avail with thee, i entreat thee extricate thyself from this thy woeful plight, and comfort at once thyself and me, and in good hope, address thyself to pluck that boon which thy fervent love craves of her for whom thou yearnest." still scrupling, for shame, to consent that sophronia should become his wife, titus remained yet a while inexorable; but, yielding at last to the solicitations of love, reinforced by the exhortations of gisippus, thus he made answer:--"lo now, gisippus, i know not how to call it, whether 'tis more thy pleasure than mine, this which i do, seeing that 'tis as thy pleasure that thou so earnestly entreatest me to do it; but, as thy liberality is such that my shame, though becoming, may not withstand it, i will even do it. but of this rest assured, that i do so, witting well that i receive from thee, not only the lady i love, but with her my very life. and, fate permitting, may the gods grant me to make thee such honourable and goodly requital as may shew thee how sensible i am of the boon, which thou, more compassionate of me than i am of myself, conferrest on me." quoth then gisippus:--"now, for the giving effect to our purpose, methinks, titus, we should proceed on this wise. thou knowest that sophronia, by treaty at length concluded between my family and hers, is become my betrothed: were i now to say that she should not be my wife, great indeed were the scandal that would come thereof, and i should affront both her family and mine own; whereof, indeed, i should make no account, so it gave me to see her become thine; but i fear that, were i to give her up at this juncture, her family would forthwith bestow her upon another, perchance, than thee, and so we should both be losers. wherefore methinks that, so thou approve, i were best to complete what i have begun, bring her home as my wife, and celebrate the nuptials, and thereafter we can arrange that thou lie with her, privily, as thy wife. then, time and occasion serving, we will disclose the whole affair, and if they are satisfied, well and good; if not, 'twill be done all the same, and as it cannot be undone, they must perforce make the best of it." which counsel being approved by titus, gisippus brought the lady home as his wife, titus being now recovered, and quite himself again; and when they had made great cheer, and night was come, the ladies, having bedded the bride, took their departure. now the chambers of titus and gisippus were contiguous, and one might pass from one into the other: gisippus, therefore, being come into his room, extinguished every ray of light, and stole into that of titus, and bade him go get him to bed with his lady. whereat titus gave way to shame, and would have changed his mind, and refused to go in; but gisippus, no less zealous at heart than in words to serve his friend, after no small contention prevailed on him to go thither. now no sooner was titus abed with the lady, than, taking her in his arms, he, as if jestingly, asked in a low tone whether she were minded to be his wife. she, taking him to be gisippus, answered, yes; whereupon he set a fair and costly ring on her finger, saying:--"and i am minded to be thy husband." and having presently consummated the marriage, he long and amorously disported him with her, neither she, nor any other, being ever aware that another than gisippus lay with her. now titus and sophronia being after this sort wedded, publius, the father of titus, departed this life. for which cause titus was bidden by letter to return forthwith to rome to see to his affairs; wherefore he took counsel with gisippus how he might take sophronia thither with him; which might not well be done without giving her to know how matters stood. whereof, accordingly, one day, having called her into the chamber, they fully apprised her, titus for her better assurance bringing to her recollection not a little of what had passed between them. whereat she, after glancing from one to the other somewhat disdainfully, burst into a flood of tears, and reproached gisippus that he had so deluded her; and forthwith, saying nought of the matter to any there, she hied her forth of gisippus' house and home to her father, to whom and her mother she recounted the deceit which gisippus had practised upon them as upon her, averring that she was the wife not of gisippus, as they supposed, but of titus. whereby her father was aggrieved exceedingly, and prolonged and grave complaint was made thereof by him and his own and gisippus' families, and there was not a little parleying, and a world of pother. gisippus earned the hatred of both his own and sophronia's kin, and all agreed that he merited not only censure but severe punishment. he, however, averred that he had done a thing seemly, and that sophronia's kinsfolk owed him thanks for giving her in marriage to one better than himself. all which titus witnessed with great suffering, and witting that 'twas the way of the greeks to launch forth in high words and menaces, and refrain not until they should meet with one that answered them, whereupon they were wont to grow not only humble but even abject, was at length minded that their clavers should no longer pass unanswered; and, as with his roman temper he united athenian subtlety, he cleverly contrived to bring the kinsfolk, as well of gisippus as of sophronia, together in a temple, where, being entered, attended only by gisippus, thus (they being intent to hear) he harangued them:--"'tis the opinion of not a few philosophers that whatsoever mortals do is ordained by the providence of the immortal gods; for which cause some would have it that nought either is, or ever shall be, done, save of necessity, albeit others there are that restrict this necessity to that which is already done. regard we but these opinions with some little attention, and we shall very plainly perceive that to censure that which cannot be undone is nought else but to be minded to shew oneself wiser than the gods; by whom we must suppose that we and our affairs are swayed and governed with uniform and unerring wisdom. whereby you may very readily understand how vain and foolish a presumption it is to pass judgment on their doings, and what manner and might of chains they need who suffer themselves to be transported to such excess of daring. among whom, in my judgment, you must one and all be numbered, if 'tis true, what i hear, to wit, that you have complained and do continue to complain that sophronia, albeit you gave her to gisippus, is, nevertheless, become my wife; not considering that 'twas ordained from all eternity that she should become, not the wife of gisippus, but mine, as the fact does now declare. "but, for that discourse of the secret providence and purposes of the gods seems to many a matter hard and scarce to be understood, i am willing to assume that they meddle in no wise with our concerns, and to descend to the region of human counsels; in speaking whereof i must needs do two things quite at variance with my wont, to wit, in some degree praise myself and censure or vilify another. but, as in either case i mean not to deviate from the truth, and 'tis what the occasion demands, i shall not fail so to do. with bitter upbraidings, animated rather by rage than by reason, you cease not to murmur, nay, to cry out, against gisippus, and to harass him with your abuse, and hold him condemned, for that her, whom you saw fit to give him, he has seen fit to give me, to wife; wherein i deem him worthy of the highest commendation, and that for two reasons, first, because he has done the office of a friend, and secondly, because he has done more wisely than you did. after what sort the sacred laws of friendship prescribe that friend shall entreat friend, 'tis not to my present purpose to declare; 'twill suffice to remind you that the tie of friendship should be more binding than that of blood, or kinship; seeing that our friends are of our own choosing, whereas our kinsfolk are appointed us by fortune; wherefore, if my life was more to gisippus than your goodwill, since i am, as i hold myself, his friend, can any wonder thereat? "but pass we to my second reason; in the exposition whereof i must needs with yet more cogency prove to you that he has been wiser than you, seeing that, methinks, you wot nought of the providence of the gods, and still less of the consequences of friendship. i say then, that, as 'twas your premeditated and deliberate choice that gave sophronia to this young philosopher gisippus, so 'twas his that gave her to another young philosopher. 'twas your counsel that gave her to an athenian; 'twas his that gave her to a roman: 'twas your counsel that gave her to a man of gentle birth; 'twas his that gave her to one of birth yet gentler: wealthy was he to whom your counsel gave her, most wealthy he to whom his counsel gave her. not only did he to whom your counsel gave her, love her not, but he scarce knew her, whereas 'twas to one that loved her beyond all other blessings, nay, more dearly than his own life, that his counsel gave her. and to the end that it may appear more plainly that 'tis even as i say, and gisippus' counsel more to be commended than yours, let us examine it point by point. that i, like gisippus, am young and a philosopher, my countenance and my pursuits may, without making more words about the matter, sufficiently attest. we are also of the same age, and have ever kept pace together in our studies. now true it is that he is an athenian, and i am a roman. but, as touching the comparative glory of the cities, should the matter be mooted, i say that i am of a free city, and he of a city tributary; that i am of a city that is mistress of all the world, and he of one that is subject to mine; that i am of a city that flourishes mightily in arms, in empire, and in arts; whereas he cannot boast his city as famous save in arts. "moreover, albeit you see me here in the guise of a most humble scholar, i am not born of the dregs of the populace of rome. my halls and the public places of rome are full of the antique effigies of my forefathers, and the annals of rome abound with the records of triumphs led by the quintii to the roman capitol; and so far from age having withered it, to-day, yet more abundantly than ever of yore, flourishes the glory of our name. of my wealth i forbear, for shame, to speak, being mindful that honest poverty is the time-honoured and richest inheritance of the noble citizens of rome; but, allowing for the nonce the opinion of the vulgar, which holds poverty in disrepute, and highly appraises wealth, i, albeit i never sought it, yet, as the favoured of fortune, have abundant store thereof. now well i wot that, gisippus being of your own city, you justly prized and prize an alliance with him; but not a whit less should you prize an alliance with me at rome, considering that there you will have in me an excellent host, and a patron apt, zealous and potent to serve you as well in matters of public interest as in your private concerns. who, then, dismissing all bias from his mind, and judging with impartial reason, would deem your counsel more commendable than that of gisippus? assuredly none. sophronia, then, being married to titus quintius fulvus, a citizen of rome, of an ancient and illustrious house, and wealthy, and a friend of gisippus, whoso takes umbrage or offence thereat, does that which it behoves him not to do, and knows not what he does. "perchance some will say that their complaint is not that sophronia is the wife of titus, but that she became his wife after such a sort, to wit, privily, by theft, neither friend nor any of her kin witting aught thereof; but herein is no matter of marvel, no prodigy as yet unheard-of. i need not instance those who before now have taken to them husbands in defiance of their fathers' will, or have eloped with their lovers and been their mistresses before they were their wives, or of whose marriages no word has been spoken, until their pregnancy or parturition published them to the world, and necessity sanctioned the fact: nought of this has happened in the case of sophronia; on the contrary, 'twas in proper form, and in meet and seemly sort, that gisippus gave her to titus. and others, peradventure, will say that 'twas by one to whom such office belonged not that she was bestowed in marriage. nay, but this is but vain and womanish querulousness, and comes of scant consideration. know we not, then, that fortune varies according to circumstances her methods and her means of disposing events to their predetermined ends? what matters it to me, if it be a cobbler, rather than a philosopher, that fortune has ordained to compass something for me, whether privily or overtly, so only the result is as it should be? i ought, indeed, to take order, if the cobbler be indiscreet, that he meddle no more in affairs of mine, but, at the same time, i ought to thank him for what he has done. if gisippus has duly bestowed sophronia in marriage, it is gratuitous folly to find fault with the manner and the person. if you mistrust his judgment, have a care that it be not in his power to do the like again, but thank him for this turn. "natheless, you are to know that i used no cunning practice or deceit to sully in any degree the fair fame of your house in the person of sophronia; and, albeit i took her privily to wife, i came not as a ravisher to despoil her of her virginity, nor in any hostile sort was i minded to make her mine on dishonourable terms, and spurn your alliance; but, being fervently enamoured of her bewitching beauty and her noble qualities, i wist well that, should i make suit for her with those formalities which you, perchance, will say were due, then, for the great love you bear her, and for fear lest i should take her away with me to rome, i might not hope to have her. accordingly i made use of the secret practice which is now manifest to you, and brought gisippus to consent in my interest to that whereto he was averse; and thereafter, ardently though i loved her, i sought not to commingle with her as a lover, but as a husband, nor closed with her, until, as she herself by her true witness may assure you, i had with apt words and with the ring made her my lawful wife, asking her if she would have me to husband, whereto she answered, yes. wherein if she seem to have been tricked, 'tis not i that am to blame, but she, for that she asked me not who i was. "this, then, is the great wrong, sin, crime, whereof for love and friendship's sake gisippus and i are guilty, that sophronia is privily become the wife of titus quintius: 'tis for this that you harass him with your menaces and hostile machinations. what more would you do, had he given her to a villein, to a caitiff, to a slave? where would you find fetters, dungeons, crosses adequate to your vengeance? but enough of this at present: an event, which i did not expect, has now happened; my father is dead; and i must needs return to rome; wherefore, being fain to take sophronia with me, i have discovered to you that which otherwise i had, perchance, still kept close. whereto, if you are wise, you will gladly reconcile yourselves; for that, if i had been minded to play you false, or put an affront upon you, i might have scornfully abandoned her to you; but god forefend that such baseness be ever harboured in a roman breast. sophronia, then, by the will of the gods, by force of law, and by my own love-taught astuteness, is mine. the which it would seem that you, deeming yourselves, peradventure, wiser than the gods, or the rest of mankind, do foolishly set at nought, and that in two ways alike most offensive to me; inasmuch as you both withhold from me sophronia, in whom right, as against me, you have none, and also entreat as your enemy gisippus, to whom you are rightfully bounden. the folly whereof i purpose not at present fully to expound to you, but in friendly sort to counsel you to abate your wrath and abandon all your schemes of vengeance, and restore sophronia to me, that i may part from you on terms of amity and alliance, and so abide: but of this rest assured, that whether this, which is done, like you or not, if you are minded to contravene it, i shall take gisippus hence with me, and once arrived in rome, shall in your despite find means to recover her who is lawfully mine, and pursuing you with unremitting enmity, will apprise you by experience of the full measure and effect of a roman's wrath." having so said, titus started to his feet, his countenance distorted by anger, and took gisippus by the hand, and with manifest contempt for all the rest, shaking his head at them and threatening them, led him out of the temple. they that remained in the temple, being partly persuaded by his arguments to accept his alliance and friendship, partly terrified by his last words, resolved by common consent that 'twas better to have the alliance of titus, as they had lost that of gisippus, than to add to that loss the enmity of titus. wherefore they followed titus, and having come up with him, told him that they were well pleased that sophronia should be his, and that they should prize his alliance and the friendship of dear gisippus; and having ratified this treaty of amity and alliance with mutual cheer, they departed and sent sophronia to titus. sophronia, discreetly making a virtue of necessity, transferred forthwith to titus the love she had borne gisippus, and being come with titus to rome, was there received with no small honour. gisippus tarried in athens, held in little account by well-nigh all the citizens, and being involved in certain of their broils, was, not long afterwards, with all his household, banished the city, poor, nay, destitute, and condemned to perpetual exile. thus hard bested, and at length reduced to mendicancy, he made his way, so as least discomfortably he might, to rome, being minded to see whether titus would remember him: and there, learning that titus lived, and was much affected by all the romans, and having found out his house, he took his stand in front of it, and watched until titus came by; to whom, for shame of the sorry trim that he was in, he ventured no word, but did his endeavour that he might be seen of him, hoping that titus might recognize him, and call him by his name: but titus passing on, gisippus deeming that he had seen and avoided him, and calling to mind that which aforetime he had done for him, went away wroth and desperate. and fasting and penniless, and--for 'twas now night--knowing not whither he went, and yearning above all for death, he wandered by chance to a spot, which, albeit 'twas within the city, had much of the aspect of a wilderness, and espying a spacious grotto, he took shelter there for the night; and worn out at last with grief, on the bare ground, wretchedly clad as he was, he fell asleep. now two men that had that night gone out a thieving, having committed the theft, came towards morning to the grotto, and there quarrelled, and the stronger slew the other, and took himself off. aroused by the noise, gisippus witnessed the murder, and deeming that he had now the means of compassing, without suicide, the death for which he so much longed, budged not a jot, but stayed there, until the serjeants of the court, which had already got wind of the affair, came on the scene, and laid violent hands upon him, and led him away. being examined, he confessed that he had slain the man, and had then been unable to make his escape from the grotto. wherefore the praetor, marcus varro by name, sentenced him to death by crucifixion, as was then the custom. but titus, who happened at that moment to come into the praetorium, being told the crime for which he was condemned, and scanning the poor wretch's face, presently recognized him for gisippus, and marvelled how he should come to be there, and in such a woeful plight. and most ardently desiring to succour him, nor seeing other way to save his life except to exonerate him by accusing himself, he straightway stepped forward, and said with a loud voice:--"marcus varro, call back the poor man on whom thou hast passed sentence, for he is innocent. 'tis enough that i have incurred the wrath of the gods by one deed of violence, to wit, the murder of him whom your serjeants found dead this morning, without aggravating my offence by the death of another innocent man." perplexed, and vexed that he should have been heard by all in the praetorium, but unable honourably to avoid compliance with that which the laws enjoined, varro had gisippus brought back, and in presence of titus said to him:--"how camest thou to be so mad as, though no constraint was put upon thee, to confess a deed thou never didst, thy life being at stake? thou saidst that 'twas thou by whom the man was slain last night, and now comes this other, and says that 'twas not thou but he that slew him." gisippus looked, and seeing titus, wist well that, being grateful for the service rendered by him in the past, titus was now minded to save his life at the cost of his own: wherefore, affected to tears, he said:--"nay but, varro, in very sooth i slew him, and 'tis now too late, this tender solicitude of titus for my deliverance." but on his part:--"praetor," quoth titus, "thou seest this man is a stranger, and was found unarmed beside the murdered man; thou canst not doubt that he was fain of death for very wretchedness: wherefore discharge him, and let punishment light on me who have merited it." marvelling at the importunity of both, varro readily surmised that neither was guilty. and while he was casting about how he might acquit them, lo, in came a young man, one publius ambustus, a desperate character, and known to all the romans for an arrant thief. he it was that had verily committed the murder, and witting both the men to be innocent of that of which each accused himself, so sore at heart was he by reason of their innocence, that, overborne by an exceeding great compassion, he presented himself before varro, and:--"praetor," quoth he, "'tis destiny draws me hither to loose the knot of these men's contention; and some god within me leaves me no peace of his whips and stings, until i discover my offence: wherefore know that neither of these men is guilty of that of which each accuses himself. 'tis verily i that slew the man this morning about daybreak; and before i slew him, while i was sharing our plunder with him, i espied this poor fellow asleep there. nought need i say to clear titus: the general bruit of his illustrious renown attests that he is not a man of such a sort. discharge him, therefore, and exact from me the penalty prescribed by the laws." the affair had by this time come to the ears of octavianus, who caused all three to be brought before him, and demanded to know the causes by which they had been severally moved to accuse themselves; and, each having told his story, octavianus released the two by reason of their innocence, and the third for love of them. titus took gisippus home, having first chidden him not a little for his faint-heartedness and diffidence, and there, sophronia receiving him as a brother, did him marvellous cheer; and having comforted him a while, and arrayed him in apparel befitting his worth and birth, he first shared with him all his substance, and then gave him his sister, a young damsel named fulvia, to wife, and said to him:--"choose now, gisippus, whether thou wilt tarry here with me, or go back to achaia with all that i have given thee." partly perforce of his banishment from his city, partly for that the sweet friendship of titus was justly dear to him, gisippus consented to become a roman. and so, long and happily they lived together at rome, gisippus with his fulvia, and titus with his sophronia, in the same house, growing, if possible, greater friends day by day. exceeding sacred then, is friendship, and worthy not only to be had in veneration, but to be extolled with never-ending praise, as the most dutiful mother of magnificence and seemliness, sister of gratitude and charity, and foe to enmity and avarice; ever, without waiting to be asked, ready to do as generously by another as she would be done by herself. rarely indeed is it to-day that twain are found, in whom her most holy fruits are manifest; for which is most shamefully answerable the covetousness of mankind, which, regarding only private interest, has banished friendship beyond earth's farthest bourne, there to abide in perpetual exile. how should love, or wealth, or kinship, how should aught but friendship have so quickened the soul of gisippus that the tears and sighs of titus should incline his heart to cede to him the fair and gracious lady that was his betrothed and his beloved? laws, menaces, terror! how should these, how should aught but friendship, have withheld gisippus, in lonely places, in hidden retreats, in his own bed, from enfolding (not perchance unsolicited by her) the fair damsel within his youthful embrace? honours, rewards, gains! would gisippus for these, would he for aught but friendship, have made nothing of the loss of kindred--his own and sophronia's--have made nothing of the injurious murmurs of the populace, have made nothing of mocks and scorns, so only he might content his friend? and on the other hand, for what other cause than friendship had titus, when he might decently have feigned not to see, have striven with the utmost zeal to compass his own death, and set himself upon the cross in gisippus' stead? and what but friendship had left no place for suspicion in the soul of titus, and filled it with a most fervent desire to give his sister to gisippus, albeit he saw him to be reduced to extreme penury and destitution? but so it is that men covet hosts of acquaintance, troops of kinsfolk, offspring in plenty; and the number of their dependants increases with their wealth; and they reflect not that there is none of these, be he who he may, but will be more apprehensive of the least peril threatening himself than cumbered to avert a great peril from his lord or kinsman, whereas between friends we know 'tis quite contrariwise. novel ix. -saladin, in guise of a merchant, is honourably entreated by messer torello. the crusade ensuing, messer torello appoints a date, after which his wife may marry again: he is taken prisoner, and by training hawks comes under the soldan's notice. the soldan recognizes him, makes himself known to him, and entreats him with all honour. messer torello falls sick, and by magic arts is transported in a single night to pavia, where his wife's second marriage is then to be solemnized, and being present thereat, is recognized by her, and returns with her to his house. -so ended filomena her story, and when all alike had commended the magnificence shewn by titus in his gratitude, the king, reserving the last place for dioneo, thus began:--lovesome my ladies, true beyond all question is what filomena reports of friendship, and with justice did she deplore in her closing words the little account in which 'tis held to-day among mortals. and were we here for the purpose of correcting, or even of censuring, the vices of the age, i should add a copious sequel to her discourse; but as we have another end in view, it has occurred to me to set before you in a narrative, which will be of considerable length, but entertaining throughout, an instance of saladin's magnificence, to the end that, albeit, by reason of our vices, it may not be possible for us to gain to the full the friendship of any, yet by the matters whereof you shall hear in my story we may at least be incited to take delight in doing good offices, in the hope that sooner or later we may come by our reward thereof. i say, then, that in the time of the emperor frederic i., as certain writers affirm, the christians made common emprise for the recovery of the holy land. whereof that most valiant prince, saladin, then soldan of babylonia, being in good time apprised, resolved to see for himself the preparations made by the christian potentates for the said emprise, that he might put himself in better trim to meet them. so, having ordered all things to his mind in egypt, he made as if he were bound on a pilgrimage, and attended only by two of his chiefest and sagest lords, and three servants, took the road in the guise of a merchant. and having surveyed many provinces of christendom, as they rode through lombardy with intent to cross the alps, they chanced, between milan and pavia, to fall in with a gentleman, one messer torello d'istria da pavia, who with his servants and his dogs and falcons was betaking him to a fine estate that he had on the ticino, there to tarry a while. now messer torello no sooner espied saladin and his lords than he guessed them to be gentlemen and foreigners; and, being zealous to do them honour, when saladin asked one of his servants how far off pavia might still be, and if he might win there in time to enter the town, he suffered not the servant to make answer, but:--"no, gentlemen," quoth he, "by the time you reach pavia 'twill be too late for you to enter." "so!" replied saladin, "then might you be pleased to direct us, as we are strangers, where we may best be lodged?" "that gladly will i," returned messer torello. "i was but now thinking to send one of these my men on an errand to pavia; i will send him with you, and he will guide you to a place where you will find very comfortable quarters." then, turning to one of his most trusty servants, he gave him his instructions, and despatched him with them: after which, he repaired to his estate, and forthwith, as best he might, caused a goodly supper to be made ready, and the tables set in his garden; which done, he stationed himself at the gate on the look-out for his guests. the servant, conversing with the gentlemen of divers matters, brought them by devious roads to his lord's estate without their being ware of it. whom as soon as messer torello espied, he came forth afoot to meet them, and said with a smile:--"a hearty welcome to you, gentlemen." now saladin, being very quick of apprehension, perceived that the knight had doubted, when he met them, that, were he to bid them to his house, they might not accept his hospitality; and accordingly, that it might not be in their power to decline it, had brought them to his house by a ruse. and so, returning his greeting:--"sir," quoth he, "were it meet to find fault with those that shew courtesy, we should have a grievance against you, for that, to say nought of somewhat delaying our journey, you have in guerdon of a single greeting constrained us to accept so noble a courtesy as yours." whereto the knight, who was of good understanding and well-spoken, made answer:--"gentlemen, such courtesy as we shew you will, in comparison of that which, by what i gather from your aspect, were meet for you, prove but a sorry thing; but in sooth this side of pavia you might not anywhere have been well lodged; wherefore take it not amiss that you have come somewhat out of your way to find less discomfortable quarters." and as he spoke, about them flocked the servants, who, having helped them to dismount, saw to their horses; whereupon messer torello conducted them to the chambers that were made ready for them, where, having caused them to be relieved of their boots, and refreshed with the coolest of wines, he held pleasant converse with them until supper-time. saladin and his lords and servants all knew latin, so that they both understood and made themselves understood very well, and there was none of them but adjudged this knight to be the most agreeable and debonair man, and therewithal the best talker, that he had ever seen; while to messer torello, on the other hand, they shewed as far greater magnificoes than he had at first supposed, whereby he was inly vexed that he had not been able that evening to do them the honours of company, and a more ceremonious banquet. for which default he resolved to make amends on the ensuing morning: wherefore, having imparted to one of his servants that which he would have done, he sent him to his most judicious and highminded lady at pavia, which was close by, and where never a gate was locked. which done, he brought the gentlemen into the garden, and courteously asked them who they were. "we are cypriote merchants," replied saladin, "and 'tis from cyprus we come, and we are on our way to paris on business." quoth then messer torello:--"would to god that our country bred gentlemen of such a quality as are the merchants that i see cyprus breeds!" from which they passed to discourse of other matters, until, supper-time being come, he besought them to seat them at table; whereat, considering that the supper was but improvised, their entertainment was excellent and well-ordered. the tables being cleared, messer torello, surmising that they must be weary, kept them no long time from their rest, but bestowed them in most comfortable beds, and soon after went to rest himself. meanwhile the servant that he had sent to pavia did his lord's errand to the lady, who, in the style rather of a queen than of a housewife, forthwith assembled not a few of messer torello's friends and vassals, and caused all meet preparation to be made for a magnificent banquet, and by messengers bearing torches bade not a few of the noblest of the citizens thereto; and had store of silken and other fabrics and vair brought in, and all set in order in every point as her husband had directed. day came, and the gentlemen being risen, messer torello got him to horse with them, and having sent for his hawks, brought them to a ford, and shewed them how the hawks flew. by and by, saladin requesting of him a guide to the best inn at pavia:--"i myself will be your guide," returned messer torello, "for i have occasion to go thither." which offer they, nothing doubting, did gladly accept, and so with him they set forth; and about tierce, being come to the city, and expecting to be directed to the best inn, they were brought by messer torello, to his own house, where they were forthwith surrounded by full fifty of the greatest folk of the city, gathered there to give the gentlemen a welcome; and 'twas who should hold a bridle or a stirrup, while they dismounted. whereby saladin and his lords more than guessing the truth:--"messer torello," quoth they, "'twas not this that we craved of you. honour enough had we from you last night, and far in excess of our desires; wherefore thou mightst very well have left us to go our own road." whereto:--"gentlemen," replied messer torello, "for that which was done yestereve i have to thank fortune rather than you: seeing that fortune surprised you on the road at an hour when you must needs repair to my little house: for that which shall be done this morning i shall be beholden to you, as will also these gentlemen that surround you, with whom, if you deem it courteous so to do, you may refuse to breakfast, if you like." fairly conquered, saladin and his lords dismounted, and heartily welcomed by the gentlemen, were conducted to the chambers which had been most sumptuously adorned for their use; and having laid aside their riding dress, and taken some refreshment, repaired to the saloon, where all had been made ready with splendour. there, having washed their hands, they sat them down to table, and were regaled with a magnificent repast of many courses, served with all stately and fair ceremony, insomuch that, had the emperor himself been there, 'twould not have been possible to do him more honour. and albeit saladin and his lords were grandees and used to exceeding great displays of pomp and state, nevertheless this shewed to them as not a little marvellous, and one of the greatest they had ever seen, having regard to the quality of their host, whom they knew to be but a citizen, and no lord. breakfast done, and the tables cleared, they conversed a while of high matters, and then, as 'twas very hot, all the gentlemen of pavia--so it pleased messer torello--retired for their siesta, while he remained with his three guests; with whom he presently withdrew into a chamber, whither, that there might be nought that he held dear which they had not seen, he called his noble lady. and so the dame, exceeding fair and stately of person, and arrayed in rich apparel, with her two little boys, that shewed as two angels, on either hand, presented herself before them, and graciously greeted them. whereupon they rose, and returned her salutation with reverence, and caused her to sit down among them, and made much of her two little boys. but after some interchange of gracious discourse, messer torello being withdrawn somewhat apart, she asked them courteously, whence they came and whither they were bound, and had of them the same answer that messer torello had received. "so!" quoth the lady with a joyful air, "then i see that my woman's wit will be of service to you; wherefore i pray you as a special favour neither to reject nor to despise the little gift that i am about to present to you; but reflecting that, as women have but small minds, so they make but small gifts, accept it, having regard rather to the good will of the giver than the magnitude of the gift." she then caused bring forth for each of them two pair of robes, lined the one with silk, the other with vair, no such robes as citizens or merchants, but such as lords, use to wear, and three vests of taffeta, besides linen clothes, and:--"take them," quoth she. "the robes i give you are even such as i have arrayed my lord withal: the other things, considering that you are far from your wives, and have come a long way, and have yet a long way to go, and that merchants love to be neat and trim, may, albeit they are of no great value, be yet acceptable to you." wondering, the gentlemen acknowledged without reserve that there was no point of courtesy wherein messer torello was not minded to acquit himself towards them. and noting the lordly fashion of the robes, unsuited to the quality of merchants, they misdoubted that messer torello had recognized them. however, quoth one of them to the lady:--"gifts great indeed are these, madam, nor such as lightly to accept, were it not that thereto we are constrained by your prayers, to which we may on no account say, no." whereupon, messer torello being now come back, the lady bade them adieu, and took her leave of them; and in like manner did she cause their servants to be supplied with equipment suitable to them. the gentlemen, being much importuned thereto by messer torello, consented to tarry the rest of the day with him; and so, having slept, they donned their robes, and rode a while with him about the city; and supper-time being come, they feasted magnificently, and with a numerous and honourable company. and so in due time they betook them to rest; and at daybreak, being risen, they found, in lieu of their jaded nags, three stout and excellent palfreys, and in like manner fresh and goodly mounts for their servants. which saladin marking turned to his lords, and:--"by god," quoth he, "never was gentleman more complete and courteous and considerate than this messer torello, and if the christian kings are as kingly as he is knightly, there is none of them whose onset the soldan of babylon might well abide, to say nought of so many as we see making ready to fall upon him." however, knowing that 'twas not permissible to refuse, he very courteously thanked messer torello: and so they got them to horse. messer torello with a numerous company escorted them far beyond the gate of the city, until, loath though saladin was to part from him, so greatly did he now affect him, yet as he must needs speed on, he besought him to turn back. whereupon, albeit it irked him to take leave of them:--"gentlemen," quoth messer torello, "since such is your pleasure, i obey; but this i must say to you. who you are i know not, nor would i know more than you are pleased to impart; but whoever you may be, you will not make me believe that you are merchants this while; and so adieu!" to whom saladin, having already taken leave of all his company, thus made answer:--"peradventure, sir, we shall one day give you to see somewhat of our merchandise, and thereby confirm your belief: and so adieu!" thus parted saladin and his company from messer torello, saladin burning with an exceeding great desire, if life should be continued to him, and the war, which he anticipated, should not undo him, to shew messer torello no less honour than he had received at his hands, and conversing not a little with his lords both of messer torello himself and of his lady, and all that he did and that in any wise concerned him, ever more highly commending them. however, having with much diligence spied out all the west, he put to sea, and returned with his company to alexandria; and having now all needful information, he put himself in a posture of defence. messer torello, his mind full of his late guests, returned to pavia; but, though he long pondered who they might be, he came never at or anywhere near the truth. then with great and general mustering of forces came the time for embarking on the emprise, and messer torello, heeding not the tearful entreaties of his wife, resolved to join therein. so, being fully equipped and about to take horse, he said to his lady, whom he most dearly loved:--"wife, for honour's sake and for the weal of my soul, i go, as thou seest, on this emprise: our substance and our honour i commend to thy care. certain i am of my departure, but, for the thousand accidents that may ensue, certitude have i none of my return: wherefore i would have thee do me this grace, that, whatever be my fate, shouldst thou lack certain intelligence that i live, thou wilt expect me a year and a month and a day from this my departure, before thou marry again." whereto the lady, weeping bitterly, made answer:--"messer torello, i know not how i shall support the distress in which, thus departing, you leave me; but should my life not fail beneath it, and aught befall thee, live and die secure that i shall live and die the wife of messer torello, and of his memory." whereupon:--"wife," returned messer torello, "well assured i am that, so far as in thee shall lie, this promise of thine will be kept; but thou art young, and fair, and of a great family, and thy virtue is rare and generally known: wherefore i make no doubt that, should there be any suspicion of my death, thou wilt be asked of thy brothers and kinsmen by many a great gentleman: against whose attacks, though thou desire it never so, thou wilt not be able to hold out, but wilt perforce be fain to gratify one or other of them; for which cause it is that i ask thee to wait just so long and no longer." "as i have said," replied the lady, "so, in so far as i may, i shall do; and if i must needs do otherwise, rest assured that of this your behest i shall render you obedience. but i pray god that he bring neither you nor me to such a strait yet a while." which said, the lady wept, and having embraced messer torello, drew from her finger a ring, and gave it to him, saying:--"should it betide that i die before i see you again, mind you of me, when you look upon it." messer torello took the ring, and got him to horse, and having bidden all adieu, fared forth on his journey; and being arrived with his company at genoa, he embarked on a galley, and having departed thence, in no long time arrived at acre, and joined the main christian host; wherein there by and by broke out an exceeding great and mortal sickness; during which, whether owing to saladin's strategy, or his good fortune, he made an easy capture of well-nigh all the remnant of the christians that were escaped, and quartered them in divers prisons in many cities; of which captives messer torello being one, was brought to alexandria and there confined. where, not being known, and fearing to make himself known, he, under constraint of necessity, applied him to the training of hawks, whereof he was a very great master; and thereby he fell under the notice of saladin, who took him out of the prison, and made him his falconer. the soldan called him by no other name than "christian," and neither recognized, nor was recognized by, him, who, his whole soul ever in pavia, essayed many a time to escape, that he might return thither, but still without success: wherefore, certain genoese, that were come to alexandria as ambassadors to the soldan for the redemption of some of their townsfolk, being about to return, he resolved to write to his lady, how that he lived, and would come back to her, as soon as he might, and that she should expect his return; and having so done, he earnestly besought one of the ambassadors, whom he knew, to see that the letter reached the hands of the abbot of san pietro in ciel d'oro, who was his uncle. now, such being the posture of messer torello's affairs, it befell one day that, while he talked with saladin of his hawks, he smiled; whereby his mouth shaped itself in a fashion, of which saladin had taken particular note, while he was at pavia. and so, recalling messer torello to mind, he fixed his gaze upon him, and it seemed to him that 'twas indeed messer torello; wherefore, leaving the matter of which they were conversing:--"tell me, christian," quoth he, "of what country art thou in the west?" "my lord," replied messer torello, "i am a lombard, of a city called pavia, a poor man, and of humble condition." which when he heard, saladin, well-nigh resolved of his doubt, said joyfully to himself:--"god has provided me with occasion meet to prove to this man what store i set by his courtesy;" and without another word he brought him into a room where he kept all his wearing apparel, and said:--"look, christian, if among these robes there be any that thou hast ever seen before." so messer torello examined the robes, and espied those which his lady had given to saladin; but, deeming they could not be the same, he replied:--"my lord, there is no robe here that i recognize, albeit 'tis true that those two robes are such as i once wore myself, in company with three merchants that came to my house." whereupon saladin could refrain himself no longer; but, tenderly embracing him:--"you," quoth he, "are messer torello d'istria, and i am one of those three merchants to whom your lady gave these robes; and now is the time to warrant you of the quality of my merchandise, as, when i parted from you, i told you might come to pass." which to hear, messer torello was at once overjoyed and abashed, overjoyed to have entertained so illustrious a guest, and abashed, for that it seemed to him that he had given him but a sorry entertainment. to whom:--"messer torello," quoth saladin, "since hither has god sent you to me, deem that 'tis no more i that am lord here, but you." and so they made great cheer together; and then saladin caused messer torello to be royally arrayed; and presented him to all his greatest lords, and having extolled his merit in no stinted measure, bade all, as they hoped for grace from him, honour messer torello even as himself. and so from that hour did they all; but most especially the two lords that had been with saladin at messer torello's house. the glory, to which messer torello thus suddenly found himself raised, somewhat diverted his mind from the affairs of lombardy, and the more so, for that he entertained no doubt that his letter had reached his uncle's hands. but for that in the camp, or rather army, of the christians, on the day when they were taken by saladin, there died and was buried one messer torello de dignes, an obscure knight of provence, whereas messer torello d'istria was known to all the host for a right noble gentleman, whoso heard tell that messer torello was dead, supposed that 'twas messer torello d'istria, and not messer torello de dignes; nor did what happened after, to wit, the capture, avail to undeceive them; for not a few italians had carried the report home with them; among whom there were some who made bold to say that they had seen messer torello d'istria's dead body, and had been present at its interment. which rumour coming to the ears of his lady and his kinsfolk, great indeed, nay, immeasurable was the distress that it occasioned not only to them, but to all that had known him. the mode and measure of his lady's grief, her mourning, her lamentation, 'twere tedious to describe. enough that, after some months spent in almost unmitigated tribulation, her sorrow shewed signs of abatement; whereupon, suit being made for her hand by some of the greatest men of lombardy, her brothers and other kinsfolk began to importune her to marry again. times not a few, and with floods of tears, she refused; but, overborne at last, she consented to do as they would have her, upon the understanding that she was to remain unmarried until the term for which she had bound herself to messer torello was fulfilled. now the lady's affairs being in this posture at pavia, it befell that some eight days or so before the time appointed for her marriage, messer torello one day espied in alexandria one that he had observed go with the genoese ambassadors aboard the galley that took them to genoa; wherefore he called him, and asked him what sort of a voyage they had had, and when they had reached genoa. "my lord," replied the other, "the galley made but a sorry voyage of it, as i learned in crete, where i remained; for that, while she was nearing sicily, there arose a terrible gale from the north that drove her on to the shoals of barbary, and never a soul escaped, and among the rest my two brothers were lost." which report believing--and 'twas indeed most true--and calling to mind that in a few days the term that he had asked of his wife would be fulfilled, and surmising that there could be no tidings of him at pavia, messer torello made no question but that the lady was provided with another husband; whereby he sank into such a depth of woe that he lost all power to eat, and betook him to his bed and resigned himself to die. which when saladin, by whom he was most dearly beloved, learned, he came to him, and having plied him with many and most instant entreaties, learned at length the cause of his distress and sickness; and, having chidden him not a little that he had not sooner apprised him thereof, he besought him to put on a cheerful courage, assuring him, that, if so he did, he would bring it to pass that he should be in pavia at the time appointed, and told him how. believing saladin's words the more readily that he had many times heard that 'twas possible, and had not seldom been done, messer torello recovered heart, and was instant with saladin that he should make all haste. accordingly saladin bade one of his necromancers, of whose skill he had already had proof, to devise a method whereby messer torello should be transported abed in a single night to pavia: the necromancer made answer that it should be done, but that 'twere best he put messer torello to sleep. the matter being thus arranged, saladin hied him back to messer torello, and finding him most earnestly desirous to be in pavia at the time appointed, if so it might be, and if not, to die:--"messer torello," quoth he, "if you dearly love your lady, and misdoubt that she may become the bride of another, no wise, god wot, do i censure you, for that, of all the ladies that ever i saw, she, for bearing, manners, and address--to say nought of beauty, which is but the flower that perishes--seems to me the most worthy to be lauded and cherished. much had i been gratified, since fortune has sent you hither to me, that, while you and i yet live, we had exercised equal lordship in the governance of this my realm, and, if such was not god's will, and this must needs come upon you, that you are fain either to be at pavia at the time appointed or to die, i had desired of all things to have been apprised thereof at such a time that i might have sent you home with such honourable circumstance and state and escort as befit your high desert; which not being vouchsafed me, and as nought will content you but to be there forthwith, i do what i can, and speed you thither on such wise as i have told you." "my lord," replied messer torello, "had you said nought, you have already done enough to prove your goodwill towards me, and that in so high a degree as is quite beyond my deserts, and most assured of the truth of what you say shall i live and die, and so had done, had you not said it; but, seeing that my resolve is taken, i pray you that that, which you promise to do, be done speedily, for that after to-morrow i may no longer count on being expected." saladin assured him that 'twas so ordered that he should not be disappointed. and on the morrow, it being his purpose to speed him on his journey that same night, he caused to be set up in one of his great halls a most goodly and sumptuous bed composed of mattresses, all, as was their wont, of velvet and cloth of gold, and had it covered with a quilt, adorned at certain intervals with enormous pearls, and most rare precious stones, insomuch that 'twas in after time accounted a priceless treasure, and furnished with two pillows to match it. which done, he bade array messer torello, who was now quite recovered, in a robe after the saracenic fashion, the richest and goodliest thing of the kind that was ever seen, and wrap about his head, according to their wont, one of their huge turbans. then, at a late hour, saladin, attended by certain of his lords, entered the chamber where messer torello was, and seating himself beside him, all but wept as thus he began:--"messer torello, the time is nigh at hand when you and i must part; wherefore, since i may neither give you my own, nor others' company (the journey that you are about to make not permitting it), i am come here, as 'tis fitting, in this chamber to take my leave of you. wherefore, before i bid you adieu, i entreat you, by that friendship, that love, which is between us, that you forget me not, and that, if it be possible, when you have settled your affairs in lombardy, you come at least once, before our days are ended, to visit me, that thereby i may both have the delight of seeing you again, and make good that omission which, by reason of your haste, i must needs now make; and that in the meanwhile it irk thee not to visit me by letter, and to ask of me whatever you shall have a mind to, and be sure that there lives not the man whom i shall content more gladly than you." messer torello could not refrain his tears, and so, with words few, and broken by his sobs, he answered that 'twas impossible that the soldan's generous deeds and chivalrous character should ever be forgotten by him, and that without fail he would do as he bade him, so soon as occasion should serve him. whereupon saladin tenderly embraced and kissed him, and with many a tear bade him adieu, and quitted the chamber. his lords then took leave of messer torello, and followed saladin into the hall, where he had had the bed made ready. 'twas now late, and the necromancer being intent to hasten messer torello's transit, a physician brought him a potion, and having first shewn him what he was to give him by way of viaticum, caused him to drink it; and not long after he fell asleep. in which state he was carried by saladin's command, and laid on the goodly bed, whereon he set a large and fair and most sumptuous crown, marking it in such sort that there could be no mistake that it was sent by saladin to messer torello's wife. he next placed on messer torello's finger a ring, in which was set a carbuncle of such brilliance that it shewed as a lighted torch, and of well-nigh inestimable value. after which he girded on him a sword, the appointments of which might not readily be appraised. and therewithal he adorned him in front with a pendant, wherein were pearls, the like of which had never been seen, and not a few other rare jewels. and, moreover, on either side of him he set two vast basins of gold full of pistoles; and strings of pearls not a few, and rings and girdles, and other things, which 'twere tedious to enumerate, he disposed around him. which done, he kissed messer torello again, and bade the necromancer speed him on his journey. whereupon, forthwith, the bed, with messer torello thereon, was borne away from before saladin's eyes, and he and his barons remained conversing thereof. the bed, as messer torello had requested, had already been deposited in the church of san piero in ciel d'oro at pavia, and messer torello, with all the aforesaid jewels and ornaments upon and about him, was lying thereon, and still slept, when, upon the stroke of matins, the sacristan came into the church, light in hand, and presently setting eyes on the sumptuous bed, was not only amazed, but mightily terrified, insomuch that he turned back, and took to flight. which the abbot and monks observing with no small surprise, asked wherefore he fled and he told them. whereupon:--"oh," quoth the abbot, "thou art no longer a child, nor yet so new to this church, that thou shouldst so lightly be appalled: go we now, and see who it is that has given thee this childish fright." so, with a blaze of torches, the abbot, attended by his monks, entered the church, and espied this wondrous costly bed whereon the knight slept, and while, hesitant and fearful, daring not to approach the bed, they scanned the rare and splendid jewels, it befell that, the efficacy of the potion being exhausted, messer torello awoke and heaved a great sigh. whereat the monks and the abbot quaking and crying out:--"lord, help us!" one and all took to flight. messer torello, opening his eyes and looking about him, saw, to his no small satisfaction, that without a doubt he was in the very place where he had craved of saladin to be; so up he sate, and taking particular note of the matters with which he was surrounded, accounted the magnificence of saladin to exceed even the measure, great though it was, that he already knew. however, he still kept quiet, save that, perceiving the monks in flight, and surmising the reason, he began to call the abbot by name, bidding him be of good courage, for that he was his nephew, torello. whereat the abbot did but wax more terrified, for that he deemed torello had been many a month dead; but, after a while, as he heard himself still called, sound judgment got the better of his fears, and making the sign of the cross, he drew nigh torello; who said to him:--"father, what is't you fear? by god's grace i live, and hither am come back from overseas." whom, for all he had grown a long beard and was dressed in the saracenic fashion, the abbot after a while recognized, and now, quite reassured, took by the hand, saying:--"son, welcome home:" then:--"no cause hast thou to marvel at our fears," he went on, "seeing that there is never a soul in these parts but firmly believes thee to be dead, insomuch that i may tell thee that madonna adalieta, thy wife, overborne by the entreaties and menaces of her kinsfolk, and against her will, is provided with another husband, to whom she is this morning to go, and all is made ready for the nuptials and the attendant festivities." whereupon messer torello, being risen from the sumptuous bed, did the abbot and the monks wondrous cheer, and besought them, one and all, to tell never a soul of his return, until he had completed something that he had on hand. after which, having put the costly jewels in safe keeping, he recounted to the abbot all the story of his adventures to that very hour. the abbot, rejoicing in his good fortune, joined with him in offering thanks to god. messer torello then asked him who might be his wife's new husband, and the abbot told him. quoth then messer torello:--"before my return be known, i purpose to see how my wife will comport herself at the nuptials: wherefore, though 'tis not the wont of men of religion to go to such gatherings, i had lief that for love of me you arranged for us to go thither together." the abbot answered that, he would gladly do so, and as soon as 'twas day, he sent word to the bridegroom that he had thoughts of being present at his nuptials, accompanied by a friend; whereto the gentleman made answer that he was much gratified. so, at the breakfast hour messer torello, dressed as he was, hied him with the abbot to the bridegroom's house, as many as saw them gazing on him with wonder, but none recognizing him, and the abbot giving all to understand that he was a saracen sent by the soldan as ambassador to the king of france. messer torello was accordingly seated at a table directly opposite that of his lady, whom he eyed with exceeding great delight, the more so that he saw that in her face which shewed him that she was chagrined by the nuptials. she in like manner from time to time bent her regard on him; howbeit, what with his long beard, and his foreign garb, and her firm persuasion that he was dead, she had still no sort of recollection of him. however, messer torello at length deemed it time to make trial of her, whether she would remember him; wherefore he took the ring that the lady had given, him on his departure, and keeping it close in the palm of his hand, he called to him a page that waited upon her, and said to him:--"tell the bride from me that 'tis the custom in my country, that, when a stranger, such as i, eats with a bride, like herself, at her wedding-feast, she, in token that he is welcome to her board, sends him the cup from which she herself drinks, full of wine; and when the stranger has drunk his fill, he closes the cup, and the bride drinks what is left therein." the page carried the message to the lady, who, being of good understanding and manners, and supposing him to be some very great man, by way of shewing that she was gratified by his presence, commanded that a gilt cup, that was on the table before her, should be rinsed, and filled with wine, and borne to the gentleman. which being done, messer torello, having privily conveyed her ring into his mouth, let it fall (while he drank) into the cup on such wise that none wist thereof; and leaving but a little wine at the bottom, closed the cup and returned it to the lady; who, having taken it, that she might do full honour to the custom of her guest's country, lifted the lid, and set the cup to her mouth; whereby espying the ring, she thereon mutely gazed a while, and recognizing it for that which she had given messer torello on his departure, she steadfastly regarded the supposed stranger, whom now she also recognized. whereupon well-nigh distracted, oversetting the table in front of her, she exclaimed:--"'tis my lord, 'tis verily messer torello;" and rushing to the table at which he sate, giving never a thought to her apparel, or aught that was on the table, she flung herself upon it; and reaching forward as far as she could, she threw her arms about him, and hugged him; nor, for aught that any said or did, could she be induced to release his neck, until messer torello himself bade her forbear a while, for that she would have time enough to kiss him thereafter. the lady then stood up, and for a while all was disorder, albeit the feast was yet more gladsome than before by reason of the recovery of so honourable a knight: then, at messer torello's entreaty, all were silent, while he recounted to them the story of his adventures from the day of his departure to that hour, concluding by saying that the gentleman who, deeming him to be dead, had taken his lady to wife, ought not to be affronted, if he, being alive, reclaimed her. the bridegroom, albeit he was somewhat crestfallen, made answer in frank and friendly sort, that 'twas for messer torello to do what he liked with his own. the lady resigned the ring and the crown that her new spouse had given her, and put on the ring she had taken from the cup, and likewise the crown sent her by the soldan; and so, forth they hied them, and with full nuptial pomp wended their way to messer torello's house; and there for a great while they made merry with his late disconsolate friends and kinsfolk and all the citizens, who accounted his restoration as little short of a miracle. messer torello, having bestowed part of his rare jewels upon him who had borne the cost of the wedding-feast, and part on the abbot, and many other folk; and having by more than one messenger sent word of his safe home-coming and prosperous estate to saladin, acknowledging himself ever his friend and vassal, lived many years thereafter with his worthy lady, acquitting himself yet more courteously than of yore. such, then, was the end of the troubles of messer torello and his dear lady, and such the reward of their cheerful and ready courtesies. now some there are that strive to do offices of courtesy, and have the means, but do them with so ill a grace, that, ere they are done, they have in effect sold them at a price above their worth: wherefore, if no reward ensue to them thereof, neither they nor other folk have cause to marvel. novel x. -the marquis of saluzzo, overborne by the entreaties of his vassals, consents to take a wife, but, being minded to please himself in the choice of her, takes a husbandman's daughter. he has two children by her, both of whom he makes her believe that he has put to death. afterward, feigning to be tired of her, and to have taken another wife, he turns her out of doors in her shift, and brings his daughter into the house in guise of his bride; but, finding her patient under it all, he brings her home again, and shews her her children, now grown up, and honours her, and causes her to be honoured, as marchioness. -ended the king's long story, with which all seemed to be very well pleased, quoth dioneo with a laugh:--"the good man that looked that night to cause the bogey's tail to droop, would scarce have contributed two pennyworth of all the praise you bestow on messer torello:" then, witting that it now only remained for him to tell, thus he began:--gentle my ladies, this day, meseems, is dedicate to kings and soldans and folk of the like quality; wherefore, that i stray not too far from you, i am minded to tell you somewhat of a marquis; certes, nought magnificent, but a piece of mad folly, albeit there came good thereof to him in the end. the which i counsel none to copy, for that great pity 'twas that it turned out well with him. there was in olden days a certain marquis of saluzzo, gualtieri by name, a young man, but head of the house, who, having neither wife nor child, passed his time in nought else but in hawking and hunting, and of taking a wife and begetting children had no thought; wherein he should have been accounted very wise: but his vassals, brooking it ill, did oftentimes entreat him to take a wife, that he might not die without an heir, and they be left without a lord; offering to find him one of such a pattern, and of such parentage, that he might marry with good hope, and be well content with the sequel. to whom:--"my friends," replied gualtieri, "you enforce me to that which i had resolved never to do, seeing how hard it is to find a wife, whose ways accord well with one's own, and how plentiful is the supply of such as run counter thereto, and how grievous a life he leads who chances upon a lady that matches ill with him. and to say that you think to know the daughters by the qualities of their fathers and mothers, and thereby--so you would argue--to provide me with a wife to my liking, is but folly; for i wot not how you may penetrate the secrets of their mothers so as to know their fathers; and granted that you do know them, daughters oftentimes resemble neither of their parents. however, as you are minded to rivet these fetters upon me, i am content that so it be; and that i may have no cause to reproach any but myself, should it turn out ill, i am resolved that my wife shall be of my own choosing; but of this rest assured, that, no matter whom i choose, if she receive not from you the honour due to a lady, you shall prove to your great cost, how sorely i resent being thus constrained by your importunity to take a wife against my will." the worthy men replied that they were well content, so only he would marry without more ado. and gualtieri, who had long noted with approval the mien of a poor girl that dwelt on a farm hard by his house, and found her fair enough, deemed that with her he might pass a tolerably happy life. wherefore he sought no further, but forthwith resolved to marry her; and having sent for her father, who was a very poor man, he contracted with him to take her to wife. which done, gualtieri assembled all the friends he had in those parts, and:--"my friends," quoth he, "you were and are minded that i should take a wife, and rather to comply with your wishes, than for any desire that i had to marry, i have made up my mind to do so. you remember the promise you gave me, to wit, that, whomsoever i should take, you would pay her the honour due to a lady. which promise i now require you to keep, the time being come when i am to keep mine. i have found hard by here a maiden after mine own heart, whom i purpose to take to wife, and to bring hither to my house in the course of a few days. wherefore bethink you, how you may make the nuptial feast splendid, and welcome her with all honour; that i may confess myself satisfied with your observance of your promise, as you will be with my observance of mine." the worthy men, one and all, answered with alacrity that they were well content, and that, whoever she might be, they would entreat her as a lady, and pay her all due honour as such. after which, they all addressed them to make goodly and grand and gladsome celebration of the event, as did also gualtieri. he arranged for a wedding most stately and fair, and bade thereto a goodly number of his friends and kinsfolk, and great gentlemen, and others, of the neighbourhood; and therewithal he caused many a fine and costly robe to be cut and fashioned to the figure of a girl who seemed to him of the like proportions as the girl that he purposed to wed; and laid in store, besides, of girdles and rings, with a costly and beautiful crown, and all the other paraphernalia of a bride. the day that he had appointed for the wedding being come, about half tierce he got him to horse with as many as had come to do him honour, and having made all needful dispositions:--"gentlemen," quoth he, "'tis time to go bring home the bride." and so away he rode with his company to the village; where, being come to the house of the girl's father, they found her returning from the spring with a bucket of water, making all the haste she could, that she might afterwards go with the other women to see gualtieri's bride come by. whom gualtieri no sooner saw, than he called her by her name, to wit, griselda, and asked her where her father was. to whom she modestly made answer:--"my lord, he is in the house." whereupon gualtieri dismounted, and having bidden the rest await him without, entered the cottage alone; and meeting her father, whose name was giannucolo:--"i am come," quoth he, "to wed griselda, but first of all there are some matters i would learn from her own lips in thy presence." he then asked her, whether, if he took her to wife, she would study to comply with his wishes, and be not wroth, no matter what he might say or do, and be obedient, with not a few other questions of a like sort: to all which she answered, ay. whereupon gualtieri took her by the hand, led her forth, and before the eyes of all his company, and as many other folk as were there, caused her to strip naked, and let bring the garments that he had had fashioned for her, and had her forthwith arrayed therein, and upon her unkempt head let set a crown; and then, while all wondered:--"gentlemen," quoth he, "this is she whom i purpose to make my wife, so she be minded to have me for husband." then, she standing abashed and astonied, he turned to her, saying:--"griselda, wilt thou have me for thy husband?" to whom:--"ay, my lord," answered she. "and i will have thee to wife," said he, and married her before them all. and having set her upon a palfrey, he brought her home with pomp. the wedding was fair and stately, and had he married a daughter of the king of france, the feast could not have been more splendid. it seemed as if, with the change of her garb, the bride had acquired a new dignity of mind and mien. she was, as we have said, fair of form and feature; and therewithal she was now grown so engaging and gracious and debonair, that she shewed no longer as the shepherdess, and the daughter of giannucolo, but as the daughter of some noble lord, insomuch that she caused as many as had known her before to marvel. moreover, she was so obedient and devoted to her husband, that he deemed himself the happiest and luckiest man in the world. and likewise so gracious and kindly was she to her husband's vassals, that there was none of them but loved her more dearly than himself, and was zealous to do her honour, and prayed for her welfare and prosperity and aggrandisement, and instead of, as erstwhile, saying that gualtieri had done foolishly to take her to wife, now averred that he had not his like in the world for wisdom and discernment, for that, save to him, her noble qualities would ever have remained hidden under her sorry apparel and the garb of the peasant girl. and in short she so comported herself as in no long time to bring it to pass that, not only in the marquisate, but far and wide besides, her virtues and her admirable conversation were matter of common talk, and, if aught had been said to the disadvantage of her husband, when he married her, the judgment was now altogether to the contrary effect. she had not been long with gualtieri before she conceived; and in due time she was delivered of a girl; whereat gualtieri made great cheer. but, soon after, a strange humour took possession of him, to wit, to put her patience to the proof by prolonged and intolerable hard usage; wherefore he began by afflicting her with his gibes, putting on a vexed air, and telling her that his vassals were most sorely dissatisfied with her by reason of her base condition, and all the more so since they saw that she was a mother, and that they did nought but most ruefully murmur at the birth of a daughter. whereto griselda, without the least change of countenance or sign of discomposure, made answer:--"my lord, do with me as thou mayst deem best for thine own honour and comfort, for well i wot that i am of less account than they, and unworthy of this honourable estate to which of thy courtesy thou hast advanced me." by which answer gualtieri was well pleased, witting that she was in no degree puffed up with pride by his, or any other's, honourable entreatment of her. a while afterwards, having in general terms given his wife to understand that the vassals could not endure her daughter, he sent her a message by a servant. so the servant came, and:--"madam," quoth he with a most dolorous mien, "so i value my life, i must needs do my lord's bidding. he has bidden me take your daughter and..." he said no more, but the lady by what she heard, and read in his face, and remembered of her husband's words, understood that he was bidden to put the child to death. whereupon she presently took the child from the cradle, and having kissed and blessed her, albeit she was very sore at heart, she changed not countenance, but placed it in the servant's arms, saying:--"see that thou leave nought undone that my lord and thine has charged thee to do, but leave her not so that the beasts and the birds devour her, unless he have so bidden thee." so the servant took the child, and told gualtieri what the lady had said; and gualtieri, marvelling at her constancy, sent him with the child to bologna, to one of his kinswomen, whom he besought to rear and educate the child with all care, but never to let it be known whose child she was. soon after it befell that the lady again conceived, and in due time was delivered of a son, whereat gualtieri was overjoyed. but, not content with what he had done, he now even more poignantly afflicted the lady; and one day with a ruffled mien:--"wife," quoth he, "since thou gavest birth to this boy, i may on no wise live in peace with my vassals, so bitterly do they reproach me that a grandson of giannucolo is to succeed me as their lord; and therefore i fear that, so i be not minded to be sent a packing hence, i must even do herein as i did before, and in the end put thee away, and take another wife." the lady heard him patiently, and answered only:--"my lord, study how thou mayst content thee and best please thyself, and waste no thought upon me, for there is nought i desire save in so far as i know that 'tis thy pleasure." not many days after, gualtieri, in like manner as he had sent for the daughter, sent for the son, and having made a shew of putting him to death, provided for his, as for the girl's, nurture at bologna. whereat the lady shewed no more discomposure of countenance or speech than at the loss of her daughter: which gualtieri found passing strange, and inly affirmed that there was never another woman in the world that would have so done. and but that he had marked that she was most tenderly affectionate towards her children, while 'twas well pleasing to him, he had supposed that she was tired of them, whereas he knew that 'twas of her discretion that she so did. his vassals, who believed that he had put the children to death, held him mightily to blame for his cruelty, and felt the utmost compassion for the lady. she, however, said never aught to the ladies that condoled with her on the death of her children, but that the pleasure of him that had begotten them was her pleasure likewise. years not a few had passed since the girl's birth, when gualtieri at length deemed the time come to put his wife's patience to the final proof. accordingly, in the presence of a great company of his vassals he declared that on no wise might he longer brook to have griselda to wife, that he confessed that in taking her he had done a sorry thing and the act of a stripling, and that he therefore meant to do what he could to procure the pope's dispensation to put griselda away, and take another wife: for which cause being much upbraided by many worthy men, he made no other answer but only that needs must it so be. whereof the lady being apprised, and now deeming that she must look to go back to her father's house, and perchance tend the sheep, as she had aforetime, and see him, to whom she was utterly devoted, engrossed by another woman, did inly bewail herself right sorely: but still with the same composed mien with which she had borne fortune's former buffets, she set herself to endure this last outrage. nor was it long before gualtieri by counterfeit letters, which he caused to be sent to him from rome, made his vassals believe that the pope had thereby given him a dispensation to put griselda away, and take another wife. wherefore, having caused her to be brought before him, he said to her in the presence of not a few:--"wife, by license granted me by the pope, i am now free to put thee away, and take another wife; and, for that my forbears have always been great gentlemen and lords of these parts, whereas thine have ever been husbandmen, i purpose that thou go back to giannucolo's house with the dowry that thou broughtest me; whereupon i shall bring home a lady that i have found, and who is meet to be my wife." 'twas not without travail most grievous that the lady, as she heard this announcement, got the better of her woman's nature, and suppressing her tears, made answer:--"my lord, i ever knew that my low degree was on no wise congruous with your nobility, and acknowledged that the rank i had with you was of your and god's bestowal, nor did i ever make as if it were mine by gift, or so esteem it, but still accounted it as a loan. 'tis your pleasure to recall it, and therefore it should be, and is, my pleasure to render it up to you. so, here is your ring, with which you espoused me; take it back. you bid me take with me the dowry that i brought you; which to do will require neither paymaster on your part nor purse nor packhorse on mine; for i am not unmindful that naked was i when you first had me. and if you deem it seemly that that body in which i have borne children, by you begotten, be beheld of all, naked will i depart; but yet, i pray you, be pleased, in guerdon of the virginity that i brought you and take not away, to suffer me to bear hence upon my back a single shift--i crave no more--besides my dowry." there was nought of which gualtieri was so fain as to weep; but yet, setting his face as a flint, he made answer:--"i allow thee a shift to thy back; so get thee hence." all that stood by besought him to give her a robe, that she, who had been his wife for thirteen years and more, might not be seen to quit his house in so sorry and shameful a plight, having nought on her but a shift. but their entreaties went for nothing: the lady in her shift, and barefoot and bareheaded, having bade them adieu, departed the house, and went back to her father amid the tears and lamentations of all that saw her. giannucolo, who had ever deemed it a thing incredible that gualtieri should keep his daughter to wife, and had looked for this to happen every day, and had kept the clothes that she had put off on the morning that gualtieri had wedded her, now brought them to her; and she, having resumed them, applied herself to the petty drudgery of her father's house, as she had been wont, enduring with fortitude this cruel visitation of adverse fortune. now no sooner had gualtieri dismissed griselda, than he gave his vassals to understand that he had taken to wife a daughter of one of the counts of panago. he accordingly made great preparations as for the nuptials, during which he sent for griselda. to whom, being come, quoth he:--"i am bringing hither my new bride, and in this her first home-coming i purpose to shew her honour; and thou knowest that women i have none in the house that know how to set chambers in due order, or attend to the many other matters that so joyful an event requires; wherefore do thou, that understandest these things better than another, see to all that needs be done, and bid hither such ladies as thou mayst see fit, and receive them, as if thou wert the lady of the house, and then, when the nuptials are ended, thou mayst go back to thy cottage." albeit each of these words pierced griselda's heart like a knife, for that, in resigning her good fortune, she had not been able to renounce the love she bore gualtieri, nevertheless:--"my lord," she made answer, "i am ready and prompt to do your pleasure." and so, clad in her sorry garments of coarse romagnole, she entered the house, which, but a little before, she had quitted in her shift, and addressed her to sweep the chambers, and arrange arras and cushions in the halls, and make ready the kitchen, and set her hand to everything, as if she had been a paltry serving-wench: nor did she rest until she had brought all into such meet and seemly trim as the occasion demanded. this done, she invited in gualtieri's name all the ladies of those parts to be present at his nuptials, and awaited the event. the day being come, still wearing her sorry weeds, but in heart and soul and mien the lady, she received the ladies as they came, and gave each a gladsome greeting. now gualtieri, as we said, had caused his children to be carefully nurtured and brought up by a kinswoman of his at bologna, which kinswoman was married into the family of the counts of panago; and, the girl being now twelve years old, and the loveliest creature that ever was seen, and the boy being about six years old, he had sent word to his kinswoman's husband at bologna, praying him to be pleased to come with this girl and boy of his to saluzzo, and to see that he brought a goodly and honourable company with him, and to give all to understand that he brought the girl to him to wife, and on no wise to disclose to any, who she really was. the gentleman did as the marquis bade him, and within a few days of his setting forth arrived at saluzzo about breakfast-time with the girl, and her brother, and a noble company, and found all the folk of those parts, and much people besides, gathered there in expectation of gualtieri's new bride. who, being received by the ladies, was no sooner come into the hall, where the tables were set, than griselda advanced to meet her, saying with hearty cheer:--"welcome, my lady." so the ladies, who had with much instance, but in vain, besought gualtieri, either to let griselda keep in another room, or at any rate to furnish her with one of the robes that had been hers, that she might not present herself in such a sorry guise before the strangers, sate down to table; and the service being begun, the eyes of all were set on the girl, and every one said that gualtieri had made a good exchange, and griselda joined with the rest in greatly commending her, and also her little brother. and now gualtieri, sated at last with all that he had seen of his wife's patience, marking that this new and strange turn made not the least alteration in her demeanour, and being well assured that 'twas not due to apathy, for he knew her to be of excellent understanding, deemed it time to relieve her of the suffering which he judged her to dissemble under a resolute front; and so, having called her to him in presence of them all, he said with a smile:--"and what thinkst thou of our bride?" "my lord," replied griselda, "i think mighty well of her; and if she be but as discreet as she is fair--and so i deem her--i make no doubt but you may reckon to lead with her a life of incomparable felicity; but with all earnestness i entreat you, that you spare her those tribulations which you did once inflict upon another that was yours, for i scarce think she would be able to bear them, as well because she is younger, as for that she has been delicately nurtured, whereas that other had known no respite of hardship since she was but a little child." marking that she made no doubt but that the girl was to be his wife, and yet spoke never a whit the less sweetly, gualtieri caused her to sit down beside him, and:--"griselda," said he, "'tis now time that thou see the reward of thy long patience, and that those, who have deemed me cruel and unjust and insensate, should know that what i did was done of purpose aforethought, for that i was minded to give both thee and them a lesson, that thou mightst learn to be a wife, and they in like manner might learn how to take and keep a wife, and that i might beget me perpetual peace with thee for the rest of my life; whereof being in great fear, when i came to take a wife, lest i should be disappointed, i therefore, to put the matter to the proof, did, and how sorely thou knowest, harass and afflict thee. and since i never knew thee either by deed or by word to deviate from my will, i now, deeming myself to have of thee that assurance of happiness which i desired, am minded to restore to thee at once all that, step by step, i took from thee, and by extremity of joy to compensate the tribulations that i inflicted on thee. receive, then, this girl, whom thou supposest to be my bride, and her brother, with glad heart, as thy children and mine. these are they, whom by thee and many another it has long been supposed that i did ruthlessly to death, and i am thy husband, that loves thee more dearly than aught else, deeming that other there is none that has the like good cause to be well content with his wife." which said, he embraced and kissed her; and then, while she wept for joy, they rose and hied them there where sate the daughter, all astonied to hear the news, whom, as also her brother, they tenderly embraced, and explained to them, and many others that stood by, the whole mystery. whereat the ladies, transported with delight, rose from table and betook them with griselda to a chamber, and, with better omen, divested her of her sorry garb, and arrayed her in one of her own robes of state; and so, in guise of a lady (howbeit in her rags she had shewed as no less) they led her back into the hall. wondrous was the cheer which there they made with the children; and, all overjoyed at the event, they revelled and made merry amain, and prolonged the festivities for several days; and very discreet they pronounced gualtieri, albeit they censured as intolerably harsh the probation to which he had subjected griselda, and most discreet beyond all compare they accounted griselda. some days after, the count of panago returned to bologna, and gualtieri took giannucolo from his husbandry, and established him in honour as his father-in-law, wherein to his great solace he lived for the rest of his days. gualtieri himself, having mated his daughter with a husband of high degree, lived long and happily thereafter with griselda, to whom he ever paid all honour. now what shall we say in this case but that even into the cots of the poor the heavens let fall at times spirits divine, as into the palaces of kings souls that are fitter to tend hogs than to exercise lordship over men? who but griselda had been able, with a countenance not only tearless, but cheerful, to endure the hard and unheard-of trials to which gualtieri subjected her? who perhaps might have deemed himself to have made no bad investment, had he chanced upon one, who, having been turned out of his house in her shift, had found means so to dust the pelisse of another as to get herself thereby a fine robe. so ended dioneo's story, whereof the ladies, diversely inclining, one to censure where another found matter for commendation, had discoursed not a little, when the king, having glanced at the sky, and marked that the sun was now low, insomuch that 'twas nigh the vesper hour, still keeping his seat, thus began:--"exquisite my ladies, as, methinks, you wot, 'tis not only in minding them of the past and apprehending the present that the wit of mortals consists; but by one means or the other to be able to foresee the future is by the sages accounted the height of wisdom. now, to-morrow, as you know, 'twill be fifteen days since, in quest of recreation and for the conservation of our health and life, we, shunning the dismal and dolorous and afflicting spectacles that have ceased not in our city since this season of pestilence began, took our departure from florence. wherein, to my thinking, we have done nought that was not seemly; for, if i have duly used my powers of observation, albeit some gay stories, and of a kind to stimulate concupiscence, have here been told, and we have daily known no lack of dainty dishes and good wine, nor yet of music and song, things, one and all, apt to incite weak minds to that which is not seemly, neither on your part, nor on ours, have i marked deed or word, or aught of any kind, that called for reprehension; but, by what i have seen and heard, seemliness and the sweet intimacy of brothers and sisters have ever reigned among us. which, assuredly, for the honour and advantage which you and i have had thereof, is most grateful to me. wherefore, lest too long continuance in this way of life might beget some occasion of weariness, and that no man may be able to misconstrue our too long abidance here, and as we have all of us had our day's share of the honour which still remains in me, i should deem it meet, so you be of like mind, that we now go back whence we came: and that the rather that our company, the bruit whereof has already reached divers others that are in our neighbourhood, might be so increased that all our pleasure would be destroyed. and so, if my counsel meet with your approval, i will keep the crown i have received of you until our departure, which, i purpose, shall be tomorrow morning. should you decide otherwise, i have already determined whom to crown for the ensuing day." much debate ensued among the ladies and young men; but in the end they approved the king's proposal as expedient and seemly; and resolved to do even as he had said. the king therefore summoned the seneschal; and having conferred with him of the order he was to observe on the morrow, he dismissed the company until supper-time. so, the king being risen, the ladies and the rest likewise rose, and betook them, as they were wont, to their several diversions. supper-time being come, they supped with exceeding great delight. which done, they addressed them to song and music and dancing; and, while lauretta was leading a dance, the king bade fiammetta give them a song; whereupon fiammetta right debonairly sang on this wise:-so came but love, and brought no jealousy, so blithe, i wot, as i, dame were there none, be she whoe'er she be. if youth's fresh, lusty pride may lady of her lover well content, or valour's just renown, hardihood, prowess tried, wit, noble mien, discourse most excellent, and of all grace the crown; that she am i, who, fain for love to swoun, there where my hope doth lie these several virtues all conjoined do see. but, for that i less wise than me no whit do other dames discern, trembling with sore dismay, i still the worst surmise, deeming their hearts with the same flame to burn that of mine maketh prey: wherefore of him that is my hope's one stay disconsolate i sigh, yea mightily, and daily do me dree. if but my lord as true as worthy to be loved i might approve, i were not jealous then: but, for that charmer new doth all too often gallant lure to love, forsworn i hold all men, and sick at heart i am, of death full fain; nor lady doth him eye, but i do quake, lest she him wrest from me. 'fore god, then, let each she list to my prayer, nor e'er in my despite such grievous wrong essay; for should there any be that by or speech or mien's allurements light of him to rob me may study or plot, i, witting, shall find way, my beauty it aby! to cause her sore lament such frenesie. as soon as fiammetta had ended her song, dioneo, who was beside her, said with a laugh:--"madam, 'twould be a great courtesy on your part to do all ladies to wit, who he is, that he be not stolen from you in ignorance, seeing that you threaten such dire resentment." several other songs followed; and it being then nigh upon midnight, all, as the king was pleased to order, betook them to rest. with the first light of the new day they rose, and, the seneschal having already conveyed thence all their chattels, they, following the lead of their discreet king, hied them back to florence; and in santa maria novella, whence they had set forth, the three young men took leave of the seven ladies, and departed to find other diversions elsewhere, while the ladies in due time repaired to their homes. the author's epilogue. most noble damsels, for whose solace i addressed me to this long and toilsome task, meseems that, aided by the divine grace, the bestowal whereof i impute to the efficacy of your pious prayers, and in no wise to merits of mine, i have now brought this work to the full and perfect consummation which in the outset thereof i promised you. wherefore, it but remains for me to render, first to god, and then to you, my thanks, and so to give a rest to my pen and weary hand. but this i purpose not to allow them, until, briefly, as to questions tacitly mooted--for well assured i am that these stories have no especial privilege above any others, nay, i forget not that at the beginning of the fourth day i have made the same plain--i shall have answered certain trifling objections that one of you, maybe, or some other, might advance. peradventure, then, some of you will be found to say that i have used excessive license in the writing of these stories, in that i have caused ladies at times to tell, and oftentimes to list, matters that, whether to tell or to list, do not well beseem virtuous women. the which i deny, for that there is none of these stories so unseemly, but that it may without offence be told by any one, if but seemly words be used; which rule, methinks, has here been very well observed. but assume we that 'tis even so (for with you i am not minded to engage in argument, witting that you would vanquish me), then, i say that for answer why i have so done, reasons many come very readily to hand. in the first place, if aught of the kind in any of these stories there be, 'twas but such as was demanded by the character of the stories, which let but any person of sound judgment scan with the eye of reason, and 'twill be abundantly manifest that, unless i had been minded to deform them, they could not have been otherwise recounted. and if, perchance, they do, after all, contain here and there a trifling indiscretion of speech, such as might ill sort with one of your precious prudes, who weigh words rather than deeds, and are more concerned to appear, than to be, good, i say that so to write was as permissible to me, as 'tis to men and women at large in their converse to make use of such terms as hole, and pin, and mortar, and pestle, and sausage, and polony, and plenty more besides of a like sort. and therewithal privilege no less should be allowed to my pen than to the pencil of the painter, who without incurring any, or at least any just, censure, not only will depict st. michael smiting the serpent, or st. george the dragon, with sword or lance at his discretion; but male he paints us christ, and female eve, and his feet that for the salvation of our race willed to die upon the cross he fastens thereto, now with one, now with two nails. moreover, 'tis patent to all that 'twas not in the church, of matters whereto pertaining 'tis meet we speak with all purity of heart and seemliness of phrase, albeit among her histories there are to be found not a few that will ill compare with my writings; nor yet in the schools of the philosophers, where, as much as anywhere, seemliness is demanded, nor in any place where clergy or philosophers congregate, but in gardens, in pleasaunces, and among folk, young indeed, but not so young as to be seducible by stories, and at a time when, if so one might save one's life, the most sedate might without disgrace walk abroad with his breeches for headgear, that these stories were told. which stories, such as they are, may, like all things else, be baneful or profitable according to the quality of the hearer. who knows not that wine is, as cinciglione and scolaio(1) and many another aver, an excellent thing for the living creature, and yet noxious to the fevered patient? are we, for the mischief it does to the fever-stricken, to say that 'tis a bad thing? who knows not that fire is most serviceable, nay, necessary, to mortals? are we to say that, because it burns houses and villages and cities, it is a bad thing? arms, in like manner, are the safeguard of those that desire to live in peace, and also by them are men not seldom maliciously slain, albeit the malice is not in them, but in those that use them for a malicious purpose. corrupt mind did never yet understand any word in a wholesome sense; and as such a mind has no profit of seemly words, so such as are scarce seemly may as little avail to contaminate a healthy mind as mud the radiance of the sun, or the deformities of earth the splendours of the heavens. what books, what words, what letters, are more sacred, more excellent, more venerable, than those of holy writ? and yet there have been not a few that, perversely construing them, have brought themselves and others to perdition. everything is in itself good for somewhat, and being put to a bad purpose, may work manifold mischief. and so, i say, it is with my stories. if any man shall be minded to draw from them matters of evil tendency or consequence, they will not gainsay him, if, perchance, such matters there be in them, nor will such matters fail to be found in them, if they be wrested and distorted. nor, if any shall seek profit and reward in them, will they deny him the same; and censured or accounted as less than profitable and seemly they can never be, if the times or the persons when and by whom they are read be such as when they were recounted. if any lady must needs say paternosters or make cakes or tarts for her holy father, let her leave them alone; there is none after whom they will run a begging to be read: howbeit, there are little matters that even the beguines tell, ay, and do, now and again. in like manner there will be some who will say that there are stories here which 'twere better far had been omitted. granted; but 'twas neither in my power, nor did it behove me, to write any but such stories as were narrated; wherefore, 'twas for those by whom they were told to have a care that they were proper; in which case they would have been no less so as i wrote them. but, assuming that i not only wrote but invented the stories, as i did not, i say that i should take no shame to myself that they were not all proper; seeing that artist there is none to be found, save god, that does all things well and perfectly. and charlemagne, albeit he created the paladins, wist not how to make them in such numbers as to form an army of them alone. it must needs be that in the multitude of things there be found diversities of quality. no field was ever so well tilled but that here and there nettle, or thistle, or brier would be found in it amid the goodlier growths. whereto i may add that, having to address me to young and unlearned ladies, as you for the most part are, i should have done foolishly, had i gone about searching and swinking to find matters very exquisite, and been sedulous to speak with great precision. however, whoso goes a reading among these stories, let him pass over those that vex him, and read those that please him. that none may be misled, each bears on its brow the epitome of that which it hides within its bosom. again, i doubt not there will be such as will say that some of the stories are too long. to whom, once more, i answer, that whoso has aught else to do would be foolish to read them, albeit they were short. and though, now that i approach the end of my labours, 'tis long since i began to write, i am not, therefore, oblivious that 'twas to none but leisured ladies that i made proffer of my pains; nor can aught be long to him that reads but to pass the time, so only he thereby accomplish his purpose. succinctness were rather to be desired by students, who are at pains not merely to pass, but usefully to employ, their time, than by you, who have as much time at your disposal as you spend not in amorous delights. besides which, as none of you goes either to athens, or to bologna, or to paris to study, 'tis meet that what is meant for you should be more diffuse than what is to be read by those whose minds have been refined by scholarly pursuits. nor make i any doubt but there are yet others who will say that the said stories are too full of jests and merry conceits, and that it ill beseems a man of weight and gravity to have written on such wise. to these i am bound to render, and do render, my thanks, for that, prompted by well-meant zeal, they have so tender a regard to my reputation. but to that, which they urge against me, i reply after this sort:--that i am of weight i acknowledge, having been often weighed in my time; wherefore, in answer to the fair that have not weighed me, i affirm that i am not of gravity; on the contrary i am so light that i float on the surface of the water; and considering that the sermons which the friars make, when they would chide folk for their sins, are to-day, for the most part, full of jests and merry conceits, and drolleries, i deemed that the like stuff would not ill beseem my stories, written, as they were, to banish women's dumps. however, if thereby they should laugh too much, they may be readily cured thereof by the lament of jeremiah, the passion of the saviour, or the complaint of the magdalen. and who shall question but that yet others there are who will say that i have an evil tongue and venomous, because here and there i tell the truth about the friars? now for them that so say there is forgiveness, for that 'tis not to be believed but that they have just cause; seeing that the friars are good folk, and eschew hardship for the love of god, and grind intermittently, and never blab; and, were they not all a trifle malodorous, intercourse with them would be much more agreeable. nevertheless, i acknowledge that the things of this world have no stability, but are ever undergoing change; and this may have befallen my tongue, albeit, no great while ago, one of my fair neighbours--for in what pertains to myself i trust not my own judgment, but forgo it to the best of my power--told me 'twas the goodliest and sweetest tongue in the world; and in sooth, when this occurred, few of the said stories were yet to write; nor, for that those who so tax me do it despitefully, am i minded to vouchsafe them any further answer. so, then, be every lady at liberty to say and believe whatever she may think fit: but 'tis now time for me to bring these remarks to a close, with humble thanks to him, by whose help and guidance i, after so long travail, have been brought to the desired goal. and may you, sweet my ladies, rest ever in his grace and peace; and be not unmindful of me, if, peradventure, any of you may, in any measure, have been profited by reading these stories. (1) noted topers of the day. -endeth here the tenth and last day of the book called decameron, otherwise prince galeotto. -the end. http://www.freeliterature.org (images generously made available by the internet archive.) the decameron containing an hundred pleasant novels. _wittily discoursed, betweene seven honourable ladies, and three noble gentlemen._ the last five dayes. london, printed by isaac jaggard, 1620. to the right honourable sir phillip herbert, knight, lord baron of sherland, earle of montgomery, and knight of the most noble order of the garter. _having (by your honourable command) translated this_ decameron, _or_ cento novelle, _sirnamed_ il principe galeotto, _of ten dayes severall discourses, grounded on variable and singuler arguments, happening betweene seaven noble ladies, and three very honourable gentlemen: although not attyred in such elegantcy of phrase, or nice curiosity of stile, as a quicker and more sprightly wit could have performed, but in such home-borne language, as my ability could stretch unto; yet it commeth (in all duty) to kisse your noble hand, and to shelter it selfe under your gracious protection, though not from the leering eye, and over-lavish tongue of snarling envy; yet from the power of his blasting poyson, and malice of his machinations._ _to the reader._ bookes (courteous reader) may rightly be compared to _gardens_; wherein, let the painfull gardiner expresse never so much care and diligent endeavour; yet among the very fairest, sweetest, and freshest flowers, as also plants of most precious vertue; ill favouring and stinking weeds, fit for no use but the fire or mucke-hill, will spring and sprout up. so fareth it with bookes of the very best quality, let the author bee never so indulgent, and the printer vigilant: yet both may misse their ayme, by the escape of errors and mistakes, either in sense or matter, the one fault ensuing by a ragged written copy; and the other thorough want of wary correction. if then the best bookes cannot be free from this common infirmity; blame not this then, of farre lighter argument, wherein thy courtesie may helpe us both: his blame, in acknowledging his more sufficiency, then to write so grosse and absurdly: and mine, in pardoning unwilling errours committed, which thy judgement finding, thy pen can as easily correct. _farewell._ the table dedication. to the reader. * * * * * the sixt day, governed under madame eliza. _wherein the discourses or novels there to bee recounted, doe concerne such persons; who by some witty words (when any have taunted them) have revenged themselves, in a sudden, unexpected and discreet answere, thereby preventing losse, danger, scorne and disgrace, retorting them on the busi-headed questioners._ the argument of the first novell. _a knight requested madame_ oretta, _to ride behinde him on horsebacke, and promised, to tell her an excellent tale by the way. but the lady perceiving, that his discourse was idle, and much worse delivered: entreated him to let her walke on foote againe._ _the morall._ reprehending the folly of such men, as undertake to report discourses, which are beyond their wit and capacity, and gaine nothing but blame for their labour. the argument of the second novell. cistio _a baker, by a witty answere which he gave unto_ messer geri spina, _caused him to acknowledge a very indiscreet motion, which he had made to the said_ cistio. _the morall._ approving, that a request ought to be civill, before it should be granted to any one whatsoever. the argument of the third novell. madam nonna de pulci, _by a sodaine answere, did put to silence a bishop of_ florence, _and the lord marshall: having mooved a question to the said lady, which seemed to come short of honesty._ _the morall._ wherein is declared, that mockers doe sometimes meet with their matches in mockery, and to their owne shame. the argument of the fourth novell. chichibio, _the cooke to_ messer currado gianfiliazzi, _by a sodaine pleasant answere which he made to his master; converted his anger into laughter, and thereby escaped the punishment, that_ messer _meant to impose on him._ _the morall._ whereby plainely appeareth, that a sodaine witty, and merry answere, doth oftentimes appease the furious choller of an angry man. the argument of the fift novell. messer forese da rabatte, _and maister_ giotto, _a painter by his profession, comming together from_ mugello, _scornefully reprehended one another for their deformity of body._ _the morall._ whereby may be observed, that such as will speake contemptibly of others, ought (first of all) to looke respectively on their owne imperfections. the argument of the sixt novell. _a yong and ingenious scholler, being unkindly reviled and smitten by his ignorant father, and through the procurement of an unlearned vicare; afterward attained to bee doubly revenged on him._ _the morall._ serving as an advertisment to unlearned parents, not to be over-rash, in censuring on schollers imperfections, through any bad or unbeseeming perswasions. the argument of the seaventh novell. madame phillippa, _being accused by her husband_ rinaldo de pugliese, _because he tooke her in adultery, with a yong gentleman named_ lazarino de guazzagliotori: _caused her to bee cited before a judge. from whom she delivered her selfe, by a sodaine, witty, and pleasant answere, and moderated a severe strict statute, formerly made against women._ _the morall._ wherein is declared, of what worth it is to confesse a truth, with a facetious and witty excuse. the argument of the eighth novell. fresco da celatico, _counselled and advised his neece_ cesca: _that if such as deserved to bee looked on, were offensive to her eyes (as she had often told him;) she should forbeare to looke on any._ _the morall._ in just scorne of such unsightly and ill-pleasing surly sluts, who imagine none to bee faire or well-favoured, but themselves. the argument of the ninth novell. signior guido cavalcante, _with a sodaine and witty answere, reprehended the rash folly of certaine florentine gentlemen, that thought to scorne and flout him._ _the morall._ notably discovering the great difference that is betweene learning and ignorance, upon judicious apprehension. the argument of the tenth novell. _frier_ onyon _promised certaine honest people of the country, to shew them a feather of the same phoenix, that was with_ noah _in his arke. in sted whereof, he found coales, which he avouched to be those very coales, wherewith the same phoenix was roasted._ _the morall._ wherein may be observed, what palpable abuses doe many times passe, under the counterfeit cloake of religion. * * * * * the seaventh day, governed under the regiment of dioneus. _wherein the discourses are directed, for the discovery of such policies and deceits, as women have used for beguiling of their husbands, either in respect of their love, or for the prevention of some blame or scandall; escaping without sight, knowledge, or otherwise._ the argument of the first novell. john _of_ lorraine _heard one knocke at his doore in the night time, whereupon he awaked his wife_ monna tessa. _shee made him beleeve, that it was a spirit which knocked at the doore, and so they arose, going both together to conjure the spirit with a charme; and afterwards, they heard no more knocking._ _the morall._ reprehending the simplicity of some sottish husbands: and discovering the wanton subtilties of some women, to compasse their unlawfull desires. the argument of the second novell. peronella _hid a yong man her friend and lover, under a great brewing fat, uppon the sodaine returning home of her husband; who tolde her, that he had sold the saide fat, and brought him that bought it, to carry it away._ peronella _replyed, that shee had formerly solde it unto another, who was now underneath it, to see whether it were whole and sound, or no. whereupon, he being come forth from under it; shee caused her husband to make it neate and cleane, and so the last buyer carried it away._ _the morall._ wherein is declared, what hard and narrow shifts and distresses, such as be seriously linked in love, are many times enforced to undergoe: according as their owne wit, and capacity of their surprizers, drive them to extremities. the argument of the third novell. _friar_ reynard, _falling in love with a gentlewoman, wife to a man of good account; found the meanes to become her gossip. afterward, he being conferring closely with her in her chamber, and her husband comming sodainely thither: she made him beleeve, that he came thither for no other ende; but to cure his god-sonne by a charme, of a dangerous disease which he had by wormes._ _the morall._ serving as a friendly advertisement to married women, that monks, friars, and priests may be none of their gossips, in regard of unavoydable perils ensuing thereby. the argument of the fourth novell. tofano _in the night season, did locke his wife out of his house, and she not prevailing to get entrance againe, by all the entreaties shee could possibly use: made him beleeve that shee had throwne her selfe into a well, by casting a great stone into the same well._ tofano _hearing the fall of the stone into the well, and being perswaded that it was his wife indeede; came forth of his house, and ranne to the welles side. in the meane while, his wife gotte into the house, made fast the doore against her husband, and gave him many reprochfull speeches._ _the morall._ wherein is manifested, that the malice and subtilty of a woman, surpasseth all the art or wit in man. the argument of the fift novell. _a jealous man, clouded with the habite of a priest, became the confessour to his owne wife; who made him beleeve, that she was deepely in love with a priest, which came every night, and lay with her. by meanes of which confession, while her jealous husband watched the doore of his house; to surprise the priest when he came: she that never meant to doe amisse, had the company of a secret friend who came over the toppe of the house to visite her, while her foolish husband kept the doore._ _the morall._ in just scorne and mockery of such jealous husbands, that wil be idle headed upon no occasion. and yet when they have good reason for it, doe least of all suspect any such injury. the argument of the sixth novell. _madame_ isabella, _delighting in the company of her affected friend, named_ lionello, _and she being likewise beloved by_ signior lambertuccio: _at the same time as shee had entertained_ lionello, _she was also visited by_ lambertuccio. _her husband returning home in the very instant; she caused_ lambertuccio _to runne foorth with a drawne sword in his hand, and (by that meanes) made an excuse sufficient for_ lionello _to her husband._ _the morall._ wherein is manifestly discerned, that if love be driven to a narrow straite in any of his attempts; yet hee can accomplish his purpose by some other supply. the argument of the seaventh novell. lodovico _discovered to his mistresse madame_ beatrix, _how amourously he was affected to her. she cunningly sent_ egano _her husband into his garden, in all respects disguised like herselfe; while (friendly)_ lodovico _conferred with her the meane while. afterward,_ lodovico _pretending a lascivious allurement of his mistresse, thereby to wrong his honest master, instead of her, beateth_ egano _soundly in the garden._ _the morall._ whereby is declared, that such as keepe many honest seeming servants, may sometime finde a knave among them, and one that proves to bee over-sawcy with his master. the argument of the eight novell. arriguccio berlinghieri, _became immeasurably jealous of his wife_ simonida, _who fastened a thred about her great toe, for to serve as a signall, when her amourous friend should come to visite her._ arriguccio _findeth the fallacy, and while he pursueth the amorous friend, shee causeth her maide to lie in her bed against his returne: whom he beateth extreamly, cutting away the lockes of her haire (thinking he had done all this violence to his wife_ simonida:) _and afterward fetcheth her mother and brethren, to shame her before them, and so be rid of her. but they finding all his speeches to be false; and reputing him to be a drunken jealous foole; all the blame and disgrace falleth on himselfe._ _the morall._ whereby appeareth, that an husband ought to be very well advised, when he meaneth to discover any wrong offered by his wife; except he himselfe doe rashly run into all the shame and reproch. the argument of the ninth novell. lydia, _a lady of great beauty, birth, and honor, being wife to_ nicostratus, _governor of_ argos, _falling in love with a gentleman, named_ pyrrhus; _was requested by him (as a true testimony of her unfeigned affection) to performe three severall actions of her selfe. she did accomplish them all, and imbraced and kissed_ pyrrhus _in the presence of_ nicostratus; _by perswading him, that whatsoever he saw, was meerely false._ _the morall._ wherein is declared, that great lords may sometime be deceived by their wives, as well as men of meaner condition. the argument of the tenth novell. _two citizens of_ sienna, _the one named_ tingoccio mini, _and the other_ meucio di tora, _affected both one woman, called_ monna mita, _to whom the one of them was a gossip. the gossip dyed, and appeared afterward to his companion, according as he had formerly promised him to doe, and told him what strange wonders he had seene in the other world._ _the morall._ wherein such men are covertly reprehended, who make no care or conscience at all of those things that should preserve them from sinne. * * * * * the eighth day, governed under madame lauretta. _whereon all the discourses, is, concerning such witty deceivings, as have, or may be put in practise, by wives to their husbands, husbands to their wives, or one man towards another._ the argument of the first novell. gulfardo _made a match or wager, with the wife of_ gasparuolo, _for the obtaining of her amorous favour, in regard of a summe of money first to be given her. the money he borrowed of her husband, and gave it in payment to her, as in case of discharging him from her husbands debt. after his returne home from_ geneway, _he told him in the presence of his wife, how hee had payde the whole summe to her, with charge of delivering it to her husband, which she confessed to be true, albeit greatly against her will._ _the morall._ wherein is declared, that such women as will make sale of their honestie, are sometimes over-reached in their payment, and justly served as they should be. the argument of the second novell. _a lusty priest of_ varlungo, _fell in love with a prety woman, named_ monna belcolore. _to compasse his amorous desire, hee left his cloake (as a pledge of further payment) with her. by a subtile sleight afterward, he borrowed a morter of her, which when hee sent home againe in the presence of her husband, he demanded to have his cloake sent him, as having left it in pawne for the morter. to pacifie her husband, offended that she did not lend the priest the morter without a pawne: she sent him backe his cloake againe, albeit greatly against hir will._ _the morall._ approving, that no promise is to be kept with such women as will make sale of their honesty for coine. the argument of the third novell. calandrino, bruno, _and_ buffalmaco, _being painters by profession, travailed to the plaine of_ mugnone, _to finde the precious stone called helitropium._ calandrino _perswading himselfe to have found it, returned home to his house heavy loaden with stones. his wife rebuking him for his absence, he groweth into anger, and shrewdly beates her. afterward, when the case is debated by his other friends_ bruno _&_ buffalmaco, _all is found to be meere folly._ _the morall._ reprehending the simplicity of such men, as are too much addicted to credulity, and will give credit to every thing they heare. the argument of the fourth novell. _the provost belonging to the cathedrall church of_ fiesola, _fell in love with a gentlewoman, being a widdow, and named_ piccarda, _who hated him as much as he loved her. he immagining that he lay with her: by the gentlewomans brethren, and the bishop under whom he served, was taken in bed with her mayde, an ugly, foule, deformed slut._ _the morall._ wherein is declared, how love oftentimes is so powerfull in aged men, and driveth them to such doating, that it redoundeth to their great disgrace and punishment. the argument of the fift novell. _three pleasant companions, plaid a merry prank with a judge (belonging to the marquesate of_ ancona) _at_ florence, _at such time as he sat on the bench, & hearing criminall causes._ _the morall._ giving admonition, that for the managing of publike affaires, no other persons are or ought to bee appointed, but such as be honest, and meet to sit on the seate of authority. the argument of the sixt novell. bruno _and_ buffalmaco _stole a yong brawne from_ calandrino, _and for his recovery thereof, they used a kinde of pretended conjuration, with pils made of ginger and strong malmesey. but insted of this application, they gave him two pils of a dogges dates or dousets, confected in alloes, by meanes whereof they made him beleeve, that hee had robd himselfe. and for feare they should report this theft to his wife, they made him to buy another brawne._ _the morall._ wherein is declared, how easily a plaine and simple man may bee made a foole, when he dealeth with crafty companions. the argument of the seaventh novell. _a yong gentleman being a scholler, fell in love with a ladie, named_ helena, _she being a woman, and addicted in affection unto another gentleman. one whole night in cold winter, she caused the scholler to expect her comming, in an extreame frost and snow. in revenge whereof, by his imagined art and skill, he made her to stand naked on the top of a tower, the space of a whole day, and in the hot moneth of july, to be sun-burnt and bitten with waspes and flies._ _the morall._ serving as an admonition to all gentlewomen, not to mocke gentlemen schollers, when they make meanes of love to them, except they intend to seeke their owne shame by disgracing them. the argument of the eighth novell. _two neere dwelling neighbours, the one beeing named_ spinelloccio tavena, _and the other_ zeppa di mino, _frequenting each others company daily together;_ spinelloccio _cuckolded his friend and neighbour. which happening to the knowledge of_ zeppa, _hee prevailed so well with the wife of_ spinelloccio, _that he being lockt up in a chest, hee revenged his wrong at that instant, so that neyther of them complained of his misfortune._ _the morall._ wherein is approved, that hee which offereth shame and disgrace to his neighbour, may receive the like injury (if not worse) by the same man. the argument of the ninth novell. _maestro_ simone, _an idle headed doctor of physicke, was thrown by_ bruno _and_ buffalmaco _into a common leystall of filth: the physitian fondly beleeving, that (in the night time) he should be made one of a new created company, who usually went to see wonders at_ corsica, _and there in the leystall they left him._ _the morall._ approving, that titles of honour, learning, and dignity, are not alwayes bestowne on the wisest men. the argument of the tenth novell. _a cicilian curtezan, named madam_ biancafiore, _by her subtle policy deceived a yong merchant called_ salabetto, _of all his mony he had taken for his wares at_ palermo. _afterward, he making shew of coming thither againe with far richer merchandises then before: made the meanes to borrow a great summe of money, leaving her so base a pawne, as well requited her for her former cousenage._ _the morall._ approving, that such as meet with cunning harlots, suffering them selves to be deceyved, must sharpen their wits, to make them requitall in the same kind. * * * * * the ninth day, governed under madame ã�millia. whereon, the argument of each severall discourse, is not limited to any one peculiar subject: but everie one remaineth at liberty, to speake of whatsoever themselves best pleaseth. the argument of the first novell. _madam_ francesca, _a widdow of_ pistoya, _being affected by two florentine gentlemen, the one named_ rinuccio palermini, _and the other_ alessandro chiarmontesi, _and she bearing no good will to either of them, ingeniously freed her selfe from both their importunate suites. one of them shee caused to lye as dead in a grave, and the other to fetch him from thence: so neither of them accomplishing what they were enjoyned, failed of their expectation._ _the morall._ approving, that chast and honest women, ought rather to deny importunate suiters, by subtle and ingenious means, then fall into the danger of scandall and slander. the argument of the second novell. _madame_ usimbalda, _lady abbesse of a monastery of nuns in_ lombardie, _arising hastily in the night time without a candle, to take one of her daughter nunnes in bed with a yong gentleman, whereof she was enviously accused, by certaine of her other sisters: the abbesse her selfe (being at the same time in bed with a priest) imagining to have put on her head her plaited vayle, put on the priests breeches. which when the poore nunne perceyved; by causing the abbesse to see her owne error, she got her selfe to be absolved, and had the freer liberty afterward, to be more familiar with her frend, then formerly she had bin._ _the morall._ whereby is declared, that whosoever is desirous to reprehend sinne in other men, should first examine himselfe, that he be not guiltie of the same crime. the argument of the third novell. _master_ simon _the physitian, by the perswasions of_ bruno, buffalmaco, _and a third companion, named_ nello, _made_ calandrino _to beleeve, that he was conceived great with childe. and having physicke ministred to him for the disease: they got both good fatte capons and money of him, and so cured him, without any other manner of deliverance._ _the morall._ discovering the simplicity of some silly witted men, and how easie a matter it is to abuse and beguile them. the argument of the fourth novell. francesco fortarigo, _played away all that he had at_ buonconvento, _and likewise the money of_ francesco aniolliero, _being his master: then running after him in his shirt, and avouching that hee had robbed him: he caused him to be taken by pezants of the country, clothed himselfe in his masters wearing garments, and (mounted on his horse) rode thence to_ sienna, _leaving_ aniolliero _in his shirt, and walked bare-footed._ _the morall._ serving as an admonition to all men, for taking gamesters and drunkards into their service. the argument of the fifte novell. calandrino _became extraordinarily enamoured of a young damosell, named_ nicholetta. bruno _prepared a charme or writing for him, avouching constantly to him, that so soone as he touched the damosell therewith, she should follow him whithersoever hee would have her. she being gone to an appointed place with him, hee was found there by his wife, and dealt withall according to his deserving._ _the morall._ in just reprehension of those vaine-headed fooles, that are led and governed by idle perswasions. the argument of the sixth novell. _two yong gentlemen, the one named_ panuccio, _and the other_ adriano, _lodged one night in a poore inne, whereof one of them went to bed to the hostes daughter, and the other (by mistaking his way in the darke) to the hostes wife. he which lay with the daughter, hapned afterward to the hostes bed, and told him what he had done, as thinking he spake to his owne companion. discontentment growing betweene them, the mother perceiving her errour, went to bed to her daughter, and with discreete language, made a generall pacification._ _the morall._ wherein is manifested, that an offence committed ignorantly, and by mistaking; ought to be covered with good advise, and civill discretion. the argument of the seaventh novell. talano de molese _dreamed, that a wolfe rent and tore his wives face and throate. which dreame he told to her, with advise to keep her selfe out of danger; which she refusing to doe, received what followed._ _the morall._ whereby (with some indifferent reason) it is concluded, that dreames do not alwayes fall out to be leasings. the argument of the eight novell. blondello _(in a merry manner) caused_ guiotto _to beguile himselfe of a good dinner: for which deceit,_ guiotto _became cunningly revenged, by procuring_ blondello _to be unreasonably beaten and misused._ _the morall._ whereby plainly appeareth, that they which take delight in deceiving others, do well deserve to be deceived themselves. the argument of the ninth novell. _two yong gentlemen, the one named_ melisso, _borne in the city of_ laiazzo: _and the other_ giosefo _of_ antioch, _travailed together unto_ salomon, _the famous king of_ great britaine. _the one desiring to learne what he should do, whereby to compasse and winne the love of men. the other craved to be enstructed, by what meanes hee might reclaime an headstrong and unruly wife. and what answeres the wise king gave unto them both, before they departed away from him._ _the morall._ containing an excellent admonition, that such as covet to have the love of other men, must first learne themselves, how to love: also, by what meanes such women as are curst and self willed, may be reduced to civill obedience. the argument of the tenth novell. john de barolo, _at the instance and request of his gossip_ pietro da trefanti, _made an enchantment, to have his wife become a mule. and when it came to the fastening on of the taile, gossip_ pietro _by saying she should have no taile at all, spoyled the whole enchantment._ _the morall._ in just reproofe of such foolish men, as will be governed by over-light beleefe. * * * * * the tenth day, governed under pamphilus. _whereon the severall arguments doe concerne such persons, as other by way of liberality, or in magnificent manner, performed any worthy action, for love, favor, friendship, or any other honourable occasion._ the argument of the first novell. _a florentine knight, named signior_ rogiero de figiovanni, _became a servant to_ alphonso, _king of_ spaine, _who (in his owne opinion) seemed but sleightly to respect and reward him. in regard whereof, by a notable experiment, the king gave him a manifest testimony, that it was not through any defect in him, but onely occasioned by the knights ill fortune; most bountifully recompensing him afterward._ _the morall._ wherein may evidently be discerned, that servants to princes and great lords, are many times recompenced, rather by their good fortune, then in any regard of their dutifull services. the argument of the second novell. ghinotto di tacco; _tooke the lord abbot of_ clugni _as his prisoner, and cured him of a grievous disease, which he had in his stomacke, and afterward set him at liberty. the same lord abbot, when hee returned from the court of rome, reconciled_ ghinotto _to pope_ boniface; _who made him a knight, and lord prior of a goodly hospitall._ _the morall._ wherein is declared that good men doe sometimes fall into bad conditions, onely occasioned thereto by necessity: and what meanes are to be used, for their reducing to goodnesse againe. the argument of the third novell. mithridanes _envying the life and liberality of_ nathan, _and travelling thither, with a setled resolution to kill him: chaunceth to conferre with_ nathan _unknowne. and being instructed by him, in what manner he might best performe the bloody deede, according as hee gave direction, hee meeteth with him in a small thicket or woode, where knowing him to be the same man, that taught him how to take away his life: confounded with shame, hee acknowledgeth his horrible intention, and becommeth his loyall friend._ _the morall._ shewing in an excellent and lively demonstration, that any especiall honourable vertue, persevering and dwelling in a truly noble soule, cannot be violenced or confounded, by the most politicke attemptes of malice and envy. the argument of the fourth novell. signior gentile de carisendi, _being come from_ modena, _tooke a gentlewoman, named madam_ catharina, _forth of a grave, wherein she was buried for dead; which act he did, in regard of his former honest affection to the said gentlewoman. madame_ catharina _remaining there afterward, and delivered of a goodly sonne: was (by_ signior gentile) _delivered to her owne husband; named_ signior nicoluccio caccianimico, _and the yong infant with her._ _the morall._ wherein is shewne, that true love hath alwayes bin, and so still is, the occasion of many great and worthy courtesies. the argument of the fift novell. _madame_ dianora, _the wife of signior_ gilberto, _being immodestly affected by signior_ ansaldo, _to free herselfe from his tedious importunity, she appointed him to performe (in her judgement) an act of impossibility; namely, to give her a garden, as plentifully stored with fragrant flowers in january, as in the flourishing moneth of_ may. ansaldo, _by meanes of a bond which he made to a magitian, performed her request. signior_ gilberto, _the ladyes husband, gave consent, that his wife should fulfill her promise made to_ ansaldo. _who hearing the bountifull mind of her husband; released her of her promise: and the magitian likewise discharged signior_ ansaldo, _without taking any thing of him._ _the morall._ admonishing all ladies and gentlewomen, that are desirous to preserve their chastity, free from all blemish and taxation: to make no promise of yeelding to any, under a compact or covenant, how impossible soever it may seeme to be. the argument of the sixt novell. _victorious_ king charles, _sirnamed the aged, and first of that name, fell in love with a yong maiden, named_ genevera, _daughter to an ancient knight, called signior_ neri degli uberti. _and waxing ashamed of his amorous folly, caused both_ genevera, _and her fayre sister_ isotta, _to be joyned in marriage with two noble gentlemen; the one named_ signior maffeo da palizzi, _and the other,_ signior gulielmo della magna. _the morall._ sufficiently declaring, that how mighty soever the power of love is: yet a magnanimous and truly generous heart, it can by no meanes fully conquer. the argument of the seaventh novell. lisana, _the daughter of a florentine apothecary, named_ bernardo puccino, _being at_ palermo, _and seeing_ piero, _king of_ aragon _run at the tilt; fell so affectionately enamored of him, that she languished in an extreame and long sickenesse. by her owne devise, and means of a song, sung in the hearing of the king: he vouchsafed to visite her, and giving her a kisse, terming himselfe also to bee her knight for ever after, hee honourably bestowed her in marriage on a young gentleman, who was called_ perdicano, _and gave him liberall endowments with her._ _the morall._ wherein is covertly given to understand, that howsoever a prince may make use of his absolute power and authority, towards maides or wives that are his subjects: yet he ought to deny and reject all things, as shall make him forgetfull of himselfe, and his true honour. the argument of the eight novell. sophronia, _thinking her selfe to be the maried wife of_ gisippus, _was (indeed) the wife of_ titus quintus fulvius, _& departed thence with him to rome. within a while after,_ gisippus _also came thither in very poore condition, and thinking that he was despised by_ titus, _grew weary of his life, and confessed that he had murdred a man, with full** intent to die for the fact. but_ titus _taking knowledge of him, and desiring to save the life of_ gisippus, _charged himself to have done the bloody deed. which the murderer himself (standing then among the multitude) seeing, truly confessed the deed. by meanes whereof, all three were delivered by the emperor_ octavius; _and_ titus _gave his sister in mariage to_ gisippus, _giving them also the most part of his goods & inheritances._ _the morall._ declaring, that notwithstanding the frownes of fortune, diversity of occurrences, and contrary accidents happening: yet love and friendship ought to be preciously preserved among men. the argument of the ninth novell. saladine, _the great_ soldan _of_ babylon, _in the habite of a merchant, was honourably received and welcommed, into the house of signior_ thorello d'istria. _who travelling to the holy land, prefixed a certaine time to his wife, for his returne backe to her againe, wherein, if he failed, it was lawfull for her to take another husband. by clouding himselfe in the disguise of a faulkner, the_ soldan _tooke notice of him, and did him many great honours. afterward,_ thorello _falling sicke, by magicall art, he was conveighed in one night to_ pavia, _when his wife was to be married on the morrow: where making himselfe knowne to her, all was disappointed, and shee went home with him to his owne house._ _the morall._ declaring what an honourable vertue courtesie is, in them that truely know how to use them. the argument of the tenth novell. _the marquesse of_ saluzzo, _named_ gualtiero, _being constrained by the importunate solliciting of his lords, and other inferiour people, to joyne himselfe in marriage; tooke a woman according to his owne liking, called_ grizelda, _she being the daughter of a poore countriman, named_ janiculo, _by whom he had two children, which he pretended to be secretly murdered. afterward, they being grown to yeres of more stature, and making shew of taking in marriage another wife, more worthy of his high degree and calling: made a seeming publique liking of his owne daughter, expulsing his wife_ grizelda _poorely from him. but finding her incomparable patience; more dearely (then before) hee received her into favour againe, brought her home to his owne pallace, where (with her children) hee caused her and them to be respectively honoured, in despight of all her adverse enemies._ _the morall._ set downe as an example or warning to all wealthie men, how to have care of marrying themselves. and likewise** to poore and meane women, to be patient in their fortunes, and obedient to their husbands. the sixt day. _governed under the authority of madam eliza, and the argument of the discourses or novels there to be recounted, doe concerne such persons; who by some witty words (when any have checkt or taunted them) have revenged themselves, in a sudden, unexpected and discreet answere, thereby preventing loss, danger, scorne and disgrace, retorting them on the busi-headed questioners._ the induction. the moone having past the heaven, lost her bright splendour, by the arising of a more powerfull light, and every part of our world began to looke cleare: when the queene (being risen) caused all the company to be called, walking forth afterward upon the pearled dewe (so farre as was supposed convenient) in faire and familiar conference together, according as severally they were disposed, & repetition of divers the passed novels, especially those which were most pleasing, and seemed so by their present commendations. but the sunne beeing somewhat higher mounted, gave such a sensible warmth to the ayre, as caused their returne backe to the pallace, where the tables were readily covered against their comming, strewed with sweet hearbes and odoriferous flowers, seating themselves at the tables (before the heat grew more violent) according as the queene commanded. after dinner, they sung divers excellent canzonnets, and then some went to sleepe, others played at the chesse, and some at the tables: but _dioneus_ and madam _lauretta_, they sung the love-conflict betweene _troylus_ and _cressida_. now was the houre come, of repairing to their former consistory or meeting place, the queene having thereto generally summoned them, and seating themselves (as they were wont to doe) about the faire fountaine. as the queene was commanding to begin the first novell, an accident suddenly happened, which never had befalne before: to wit, they heard a great noyse and tumult, among the houshold servants in the kitchin. whereupon, the queene caused the master of the houshold to be called, demaunding of him, what noyse it was, and what might be the occasion thereof? he made answere, that _lacisca_ and _tindaro_ were at some words of discontentment, but what was the occasion thereof, he knew not. whereupon, the queene commanded that they should be sent for, (their anger and violent speeches still continuing) and being come into her presence, she demaunded the reason of their discord; and _tindaro_ offering to make answere, _lacisca_ (being somewhat more ancient then he, and of a fiercer fiery spirit, even as if her heart would have leapt out of her mouth) turned her selfe to him, and with a scornefull frowning countenance, said. see how this bold, unmannerly and beastly fellow, dare presume to speake in this place before me: stand by (saucy impudence) and give your better leave to answere; then turning to the queene, thus shee proceeded. madam, this idle fellow would maintaine to me, that signior _sicophanto_ marrying with _madama della grazza_, had the victory of her virginity the very first night: and i avouched the contrary, because shee had been a mother twise before, in very faire adventuring of her fortune. and he dared to affirme beside, that yong maides are so simple, as to loose the flourishing aprill of their time, in meere feare of their parents, and great prejudice of their amourous friends. onely being abused by infinite promises, that this yeare and that yeare they shall have husbands, when, both by the lawes of nature and reason, they are not tyed to tarry so long, but rather ought to lay hold upon opportunity, when it is fairely and friendly offered, so that seldome they come maides to marriage. beside, i have heard, and know some married wives, that have played divers wanton prancks with their husbands, yet carried all so demurely and smoothly; that they have gone free from publique detection. all which this woodcocke will not credit, thinking me to be so yong a novice, as if i had been borne but yesterday. while _lacisca_ was delivering these speeches, the ladies smiled on one another, not knowing what to say in this case: and although the queene (five and or severall times) commaunded her to silence; yet such was the earnestnes of her spleen, that she gave no attention, but held on still even untill she had uttered all that she pleased. but after she had concluded her complaint, the queene (with a smiling countenance) turned towards _dioneus_ saying. this matter seemeth most properly to belong to you; and therefore i dare repose such trust in you, that when our novels (for this day) shall be ended, you will conclude the case with a definitive sentence. whereto _dioneus_ presently thus replyed. madam, the verdict is already given, without any further expectation: and i affirme, that _lacisca_ hath spoken very sensibly, because shee is a woman of good apprehension, and _tindaro_ is but a puny, in practise and experience, to her. when _lacisca_ heard this, she fell into a lowd laughter, and turning her selfe to _tindaro_, sayde: the honour of the day is mine, and thine owne quarrell hath overthrowne thee in the fielde. thou that (as yet) hath scarsely learned to sucke, wouldest thou presume to know so much as i doe? couldst thou imagine mee, to be such a trewant in losse of my time, that i came hither as an ignorant creature? and had not the queene (looking verie frowningly on her) strictly enjoyned her to silence; shee would have continued still in this triumphing humour. but fearing further chastisement for disobedience, both shee and _tindaro_ were commanded thence, where was no other allowance all this day, but onely silence and attention, to such as should be enjoyned speakers. and then the queene, somewhat offended at the folly of the former controversie, commanded madame _philomena_, that she should give beginning to the dayes novels: which (in dutifull manner) shee undertooke to doe, and seating her selfe in formall fashion, with modest and very gracious gesture, thus she began. _a knight requested madam_ oretta, _to ride behinde him on horse-backe, and promised, to tell her an excellent tale by the way. but the lady perceiving, that his discourse was idle, and much worse delivered: entreated him to let her walke on foote againe._ the first novell. _reprehending the folly of such men, as undertake to report discourses, which are beyond their wit and capacity, and gaine nothing but blame for their labour._ gracious ladies, like as in our faire, cleere, and serene seasons, the starres are bright ornaments to the heavens, and the flowry fields (so long as the spring time lasteth) weare their goodliest liveries, the trees likewise bragging in their best adornings: even so at friendly meetings, short, sweet, and sententious words, are the beauty & ornament of any discourse, savouring of wit and sound judgement, worthily deserving to be commended. and so much the rather, because in few and witty words, aptly suting with the time and occasion, more is delivered then was expected, or sooner answered, then rashly apprehended: which, as they become men verie highly, yet do they shew more singular in women. true it is, what the occasion may be, i know not, either by the badnesse of our wittes, or the especiall enmitie betweene our complexions and the celestiall bodies: there are scarsely any, or very few women to be found among us, that well knowes how to deliver a word, when it should and ought to be spoken; or, if a question bee mooved, understands to suite it with an apt answere, such as conveniently is required, which is no meane disgrace to us women. but in regard, that madame _pampinea_ hath already spoken sufficiently of this matter, i meane not to presse it any further: but at this time it shall satisfie mee, to let you know, how wittily a ladie made due observation of opportunitie, in answering of a knight, whose talke seemed tedious and offensive to her. no doubt there are some among you, who either do know, or (at the least) have heard, that it is no long time since, when there dwelt a gentlewoman in our citie, of excellent grace and good discourse, with all other rich endowments of nature remaining in her, as pitty it were to conceale her name: and therefore let me tell ye, that shee was called madame _oretta_, the wife to signior _geri spina_. she being upon some occasion (as now we are) in the countrey, and passing from place to place (by way of neighbourly invitations) to visite her loving friends and acquaintance, accompanied with divers knights and gentlewomen, who on the day before had dined and supt at her house, as now (belike) the selfe-same courtesie was intended to her: walking along with her company upon the way; and the place for her welcome beeing further off then she expected: a knight chanced to overtake this faire troop, who well knowing madam _oretta_, using a kinde and courteous salutation, spake thus unto her. madam, this foot travell may bee offensive to you, and were you so well pleased as my selfe, i would ease your journey behinde mee on my gelding, even so farre as you shall command me: and beside, will shorten your wearinesse with a tale worth the hearing. courteous sir (replyed the lady) i embrace your kinde offer with such acceptation, that i pray you to performe it; for therein you shall doe me an especiall favour. the knight, whose sword (perhappes) was as unsuteable to his side, as his wit out of fashion for any readie discourse, having the lady mounted behinde him: rode on with a gentle pace, and (according to his promise) began to tell a tale, which indeede (of it selfe) deserved attention, because it was a knowne and commendable history, but yet delivered so abruptly, with idle repetitions of some particulars three or foure severall times, mistaking one thing for another, and wandering erroneously from the essentiall subject, seeming neere an end, and then beginning againe: that a poore tale could not possibly be more mangled, or worse tortured in telling, then this was; for the persons therein concerned, were so abusively nicke-named, their actions and speeches so monstrously misshapen,** that nothing could appeare to be more ugly. madame _oretta_, being a lady of unequalled ingenuitie, admirable in judgement, and most delicate in her speech, was afflicted in soule, beyond all measure; overcome with many colde sweates, and passionate heart-aking qualmes, to see a foole thus in a pinne-fold, and unable to get out, albeit the doore stood wide open to him, whereby shee became so sicke; that, converting her distaste to a kinde of pleasing acceptation, merrily thus she spake. beleeve me sir, your horse trots so hard, & travels so uneasily; that i entreate you to let me walke on foot againe. the knight, being (perchance) a better understander, then a discourser; perceived by this witty taunt, that his bowle had run a contrarie bias, and he as farre out of tune, as he was from the towne. so, lingering the time, untill her company was neerer arrived: hee lefte her with them, and rode on as his wisedome could best direct him. cistio _a baker, by a wittie answer which he gave unto_ messer geri spina, _caused him to acknowledge a very indiscreete motion, which he had made to the said_ cistio. the second novell. _approving, that a request ought to be civill, before it should be granted to any one whatsoever._ the words of madame _oretta_, were much commended by the men and women; and the discourse being ended, the queene gave command to madam _pampinea_, that shee should follow next in order, which made her to begin in this manner. worthy ladies, it exceedeth the power of my capacitie, to censure in the case whereof i am to speake, by saying, who sinned most, either nature, in seating a noble soule in a vile body, or fortune, in bestowing on a body (beautified with a noble soule) a base or wretched condition of life. as we may observe by _cistio_, a citizen of our owne, and many more beside; for, this _cistio_ beeing endued with a singular good spirit, fortune hath made him no better then a baker. and beleeve me ladies, i could (in this case) lay as much blame on nature, as on fortune; if i did not know nature to be most absolutely wise, & that fortune hath a thousand eyes, albeit fooles have figured her to bee blinde. but, upon more mature and deliberate consideration, i finde, that they both (being truly wise and judicious) have dealt justly, in imitation of our best advised mortals, who being uncertaine of such inconveniences, as may happen unto them, do bury (for their own benefit) the very best and choisest things of esteeme, in the most vile and abject places of their houses, as being subject to least suspition, and where they may be sure to have them at all times, for supply of any necessitie whatsoever, because so base a conveyance hath better kept them, then the very best chamber in the house could have done. even so these two great commanders of the world, do many times hide their most precious jewels of worth, under the clouds of arts or professions of worst estimation, to the end, that fetching them thence when neede requires, their splendour may appeare to be the more glorious. nor was any such matter noted in our homely baker _cistio_, by the best observation of _messer geri spina_, who was spoken of in the late repeated novell, as being the husband to madame _oretta_; whereby this accident came to my remembrance, and which (in a short tale) i will relate unto you. let me then tell ye, that pope _boniface_ (with whom the fore-named _messer geri spina_ was in great regard) having sent divers gentlemen of his court to _florence_ as ambassadors, about very serious and important businesse: they were lodged in the house of _messer geri spina_, and he employed (with them) in the saide popes negotiation. it chanced, that as being the most convenient way for passage, every morning they walked on foot by the church of saint _marie d'ughi_, where _cistio_ the baker dwelt, and exercised the trade belonging to him. now although fortune had humbled him to so meane a condition, yet shee added a blessing of wealth to that contemptible quality, and (as smiling on him continually) no disasters at any time befell him, but still he flourished in riches, lived like a jolly citizen, with all things fitting for honest entertainment about him, and plenty of the best wines (both white and claret) as _florence_, or any part thereabout yeelded. our frolicke baker perceiving, that _messer geri spina_ and the other ambassadors, used every morning to passe by his doore, and afterward to returne backe the same way: seeing the season to be somewhat hot & soultry, he tooke it as an action of kindnesse and courtesie, to make them an offer of tasting his white wine. but having respect to his own meane degree, and the condition of _messer geri_; hee thought it farre unfitting for him, to be so forward in such presumption; but rather entred into consideration of some such meanes, whereby _messer geri_ might bee the inviter of himselfe to taste his wine. and having put on him a trusse or thin doublet, of very white and fine linnen cloath, as also breeches, and an apron of the same, and a white cap upon his head, so that he seemed rather to be a miller, then a baker: at such times as _messer geri_ and the ambassadors should daily passe by, hee set before his doore a new bucket of faire water, and another small vessell of _bologna_ earth (as new and sightly as the other) full of his best and choisest white wine, with two small glasses, looking like silver, they were so cleare. downe he sate, with all this provision before him, and emptying his stomacke twice or thrice, of some clotted flegmes which seemed to offend it: even as the gentlemen were passing by, he dranke one or two rouses of his wine so heartily, and with such a pleasing appetite, as might have moved a longing (almost) in a dead man. _messer geri_ well noting his behaviour, and observing the verie same course in him two mornings together; on the third day (as he was drinking) he said unto him. well done _cistio_, what, is it good, or no? _cistio_ starting up, forthwith replyed: yes sir, the wine is good indeed, but how can i make you to beleeve me, except you taste of it? _messer geri_, eyther in regard of the times quality, or by reason of his paines taken, perhaps more then ordinary, or else, because hee saw _cistio_ had drunke so sprightly, was very desirous to taste of the wine, and turning unto the ambassadors, in merriment he saide. my lords, me thinks it were not much amisse, if we tooke a taste of this honest mans wine, perhaps it is so good, that we shall not neede to repent our labour. heereupon, he went with them to _cistio_, who had caused an handsome seate to be fetched forth of his house, whereon he requested them to sit downe, and having commanded his men to wash cleane the glasses, he saide. fellowes, now get you gone, and leave me to the performance of this service; for i am no worse a skinker, then a baker, and tarry you never so long, you shall not drinke a drop. having thus spoken, himselfe washed foure or five small glasses, faire and new, and causing a viall of his best wine to be brought him: hee diligently filled it out to _messer geri_ and the ambassadours, to whom it seemed the very best wine, that they had drunke of in a long while before. and having given _cistio_ most hearty thankes for his kindnesse, and the wine his due commendation: many dayes afterwardes (so long as they continued there) they found the like courteous entertainment, and with the good liking of honest _cistio_. but when the affayres were fully concluded, for which they were thus sent to _florence_, and their parting preparation in due readinesse: _messer geri_ made a very sumptuous feast for them, inviting thereto the most part of the honourablest citizens, and _cistio_ to be one amongst them; who (by no meanes) would bee seene in an assembly of such state and pompe, albeit he was thereto (by the saide _messer geri_) most earnestly entreated. in regard of which deniall, _messer geri_ commaunded one of his servants, to take a small bottle, and request _cistio_ to fill it with his good wine; then afterward, to serve it in such sparing manner to the table, that each gentleman might be allowed halfe a glasse-full at their down-sitting. the serving-man, who had heard great report of the wine, and was halfe offended, because he could never taste thereof: tooke a great flaggon bottle, containing foure or five gallons at the least, and comming there-with unto _cistio_, saide unto him. _cistio_, because my master cannot have your companie among his friends, he prayes you to fill this bottle with your best wine. _cistio_ looking uppon the huge flaggon, replied thus. honest fellow, _messer geri_ never sent thee with such a message to me: which although the servingman very stoutly maintained, yet getting no other answer, he returned backe therewith to his master. _messer geri_ returned the servant backe againe unto _cistio_, saying: goe, and assure _cistio_, that i sent thee to him, and if hee make thee any more such answeres, then demaund of him, to what place else i should send thee? being come againe to _cistio_, hee avouched that his maister had sent him, but _cistio_ affirming, that hee did not: the servant asked, to what place else hee should send him? marrie (quoth _cistio_) unto the river of _arno_, which runneth by _florence_, there thou mayest be sure to fill thy flaggon. when the servant had reported this answer to _messer geri_, the eyes of his understanding beganne to open, and calling to see what bottle hee had carried with him: no sooner looked he on the huge flaggon, but severely reproving the sawcinesse of his servant, hee sayde. now trust mee, _cistio_ told thee nothing but trueth, for neither did i send thee with any such dishonest message, nor had the reason to yeeld or grant it. then he sent him with a bottle of more reasonable competencie, which so soone as _cistio_ saw: yea mary my friend, quoth he, now i am sure that thy master sent thee to me, and he shall have his desire with all my hart. so, commaunding the bottle to be filled, he sent it away by the servant, and presently following after him, when he came unto _messer geri_, he spake unto him after this manner. sir, i would not have you to imagine, that the huge flaggon (which first came) did any jotte dismay mee; but rather i conceyved, that the small viall whereof you tasted every morning, yet filled many mannerly glasses together, was fallen quite out of your remembrance; in plainer tearmes, it beeing no wine for groomes or peazants, as your selfe affirmed yesterday. and because i meane to bee a skinker no longer, by keeping wine to please any other pallate but mine owne: i have sent you halfe my store, and heereafter thinke of mee as you shall please. _messer geri_ tooke both his guifte and speeches in most thankefull manner, accepting him alwayes after, as his intimate friend, because he had so graced him before the ambassadours. madame nonna de pulci, _by a sodaine answere, did put to silence a byshop of_ florence, _and the lord marshall: having moved a question to the said lady, which seemed to come short of honesty._ the third novell. _wherein is declared, that mockers do sometimes meete with their matches in mockery, and to their owne shame._ when madame _pampinea_ had ended her discourse, and (by the whole company) the answere and bounty of _cistio_, had past with deserved commendation: it pleased the queene, that madame _lauretta_ should next succeed: whereupon verie chearefully thus she beganne. faire assembly, madame _pampinea_ (not long time since) gave beginning, and madam _philomena_ hath also seconded the same argument, concerning the slender vertue remaining in our sexe, and likewise the beautie of wittie words, delivered on apt occasion, and in convenient meetings. now, because it is needlesse to proceede any further, then what hath beene already spoken: let mee onely tell you (over and beside) and commit it to memorie, that the nature of meetings and speeches are such, as they ought to nippe or touch the hearer, like unto the sheepes nibling on the tender grasse, and not as the sullen dogge byteth. for, if their biting be answereable to the dogges, they deserve not to be termed witty jests or quips, but foule and offensive language: as plainly appeareth by the words of madame _oretta_, and the merry, yet sensible answer of _cistio_. true it is, that if it be spoken by way of answer, and the answerer biteth doggedly, because himselfe was bitten in the same manner before: he is the lesse to bee blamed, because hee maketh payment but with coine of the same stampe. in which respect, an especiall care is to bee had, how, when, with whom, and where we jest or gibe, whereof very many proove too unmindfull, as appeared (not long since) by a prelate of ours, who met with a byting, no lesse sharpe and bitter, then had first come from himselfe before, as verie briefely i intend to tell you how. _messer antonio d'orso_, being byshoppe of _florence_, a vertuous, wise, and reverend prelate; it fortuned that a gentleman of _catalogna_, named _messer diego de la ratta_, and lord marshall to king _robert_ of _naples_, came thither to visite him. hee being a man of very comely personage, and a great observer of the choysest beauties in court: among all the other _florentine_ dames, one proved to bee most pleasing in his eye, who was a verie faire woman indeede, and neece to the brother of the saide _messer antonio_. the husband of this gentlewoman (albeit descended of a worthie family) was, neverthelesse, immeasurably covetous, and a verie vile harsh natured man. which the lord marshall understanding, made such a madde composition with him, as to give him five hundred ducates of gold, on condition, that hee would let him lye one night with his wife, not thinking him so base minded as to give consent. which in a greedy avaritious humour he did, and the bargaine being absolutely agreed on; the lord marshall prepared to fit him with a payment, such as it should be. he caused so many peeces of silver to be cunningly guilded, as then went for currant mony in _florence_, and called _popolines_, & after he had lyen with the lady (contrary to her will and knowledge, her husband had so closely carried the businesse) the money was duely paid to the cornuted coxcombe. afterwards, this impudent shame chanced to be generally knowne, nothing remaining to the wilfull wittoll, but losse of his expected gaine, and scorne in every place where he went. the bishop likewise (beeing a discreete and sober man) would seeme to take no knowledge thereof; but bare out all scoffes with a well setled countenance. within a short while after, the bishop and the lord marshall (alwaies conversing together) it came to passe, that upon saint _johns_ day, they riding thorow the city, side by side, and viewing the brave beauties, which of them might best deserve to win the prize; the byshop espied a yong married lady (which our late greevous pestilence bereaved us of) she being named madame _nonna de pulci_, and cousine to _messer alexio rinucci_, a gentleman well knowne unto us all. a very goodly beautifull yong woman she was, of delicate language, and singular spirite, dwelling close by s. _peters_ gate. this lady did the bishop shew to the marshall, and when they were come to her, laying his hand uppon her shoulder, he said. madam _nonna_, what thinke you of this gallant? dare you adventure another wager with him? such was the apprehension of this witty lady, that these words seemed to taxe her honour, or else to contaminate the hearers understanding, whereof there were great plenty about her, whose judgement might be as vile, as the speeches were scandalous. wherefore, never seeking for any further purgation of her cleare conscience, but onely to retort taunt for taunt, presently thus she replied. my lord, if i should make such a vile adventure, i would looke to bee payde with better money. these words being heard both by the bishop and marshall, they felt themselves touched to the quicke, the one, as the factor or broker, for so dishonest a businesse, to the brother of the bishop; and the other, as receiving (in his owne person) the shame belonging to his brother. so, not so much as looking each on other, or speaking one word together all the rest of that day, they rode away with blushing cheekes. whereby we may collect, that the yong lady, being so injuriously provoked, did no more then well became her, to bite their basenesse neerely, that so abused her openly. chichibio, _the cooke to_ messer currado gianfiliazzi, _by a sodaine pleasant answer which he made to his master; converted his anger into laughter, and thereby escaped the punishment, that_ messer _meant to impose on him._ the fourth novell. _whereby plainly appeareth, that a sodaine witty and merry answer, doth oftentimes appease the furious choller of an angry man._ madam _lauretta_ sitting silent, and the answer of lady _nonna_ having past with generall applause: the queene commanded madame _neiphila_ to follow next in order; who instantly thus began. although a ready wit (faire ladies) doth many times affoord worthy and commendable speeches, according to the accidents happening to the speaker: yet notwithstanding, fortune (being a ready helper divers wayes to the timorous) doth often tippe the tongue with such a present reply, as the partie to speake, had not so much leysure as to thinke on, nor yet to invent; as i purpose to let you perceive, by a prety short novell. _messer currado gianfiliazzi_ (as most of you have both seene and knowen) living alwayes in our citie, in the estate of a noble citizen, beeing a man bountifull, magnificent, and within the degree of knighthoode: continually kept both hawkes and hounds, taking no meane delight in such pleasures as they yeelded, neglecting (for them) farre more serious imployments, wherewith our present subject presumeth not to meddle. upon a day, having kilde with his faulcon a crane, neere to a village called _peretola_, and finding her to be both young and fat, he sent it to his cooke, a _venetian_ borne, and named _chichibio_, with command to have it prepared for his supper. _chichibio_, who resembled no other, then (as he was indeede) a plaine, simple, honest merry fellow, having drest the crane as it ought to bee, put it on the spit, and laide it to the fire. when it was well neere fully roasted, and gave forth a very delicate pleasing savour; it fortuned that a young woman dwelling not far off, named _brunetta_, and of whom _chichibio_ was somewhat enamored, entred into the kitchin, and feeling the excellent smell of the crane, to please her beyond all savours, that ever she had felt before: she entreated _chichibio_ verie earnestly, that hee would bestow a legge thereof on her. whereto _chichibio_ (like a pleasant companion, and evermore delighting in singing) sung her this answer. _my_ brunetta, _faire and feat a, why should you say so? the meate of my master, allowes you for no taster, go from the kitchin go._ many other speeches past betweene them in a short while, but in the end, _chichibio_, because hee would not have his mistresse _brunetta_ angrie with him; cut away one of the cranes legges from the spit, and gave it to her to eate. afterward, when the fowle was served up to the table before _messer currado_, who had invited certain strangers his friends to sup with him, wondering not a little, he called for _chichibio_ his cook; demanding what was become of the cranes other legge? whereto the _venetian_ (being a lyar by nature) sodainely answered: sir, cranes have no more but one legge each bird. _messer currado_, growing verie angry, replyed. wilt thou tell me, that a crane hath no more but one legge? did i never see a crane before this? _chichibio_ persisting resolutely in his deniall, saide. beleeve me sir, i have told you nothing but the truth, and when you please, i will make good my wordes, by such fowles as are living. messer _currado_, in kinde love to the strangers that hee had invited to supper, gave over any further contestation; onely he said. seeing thou assurest me, to let me see thy affirmation for truth, by other of the same fowles living (a thing which as yet i never saw, or heard of) i am content to make proofe thereof to morrow morning, till then i shall rest satisfied: but, upon my word, if i finde it otherwise, expect such a sound payment, as thy knavery justly deserveth, to make thee remember it all thy life time. the contention ceassing for the night season, messer _currado_, who though he had slept well, remained still discontented in his minde: arose in the morning by breake of day, and puffing & blowing angerly, called for his horses, commanding _chichibio_ to mount on one of them; so riding on towards the river, where (earely every morning) he had seene plenty of cranes, he sayde to his man; we shall see anon sirra, whether thou or i lyed yesternight. _chichibio_ perceiving, that his masters anger was not (as yet) asswaged, and now it stood him upon, to make good his lye; not knowing how he should do it, rode after his master, fearfully trembling all the way. gladly he would have made an escape, but hee could not by any possible meanes, and on every side he looked about him, now before, and after behinde, to espy any cranes standing on both their legges, which would have bin an ominous sight to him. but being come neere to the river, he chanced to see (before any of the rest) upon the banke thereof, about a dozen cranes in number, each of them standing but upon one legge, as they use to do when they are sleeping. whereupon, shewing them quickly to messer _currado_, he said. now sir your selfe may see, whether i told you true yesternight, or no: i am sure a crane hath but one thigh, and one leg, as all here present are apparant witnesses, and i have bin as good as my promise. messer _currado_ looking on the cranes, and well understanding the knavery of his man, replyed: stay but a little while sirra, & i will shew thee, that a crane hath two thighes, and two legges. then riding somwhat neerer to them, he cryed out aloud, shough, shough, which caused them to set downe their other legs, and all fled away, after they had made a few paces against the winde for their mounting. so going unto _chichibio_, he said: how now you lying knave, hath a crane two legs, or no? _chichibio_ being well-neere at his wits end, not knowing now what answer hee should make; but even as it came sodainly into his minde, said: sir, i perceive you are in the right, and if you would have done as much yesternight, and had cryed shough, as here you did: questionlesse, the crane would then have set down the other legge, as these heere did: but if (as they) she had fled away too, by that meanes you might have lost your supper. this sodaine and unexpected witty answere, comming from such a logger-headed lout, and so seasonably for his owne safety: was so pleasing to _messer currado_, that he fell into a hearty laughter, and forgetting all anger, saide. _chichibio_, thou hast quit thy selfe well, and to my contentment: albeit i advise thee, to teach mee no more such trickes heereafter. thus _chichibio_, by his sodaine and merry answer, escaped a sound beating, which (otherwise) his master had inflicted on him. messer forese da rabatte, _and maister_ giotto, _a painter by his profession, comming together from_ mugello, _scornfully reprehended one another for their deformity of body._ the fift novell. _whereby may bee observed, that such as will speake contemptibly of others, ought (first of all) to looke respectively on their owne imperfections._ so soone as madame _neiphila_ sate silent (the ladies having greatly commended the pleasant answer of _chichibio_) _pamphilus_, by command from the queene, spake in this manner. woorthy ladies, it commeth to passe oftentimes, that like as fortune is observed divers wayes, to hide under vile and contemptible arts, the most great and unvalewable treasures of vertue (as, not long since, was well discoursed unto us by madam _pampinea_:) so in like manner hath appeared; that nature hath infused very singular spirits into most misshapen and deformed bodies of men. as hath beene noted in two of our owne citizens, of whom i purpose to speake in fewe words. the one of them was named _messer forese de rabatte_, a man of little and low person, but yet deformed in body, with a flat face, like a terrier or beagle, as if no comparison (almost) could bee made more ugly. but notwithstanding all this deformity, he was so singularly experienced in the lawes, that all men held him beyond any equall, or rather reputed him as a treasury of civill knowledge. the other man, being named _giotto_, had a spirit of so great excellency, as there was not any particular thing in nature, the mother and worke-mistresse of all, by continuall motion of the heavens; but hee by his pen and pensell could perfectly portrait; shaping them all so truly alike and resemblable, that they were taken for the reall matters indeede; and, whether they were present or no, there was hardly any possibility of their distinguishing. so that many times it happened, that by the variable devises he made, the visible sence of men became deceived, in crediting those things to be naturall, which were but meerly painted. by which meanes, hee reduced that singular art to light, which long time before had lyen buried, under the grosse error of some; who, in the mysterie of painting, delighted more to content the ignorant, then to please the judicious understanding of the wise, he justly deserving thereby, to be tearmed one of the _florentines_ most glorious lights. and so much the rather, because he performed all his actions, in the true and lowly spirit of humility: for while he lived, and was a master in his art, above all other painters: yet he refused any such title, which shined the more majestically in him, as appeared by such, who knew much lesse then he, or his schollers either: yet his knowledge was extreamly coveted among them. now, notwithstanding all this admirable excellency in him: he was not (thereby) a jot the handsommer man (either in person or countenance) then was our fore-named lawyer _messer forese_, and therefore my novell concerneth them both. understand then, (faire assemblie) that the possessions and inheritances of _messer forese_ and _giotto_, lay in _mugello_; wherefore, when holy-dayes were celebrated by order of court, and in the sommer time, upon the admittance of so apt a vacation; _forese_ rode thither upon a very unsightly jade, such as a man can can seldome meet with worse. the like did _giotto_ the painter, as ill fitted every way as the other; and having dispatched their busines there, they both returned backe towards _florence_, neither of them being able to boast, which was the best mounted. riding on a faire and softly pace, because their horses could goe no faster: and they being well entred into yeeres, it fortuned (as oftentimes the like befalleth in sommer) that a sodaine showre of raine over-tooke them; for avoyding whereof, they made all possible haste to a poore countrey-mans cottage, familiarly knowne to them both. having continued there an indifferent while, and the raine unlikely to cease: to prevent all further protraction of time, and to arrive at _florence_ in due season: they borrowed two old cloakes of the poore man, of over-worn and ragged country gray, as also two hoodes of the like complexion, (because the poore man had no better) which did more mishape them, then their owne ugly deformity, and made them notoriously flouted and scorned, by all that met or overtooke them. after they had ridden some distance of ground, much moyled and bemyred with their shuffling jades, flinging the dirt every way about them, that well they might be termed two filthy companions: the raine gave over, and the evening looking somwhat cleare, they began to confer familiarly together. _messer forese_, riding a lofty _french_ trot, everie step being ready to hoise him out of his saddle, hearing _giottos_ discreete answers to every ydle question he made (for indeede he was a very elegant speaker) began to peruse and surveigh him, even from the foote to the head, as we use to say. and perceiving him to be so greatly deformed, as no man could be worse, in his opinion: without any consideration of his owne misshaping as bad, or rather more unsightly then hee; in a scoffing laughing humour, hee saide. _giotto_, doest thou imagine, that a stranger, who had never seene thee before, and should now happen into our companie, would beleeve thee to bee the best painter in the world, as indeede thou art? presently _giotto_ (without any further meditation) returned him this answere. signior _forese_, i think he might then beleeve it, when (beholding you) hee could imagine that you had learned your a. b. c. which when _forese_ heard, he knew his owne error, and saw his payment returned in such coine, as he sold his wares for. _a yong and ingenious scholler, being unkindly reviled and smitten by his ignorant father, and through the procurement of an unlearned vicare: afterward attained to be doubly revenged on him._ the sixth novell. _serving as an advertisement to unlearned parents, not to bee over-rash, in censuring on schollers perfections, through any badde or unbeseeming perswasions._ the ladies smiled very heartily, at the ready answer of _giotto_; untill the queene charged madam _fiammetta_, that shee should next succeed in order: whereupon, thus she began. the verie greatest infelicity that can happen to a man, and most insupportable of all other, is ignorance; a word (i say) which hath bin so generall, as under it is comprehended all imperfections whatsoever. yet notwithstanding, whosoever can cull (graine by graine) the defects incident to humane race; will and must confesse, that wee are not all borne to knowledge: but onely such, whom the heavens illuminating by their bright radiance (wherein consisteth the sourse and well-spring of all science) by little & little, do bestow the influence of their bounty, on such and so manie as they please, who are to expresse themselves the more thankfull for such a blessing. and although this grace doth lessen the misfortune of many, which were over-mighty to bee in all; yet some there are, who by sawcie presuming on themselves, doe bewray their ignorance by theyr owne speeches; setting such behaviour on each matter, and soothing every thing with such gravity, even as if they would make comparison: or (to speake more properly) durst encounter in the listes with great _salomon_ or _socrates_. but let us leave them, and come to the matter of our purposed novell. in a certaine village of _piccardie_, there lived a priest or vicar, who beeing meerely an ignorant blocke, had yet such a peremptorie presuming spirite: as, though it was sufficiently discerned, yet hee beguiled many thereby, untill at last he deceyved himselfe, and with due chastisement to his folly. a plaine husbandman dwelling in the same village, possessed of much land and living, but verie grosse and dull in understanding; by the entreaty of divers his friends and well-willers, some-thing more intelligable then himselfe: became incited, or rather provoked, to send a sonne of his to the university of _paris_, to study there as was fitting for a scholler. to the end (quoth they) that having but this son onely, and fortunes blessings abounding in store for him: hee might like wise have the riches of the minde, which are those true treasures indeede, that _aristippus_ giveth us advice to be furnished withall. his friends perswasions having prevailed, and hee continued at _paris_ for the space of three yeares: what with the documents he had attayned to, before his going thither, and by meanes of a happie memory in the time of his being there, wherewith no young man was more singularly endued (in so short a while) he attained and performed the greater part of his studies. now, as oftentimes it commeth to passe, the love of a father (surmounting all other affections in man) made the olde farmer desirous to see his sonne: which caused his sending for him with all convenient speede, and obedience urged his as forward willingnesse thereto. the good olde man, not a little joyfull to see him in so good condition and health, and encreased so much in stature since his parting thence: familiarly told him, that he earnestly desired to know, if his minde and body had attained to a competent and equall growth, which within three or foure dayes he would put in practise. no other helpe had he silly simple man, but master vicar must bee the questioner and poser of his son: wherein the priest was very unwilling to meddle, for feare of discovering his owne ignorance, which passed under better opinion then he deserved. but the farmer beeing importunate, and the vicar many wayes beholding to him, durst not returne deniall, but undertooke it very formally, as if he had bene an able man indeede. but see how fooles are borne to be fortunate, and where they least hope, there they find the best successe; the simplicitie of the father, must be the meanes for abusing his schollerly son, and a skreene to stand betweene the priest and his ignorance. earnest is the olde man to know, what and how farre his sonne had profited at schoole, and by what note he might best take understanding of his answeres: which jumping fit with the vicars vanity, and a warrantable cloake to cover his knavery; he appoints him but one word onely, namely _nescio_, wherewith if he answered to any of his demands, it was an evident token, that hee understood nothing. as thus they were walking and conferring in the church, the farmer very carefull to remember the word _nescio_: it came to passe upon a sodaine, that the young man entred into them, to the great contentment of his father, who prayed master vicar, to make approbation of his sonne, whether he were learned, or no, and how hee had benefited at the university? after the time of the daies salutations had past betweene them, the vicar being subtle and crafty, as they walked along by one of the tombs in the church; pointing with his finger to the tombe, the priest uttered these words to the scholler. _quis hic est sepultus?_ the yong scholler (by reason it was erected since his departure, and finding no inscription whereby to informe him) answered, as well hee might, _nescio_. immediately the father, keeping the word perfectly in his memorie, grewe verie angerly passionate; and, desiring to heare no more demaunds: gave him three or foure boxes on the eares; with many harsh and injurious speeches, tearming him an asse and villaine, and that he had not learned any thing. his sonne was pacient, and returned no answer, but plainly perceived, that this was a tricke intended against him, by the malicious treachery of the priest, on whom (in time) he might be revenged. within a short while after, the suffragane of those parts (under whom the priest was but a deputy, holding the benefice of him, with no great charge to his conscience) being abroad in his visitation, sent word to the vicar, that he intended to preach there on the next sunday, and hee to prepare in a readinesse, _bonum & commodum_, because hee would have nothing else to his dinner. heereat master vicar was greatly amazed, because he had never heard such words before, neither could hee finde them in all his _breviarie_. hereupon, he went to the yong scholler, whom he had so lately before abused, and crying him mercy, with many impudent and shallow excuses, desired him to reveale the meaning of those words, and what he should understand by _bonum & commodum_. the scholler (with a sober and modest countenance) made answere; that he had bin over-much abused, which (neverthelesse) he tooke not so impaciently, but hee had already both forgot and forgiven it, with promise of comfort in this his extraordinary distraction, and greefe of minde. when he had perused the suffraganes letter, well observing the blushlesse ignorance of the priest: seeming (by outward appearance) to take it strangely, he cryed out alowd, saying; in the name of vertue, what may be this mans meaning? how? (quoth the priest) what manner of demand do you make? alas, replyed the scholler, you have but one poore asse, which i know you love deerely, and yet you must stew his genitories very daintily, for your patron will have no other meat to his dinner. the genitories of mine asse, answered the priest? passion of me, who then shall carrie my corne to the mill? there is no remedie, sayde the scholler, for he hath so set it downe for an absolute resolution. after that the priest had considered thereon a while by himselfe, remembring the yearely revennewes, which clearely hee put up into his purse, to be ten times of farre greater worth then his asse: he concluded to have him gelded, what danger soever should ensue thereon, preparing them in readinesse against his comming. so soone as the suffragan was there arrived, heavily hee complained to him for his asse: which kinde of language he not understanding, knew not what he meant, nor how he should answer. but beeing (by the scholler) acquainted with the whole history, he laughed heartily at the priests ignorant folly, wishing that all such bold bayards (from time to time) might be so served. likewise, that all ignorant priests, vicars, and other grashoppers of townes or villages, who sometimes have onely seene _partes orationis quod sunt_, not to stand over-much on their owne sufficiency, grounded soly upon their grammar; but to beware whom they jest withall, without medling with schollers, who take not injuries as dullards doe, least they prove infamous by their disputations. madam phillippa, _being accused by her husband_ rinaldo de pugliese, _because he tooke her in adulterie, with a yong gentleman named_ lazarino de guazzagliotori: _caused her to bee cited before the judge. from whom she delivered her selfe, by a sodaine, witty and pleasant answer, and moderated a severe strict statute, formerly made against women._ the seventh novell. _wherein is declared, of what worth it is to confesse a trueth, with a facetious and witty excuse._ after that madame _fiammetta_ had given over speaking, and all the auditory had sufficiently applauded the schollers honest revenge, the queene enjoyned _philostratus_, to proceede on next with his novell, which caused him to begin thus. beleeve me ladies, it is an excellent & most commendable thing, to speak well, and to all purposes: but i hold it a matter of much greater worth, to know how to do it, and when necessity doth most require it. which a gentlewoman (of whom i am now to speake) was so well enstructed in, as not onely it yeelded the hearers mirthfull contentment, but likewise delivered her from the danger of death, as (in few words) you shall heare related. in the citie of _prato_, there was an edict or statute, no lesse blameworthy (to speake uprightly) then most severe and cruell, which (without making any distinction) gave strict command; that everie woman should be burned with fire, whose husband found her in the acte of adultery, with any secret or familiar friend, as one deserving to bee thus abandoned, like such as prostituted their bodies to publike sale or hire. during the continuance of this sharpe edict, it fortuned that a gentlewoman, who was named _phillippa_, was found in her chamber one night, in the armes of a yong gentleman of the same city, named _lazarino de guazzagliotori_, and by her owne husband, called _rinaldo de pugliese_, shee loving the young gallant, as her owne life, because hee was most compleate in all perfections, and every way as deerely addicted to her. this sight was so irkesome to _rinaldo_, that, being overcom with extreame rage, hee could hardly containe from running on them, with a violent intent to kill them both: but feare of his owne life caused his forbearance, meaning to be revenged by some better way. such was the heate of his spleene and fury, as, setting aside all respect of his owne shame: he would needs prosecute the rigour of the deadly edict, which he held lawfull for him to do, although it extended to the death of his wife. heereupon, having witnesses sufficient, to approove the guiltinesse of her offence: a day being appointed (without desiring any other counsell) he went in person to accuse her, and required justice against her. the gentlewoman, who was of an high and undauntable spirite, as all such are, who have fixed their affection resolvedly, and love uppon a grounded deliberation: concluded, quite against the counsell and opinion of her parents, kindred, and friends; to appeare in the court, as desiring rather to dye, by confessing the trueth with a manly courage, then by denying it, and her love unto so worthy a person as he was, in whole arms she chanced to be taken; to live basely in exile with shame, as an eternall scandall to her race. so, before the potestate, shee made her apparance, worthily accompanied both with men and women, all advising her to deny the acte: but she, not minding them or their perswasions, looking on the judge with a constant countenance, and a voyce of setled resolve, craved to know of him, what hee demaunded of her? the potestate well noting her brave carriage, her singular beautie and praise-worthy parts, her words apparantly witnessing the heighth of her minde: beganne to take compassion on her, and doubted, least shee would confesse some such matter, as should enforce him to pronounce the sentence of death against her. but she boldly scorning all delayes, or any further protraction of time; demanded again, what was her accusation? madame, answered the potestate, i am sorry to tel you, what needs i must, your husband (whom you see present heere) is the complainant against you, avouching, that he tooke you in the act of adultery with another man: and therefore he requireth, that, according to the rigour of the statute heere in force with us, i should pronounce sentence against you, and (consequently) the infliction of death. which i cannot do, if you confesse not the fact, and therefore be well advised, how you answer me, and tell me the truth, if it be as your husband accuseth you, or no. the lady, without any dismay or dread at all, pleasantly thus replied. my lord, true it is, that _rinaldo_ is my husband, and that he found me, on the night named, betweene the armes of _lazarino_, where many times heeretofore he hath embraced mee, according to the mutuall love re-plighted together, which i deny not, nor ever will. but you know well enough, and i am certaine of it, that the lawes enacted in any countrey, ought to be common, and made with consent of them whom they concerne, which in this edict of yours is quite contrarie. for it is rigorous against none, but poore women onely, who are able to yeeld much better content and satisfaction generally, then remaineth in the power of men to do. and moreover, when this law was made, there was not any woman that gave consent to it, neither were they called to like or allow thereof: in which respect, it may deservedly be termed, an unjust law. and if you will, in prejudice of my bodie, and of your owne soule, be the executioner of so unlawfull an edict, it consisteth in your power to do as you please. but before you proceede to pronounce any sentence, may it please you to favour me with one small request, namely, that you would demand of my husband, if at all times, and whensoever he tooke delight in my company, i ever made any curiosity, or came to him unwillingly. whereto _rinaldo_, without tarrying for the potestate to moove the question, sodainly answered; that (undoubtedly) his wife at all times, and oftner then he could request it, was never sparing of her kindnesse, or put him off with any deniall. then the lady, continuing on her former speeches, thus replyed. let me then demand of you my lord, being our potestate and judge, if it be so, by my husbands owne free confession, that he hath alwaies had his pleasure of me, without the least refusall in me, or contradiction; what should i doe with the over-plus remaining in mine owne power, and whereof he had no need? would you have mee cast it away to the dogges? was it not more fitting for me, to pleasure therewith a worthy gentleman, who was even at deaths doore for my love, then (my husbands surfetting, and having no neede of me) to let him lye languishing, and dye? never was heard such an examination before, and to come from a woman of such worth, the most part of the honourable _pratosians_ (both lords and ladies) being there present, who hearing her urge such a necessary question, cryed out all aloud together with one voice (after they had laughed their fill) that the lady had saide well, and no more then she might. so that, before they departed thence, by comfortable advice proceeding from the potestate: the edict (being reputed overcruell) was modified, and interpreted to concerne them onely, who offered injurie to their husbands for money. by which meanes, _rinaldo_ standing as one confounded, for such a foolish and unadvised enterprize, departed from the auditorie: and the ladie, not a little joyfull to bee thus freed and delivered from the fire, returned home with victorie to her owne house. fresco da celatico, _counselled and advised his neece_ cesca: _that if such as deserved to be looked on, were offensive to her eyes, as she had often told him; she should forbeare to looke on any._ the eighth novell. _in just scorne of such unsightly and ill-pleasing surly sluts, who imagine none to be faire or well-favoured, but themselves._ all the while as _philostratus_ was re-counting his novell; it seemed, that the ladies (who heard it) found themselves much mooved thereat, as by the wanton blood monting up into their cheekes, it plainly appeared. but in the end, looking on each other with strange behaviour, they could not forbeare smiling: which the queene interrupting by a command of attention, turning to madame _ã�millia_, willed her to follow next. when she, puffing and blowing, as if she had bene newly awaked from sleepe, began in this manner. faire beauties; my thoughts having wandred a great distance hence, and further then i can easily collect them together againe; in obedience yet to our queene, i shall report a much shorter novell, then otherwise (perhappes) i should have done, if my minde had beene a little neerer home. i shall tell you the grosse fault of a foolish damosell, well corrected by a witty reprehension of her uncle; if shee had bin endued but with so much sence, as to have understood it. an honest man, named _fresco da celatico_, had a good fulsom wench to his neece, who for her folly and squemishnes, was generally called _cesca_, or nice _francesca_. and althogh she had stature sufficient, yet none of the handsomest, & a good hard favourd countenance, nothing nere such angelical beauties as we have seen: yet she was endued with such height of minde, and so proud an opinion of her selfe, that it appeared as a custome bred in hir, or rather a gift bestowed on hir by nature (though none of the best) to blame and despise both men and women, yea whosoever she lookt on; without any consideration of her self, she being as unsightly, ill shaped, and ugly faced, as a worse was very hardly to be found. nothing could be done at any time, to yeilde her liking or content: moreover, she was so waspish, nice, & squemish, that when she cam into the royall court of _france_, it was hatefull & contemptible to hir. whensoever she went through the streets, every thing stunke and was noisome to her; so that she never did any thing but stop her nose; as if all men or women she met withall; and whatsoever else she lookt on, were stinking and offensive. but let us leave all further relation of her ill conditions, being every way (indeed) so bad, and hardly becomming any sensible body, that we cannot condemne them so much as we should. it chanced upon a day, that shee comming home to the house where her uncle dwelt, declared her wonted scurvy and scornfull behaviour; swelling, puffing, and pouting extreamly, in which humour she sat downe by her uncle, who desiring to know what had displeased her, said. why how now _francesca_? what may the meaning of this bee? this being a solemne festivall day, what is the reason of your so soone returning home? she coily biting the lip, and brideling her head, as if she had bene some mans best gelding, sprucely thus replyed. indeede you say true uncle, i am come home verie earely, because, since the day of my birth, i never saw a city so pestered with unhandsome people, both men and women, and worse this high holyday then ever i did observe before. i walked thorow some store of streetes, and i could not see one proper man: and as for the women, they are the most misshapen and ugly creatures, that, if god had made me such an one, i should be sorry that ever i was borne. and being no longer able to endure such unpleasing sights; you will not thinke (uncle) in what an anger i am come home. _fresco_, to whome these stinking qualities of his neece seemed so unsufferable, that hee could not (with patience) endure them any longer, thus short and quickely answered. _francesca_, if all people of our citie (both men and women) be so odious in thy eyes, and offensive to thy nose, as thou hast often reported to me: bee advised then by my counsell. stay still at home, and look upon none but thy selfe onely, and then thou shalt be sure that they cannot displease thee. but she, being as empty of wit as a pith-lesse cane, and yet thought her judgement to exceed _salomons_, could not understand the lest part of hir uncles meaning, but stood as senselesse as a sheepe. onely she replyed, that she would resort to some other parts of the country, which if shee found as weakly furnished of handsome people, as heere shee did, shee would conceive better of her selfe, then ever she had done before. signior guido cavalcante, _with a sodaine and witty answer, reprehended the rash folly of certaine florentine gentlemen, that thought to scorne and flout him._ the ninth novell. _notably discovering the great difference that is betweene learning and ignorance, upon judicious apprehension._ when the queene perceived, that madame _ã�millia_ was discharged of her novell, and none remained now to speake next, but onely her selfe, his priviledge alwayes remembred, to whom it belonged to be the last, she began in this manner. faire company, you have this day disappointed me of two novells at the least, whereof i had intended to make use. neverthelesse, you shall not imagine mee so unfurnished, but that i have left one in store; the conclusion whereof, may minister such instruction, as will not bee reputed for ydle and impertinent: but rather of such materiall consequence, as better hath not this day past among us. understand then (most faire ladies) that in former times long since past, our cittie had many excellent and commendable customes in it; whereof (in these unhappy dayes of ours) we cannot say that poore one remaineth, such hath beene the too much encrease of wealth and covetousnesse, the onely supplanters of all good qualities whatsoever. among which lawdable and friendly observations, there was one well deserving note, namely, that in divers places of _florence_, men of the best houses in every quarter, had a sociable and neighbourly assemblie together, creating their company to consist of a certaine number, such as were able to supply their expences as this day one, and to morrow another: and thus in a kinde of friendly course, each daily furnished the table, for the rest of the company. oftentimes, they did honour to divers gentlemen and strangers, upon their arrivall in our citty, by inviting them into their assembly, and many of our worthiest citizens beside; so that it grew to a customary use, and one especially day in the yeare appointed, in memory of this so loving a meeting, when they would ride (triumphally as it were) on horsebacke thorow the cittie, sometimes performing tilts, tourneyes, and other martiall exercises, but they were reserved for feastivall dayes. among which company, there was one called, _signior betto bruneleschi_, who was earnestly desirous, to procure _signior guido cavalcante de cavalcanti_, to make one in this their friendly society. and not without great reason: for, over and beside his being one of the best logitians as those times could not yeeld a better: he was also a most absolute naturall philosopher (which worthy qualities were little esteemed among these honest meeters) a very friendly gentleman, singularly well spoken, and whatsoever else was commendable in any man, was no way wanting in him, being wealthy withall, and able to returne equall honors, where he found them to be duly deserved, as no man therein could go beyond him. but _signior betto_, notwithstanding his long continued importunitie, could not draw him into their assembly, which made him and the rest of his company conceive, that the solitude of _guido_, retiring himselfe alwaies from familiar conversing with men: provoked him to many curious speculations: and because he retained some part of the _epicurean_ opinion, their vulgare judgement passed on him, that his speculations tended to no other end, but onely to finde out that which was never done. it chanced upon a day, that _signior guido_ departing from the church of saint _michaell d'horta_, and passing along by the _adamari_, so farre as to saint _johns_ church, which evermore was his customarie walke: many goodly marble tombes were then about the saide church, as now adayes are at saint _reparata_, and divers more beside. he entring among the collumbes of porphiry, and the other sepulchers being there, because the doore of the church was shut: _signior betto_ & his companie, came riding from s. _reparata_, & espying _signior guido_ among the graves and tombes, said. come, let us go make some jests to anger him. so putting the spurs to their horses, they rode apace towards him: and being upon him before he perceived them, one of them said. _guido_ thou refusest to be one of our society, & seekest for that which never was: when thou hast found it, tell us, what wilt thou do with it? _guido_ seeing himselfe round engirt with them, sodainly thus replyed: gentlemen, you may use mee in your owne house as you please. and setting his hand on one of the tombes (which was some-what great) he tooke his rising, and leapt quite over it on the further side, as being of an agile and sprightly body, and being thus freed from them, he went away to his owne lodging. they stoode all like men amazed, strangely looking one upon another, and began afterward to murmure among themselves: that _guido_ was a man without any understanding, and the answer which he had made unto them, was to no purpose, neither savoured of any discretion, but meerely came from an empty brain because they had no more to do in the place where now they were, then any of the other citizens, and signior _guido_ (himselfe) as little as any of them; whereto signior _betto_ thus replyed. alas gentlemen, it is you your selves that are void of understanding: for, if you had but observed the answer which he made unto us: hee did honestly, and (in verie few words) not onely notably expresse his owne wisedome, but also deservedly reprehend us. because, if wee observe things as we ought to doe, graves and tombes are the houses of the dead, ordained and prepared to be their latest dwellings. he tolde us moreover, that although we have heere (in this life) other habitations and abidings; yet these (or the like) must at last be our houses. to let us know, and all other foolish, indiscreete, and unlearned men, that we are worse then dead men, in comparison of him, and other men equall to him in skill and learning. and therefore, while wee are heere among these graves and monuments, it may well be said, that we are not farre from our owne houses, or how soone we shall be possessors of them, in regard of the frailty attending on us. then every one could presently say, that signior _guido_ had spoken nothing but the truth, and were much ashamed of their owne folly, and shallow estimation which they had made of _guido_, desiring never more after to meddle with him so grossely, and thanking signior _betto_, for so well reforming their ignorance, by his much better apprehension. _fryer_ onyon, _promised certaine honest people of the countrey, to shew them a feather of the same phoenix, that was with_ noah _in his arke. in sted whereof, he found coales, which he avouched to be those very coals, wherewith the same phoenix was roasted._ the tenth novell. _wherein may be observed, what palpable abuses do many times passe, under the counterfeit cloake of religion._ when all of them had delivered their novels, _dioneus_ knowing that it remained in him to relate the last for this day: without attending for any solemne command (after he had imposed silence on them, that could not sufficiently commend the witty reprehension of _guido_) thus he began. wise and worthy ladies, although by the priviledge you have granted, it is lawfull for me to speake any thing best pleasing to my self: yet notwithstanding, it is not any part of my meaning, to varrie from the matter and method, whereof you have spoken to very good purpose. and therefore, following your footsteppes, i entend to tell you, how craftily, and with a rampiar sodainly raised in his owne defence: a religious frier of saint _anthonies_ order, shunned a shame, which two wily companions had prepared for him. nor let it offend you, if i run into more large discourse, then this day hath bene used by any, for the apter compleating of my novell: because, if you well observe it, the sun is as yet in the middest of heaven, and therefore you may the better forbeare me. _certoldo_, as (perhaps) you know, or have heard, is a village in the vale of _elsa_, and under the authority and commaund of our _florence_, which although it be but small: yet (in former times) it hath bin inhabited with gentlemen, and people of especiall respect. a religious friar of s. _anthonies_ order, named friar _onyon_, had long time used to resort thither, to receive the benevolent almes, which those charitably affected people in simplicity gave him, & chiefly at divers daies of the year, when their bounty and devotion would extend themselves more largely then at other seasons. and so much the rather, because they thought him to be a good pastor of holy life in outward appearance, & carried a name of much greater matter, then remained in the man indeed; beside, that part of the country yeilded far more plentifull abundance of onyons, then all other in _tuscany_ elsewhere, a kinde of foode greatly affected by those friars, as men alwaies of hungry & good appetite. this friar _onyon_ was a man of little stature, red haire, a chearfull countenance, and the world afforded not a more crafty companion, then he. moreover, albeit he had very little knowledge or learning, yet he was so prompt, ready & voluble of speech, uttering often he knew not what himselfe: that such as were not wel acquainted with his qualities, supposed him to be a singular rhetoritian, excelling _cicero_ or _quintilian_ themselves; & he was a gossip, friend, or deerely affected, by every one dwelling in those parts. according to his wonted custome, one time he went thither in the month of august, and on a sunday morning, when all the dwellers thereabout, were present to heare masse, and in the chiefest church above all the rest: when the friar saw time convenient for his purpose, he advanced himselfe, and began to speake in this manner. gentlemen and gentlewomen, you know you have kept a commendable custom, in sending yeerly to the poore brethren of our lord baron s. _anthony_, both of your corne and other provision, some more, some lesse, all according to their power, means, and devotion, to the end that blessed s. _anthony_ should be the more carefull of your oxen, sheep, asses, swine, pigs, and other cattle. moreover, you have used to pay (especially such as have their names registred in our fraternity) those duties which annually you send unto us. for the collection whereof, i am sent by my superior, namely our l. abbot, & therefore (with gods blessing) you may come after noone hither, when you shal heare the bels of the church ring: then will i make a predication to you; you shall kisse the crosse, and beside, because i know you al to be most devout servants to our lord baron s. _anthony_, in especiall grace and favor, i will shew you a most holy and goodly relique, which i my selfe (long since) brought from the holy land beyond the seas. if you desire to know what it is, let me tell you, that it is one of the feathers of the same _phoenix_, which was in the arke with the patriarch _noah_. and having thus spoken, he became silent, returning backe to heare masse. while hee delivered these and the like speeches, among the other people then in the church, there were two shrewde and crafty companions; the one, named _john de bragoniero_, and the other, _biagio pizzino_. these subtile fellowes, after they had heard the report of fryer _onyons_ relique: althogh they were his intimate friends, and came thither in his company; yet they concluded betweene themselves, to shew him a tricke of legierdumaine, and to steale the feather from him. when they had intelligence of friar _onyons_ dining that day at the castle, with a worthy friend of his: no sooner was he set at the table, but away went they in all haste, to the inne where the fryar frequented, with this determination, that _biagio_ should hold conference with the friars boy, while his fellow ransackt the wallet, to finde the feather, and carry it away with him, for a future observation, what the friar would say unto the people, when he found the losse of the feather, and could not performe his promise to them. the fryars boy, whom some called _guccio balena_, some _guccio imbrata_, and others _guccio porco_, was such a knavish lad, and had so many bad qualities, as _lippo topo_ the cunning painter, or the most curious poeticall wit, had not any ability to describe them. friar _onyon_ himself did often observe his behaviour, and would make this report among his friends. my boy (quoth he) hath nine rare qualities in him, and such they are, as if _salomon, aristotle,_ or _seneca_ had onely but one of them: it were sufficient to torment and trouble all their vertue, all their senses, & all their sanctity. consider then, what manner of man he is like to be, having nine such rarities, yet voide of all vertue, wit, or goodnes. and when it was demaunded of friar _onyon_, what these nine rare conditions were: hee having them all readie by heart, and in rime, thus answered: _boyes i have knowne, and seene, and heard of many:_ but, _for lying, loytring, lazinesse, for facing, filching, filthinesse; for carelesse, gracelesse, all unthriftinesse, my boy excelleth any._ now, over and beside all these admirable qualities, hee hath manie more such singularities, which (in favour towards him) i am faine to conceale. but that which i smile most at in him, is that he would have a wife in every place where he commeth, yea, and a good house to boot too: for, in regard his beard beginneth to shew it selfe, rising thicke in haire, blacke and amiable, he is verily perswaded, that all women will fall in love with him; and if they refuse to follow him, he will in all hast run after them. but truly, he is a notable servant to mee, for i cannot speake with any one, and in never so great secrecy, but he will be sure to heare his part; and when any question is demanded of me, he standes in such awe and feare of my displeasure: that he will bee sure to make the first answer, yea or no, according as he thinketh most convenient. now, to proceede where we left, friar _onyon_ having left this serviceable youth at his lodging, to see that no bodie should meddle with his commodities, especially his wallet, because of the sacred things therein contained: _guccio imbrata_, who as earnestly affected to be in the kitchin, as birds to hop from branch to branch, especially, when anie of the chamber-maides were there, espyed one of the hostesses female attendants, a grosse fat trugge, low of stature, ill faced, and worse formed, with a paire of brests like two bumbards, smelling loathsomely of grease and sweate; downe shee descended into the kitchin, like a kite upon a peece of carion. this boy, or knave, chuse whither you will style him, having carelesly left fryar _onyons_ chamber doore open, and all the holy things so much to be neglected, although it was then the moneth of august, when heate is in the highest predominance, yet hee would needs sit downe by the fire, and began to conferre with this amiable creature, who was called by the name of _nuta_. being set close by her, he told her, that he was a gentleman by atturniship, and that he had more millions of crownes, then all his life time would serve him to spend; beside those which he payed away dayly, as having no convenient imployment for them. moreover, he knew how to speake, and do such things, as were beyond wonder or admiration. and, never remembring his olde tatterd friars cowle, which was so snottie and greazie, that good store of kitchin stuffe might have beene boiled out of it; as also a foule slovenly trusse or halfedoublet, all baudied with bowsing, fat greazie lubberly sweating, and other drudgeries in the convent kitchin, where he was an officer in the meanest credite. so that to describe this sweet youth in his lively colours, both for naturall perfections of body, and artificiall composure of his garments; never came the fowlest silks out of _tartaria_ or _india_, more ugly or unsightly to bee lookt upon. and for a further addition to his neate knavery, his breeches were so rent betweene his legges, his shooes and stockings had bin at such a mercilesse massacre: that the gallantest _commandador_ of _castile_ (though he had never so lately bin releast out of slavery) could have wisht for better garments, then he; or make larger promises, then he did to his _nuta_. protesting to entitle her as his onely, to free her from the inne and chamber thraldomes, if she would live with him, be his love, partaker of his present possessions, and so to succeed in his future fortunes. all which bravadoes, though they were belcht foorth with admirable insinuations: yet they converted into smoke, as all such braggadochio behaviours do, and he was as wise at the ending, as when he began. our former named two craftie companions, seeing _guccio porco_ so seriously employed about _nuta_, was there-with not a little contented, because their intended labour was now more then halfe ended. and perceiving no contradiction to crosse their proceeding, into friar _onyons_ chamber entred they, finding it ready open for their purpose: where the first thing that came into their hand in search, was the wallet. when they had opened it, they found a small cabinet, wrapped in a great many foldings of rich taffata; and having unfolded it, a fine formall key was hanging thereat: wherewith having unlockt the cabinet, they found a faire feather of a parrots taile, which they supposed to bee the verie same, that he meant to shew the people of _certaldo_. and truly (in those dayes) it was no hard matter to make them beleeve anything, because the idle vanities of _ã�gypt_ and those remoter parts, had not (as yet) bin seene in _tuscany_, as since then they have bin in great abundance, to the utter ruine (almost) of _italy_. and although they might then be knowne to very few, yet the inhabitants of the country generally, understoode little or nothing at all of them. for there, the pure simplicitie of their ancient predecessours still continuing; they had not seene any parrots, or so much as heard any speech of them. wherefore the two crafty consorts, not a little joyfull of finding the feather, tooke it thence with them, and because** they would not leave the cabinet empty, espying char-coales lying in a corner of the chamber, they filled it with them, wrapping it up againe in the taffata, and in as demure manner as they found it. so, away came they with the feather, neither seene or suspected by any one, intending now to heare what friar _onyon_ would say, uppon the losse of his precious relique, and finding the coales there placed insted thereof. the simple men and women of the country, who had bin at morning masse in the church, and heard what a wonderfull feather they should see in the after noone; returned in all hast to their houses, where one telling this newes to another, and gossip with gossip consulting thereon; they made the shorter dinner, and afterward flocked in maine troopes to the castle, contending who shold first get entrance, such was their devotion to see the holy feather. friar _onyon_ having dined, and reposed a little after his wine, he arose from the table to the window, where beholding what multitudes came to see the feather, he assured himselfe of good store of mony. hereupon, he sent to his boy _guccio imbrata_, that uppon the bels ringing, he should come and bring the wallet to him. which (with much ado) he did, so soone as his quarrell was ended in the kitchin, with the amiable chamber-maid _nuta_, away then he went with his holy commodities: where he was no sooner arrived, but because his belly was readie to burst with drinking water, he sent him to the church to ring the bels, which not onely would warme the cold water in his belly, but likewise make him run as gaunt as a grey-hound. when all the people were assembled in the church together, friar _onyon_ (never distrusting any injurie offered him, or that his close commodities had bin medled withall) began his predication, uttering a thousand lies to fit his purpose. and when he came to shew the feather of the phoenix (having first in great devotion finisht the confession) he caused two goodly torches to be lighted, & ducking downe his head three severall times, before hee would so much as touch the taffata, he opened it with much reverence. so soone as the cabinet came to be seen, off went his hood, lowly he bowed downe his body, and uttering especial praises of the phoenix, and sacred properties of the wonderfull relique, the cover of the cabinet being lifted uppe, he saw the same to bee full of coales. he could not suspect his villaine boy to do this deede, for he knew him not to be endued with so much wit, onely hee curst him for keeping it no better, and curst himselfe also, for reposing trust in such a careles knave, knowing him to be slothfull, disobedient, negligent, and void of all honest understanding or grace. sodainly (without blushing) lest his losse should be discerned, he lifted his lookes and hands to heaven, speaking out so loude, as every one might easily heare him, thus: o thou omnipotent providence, for ever let thy power be praised. then making fast the cabinet againe, and turning himselfe to the people, with lookes expressing admiration, he proceeded in this manner. lords, ladies, and you the rest of my worthy auditors: you are to understand, that i (being then very young) was sent by my superiour, into those parts, where the sun appeareth at his first rising. and i had received charge by expresse command, that i should seeke for (so much as consisted in my power to do) the especiall vertues and priviledges belonging to porcellane, which although the boyling thereof bee worth but little, yet it is very profitable to any but us. in regard whereof, being upon my journey, and departing from _venice_, passing along the _borgo de grecia_, i proceeded thence (on horseback) through the realme of _garbo_, so to _baldacca_, till i came to _parione_; from whence, not without great extremity of thirst, i arrived in _sardignia_. but why do i trouble you with the repetition of so many countries? i coasted on still, after i had past saint _georges arme_, into _trussia_, and then into _bussia_, which are countries much inhabited, and with great people. from thence i went into the _land of lying_, where i found store of the brethren of our religion, and many other beside, who shunned all paine and labour, onely for the love of god, and cared as little, for the paines and travailes which others tooke, except some benefit arised thereby to them; nor spend they any money in this country, but such as is without stampe. thence i went into the land of _abruzzi_, where the men and women goe in galoches over the mountaines, and make them garments of their swines guts. not farre from thence, i found people, that carried bread in their staves, and wine in satchels, when parting from them, i arrived among the mountaines of _bacchus_, where all the waters run downe with a deepe fall, and in short time, i went on so far, that i found my selfe to be in _india pastinaca_; where i swear to you by the holy habit which i weare on my body, that i saw serpents flye, things incredible, and such as were never seene before. but because i would be loth to lye, so soone as i departed thence, i met with _maso de saggio_, who was a great merchant there, and whom i found cracking nuts, and selling cockles by retale. neverthelesse, al this while i could not finde what i sought for, and therefore i was to passe from hence by water, if i intended to travaile thither, and so in returning back, i came into the _holy land_, where coole fresh bread is sold for fourepence, and the hot is given away for nothing. there i found the venerable father (blame me not i beseech you) the most woorthie patriarch of _jerusalem_, who for the reverence due to the habite i weare, and love to our lord baron saint _anthony_, would have me to see al the holy reliques, which he had there under his charge: whereof there were so many, as if i should recount them all to you, i never could come to a conclusion. but yet, not to leave you discomforted, i will relate some few of them to you. first of all, he shewed me the finger of the holy ghost, so whole and perfect, as ever it was. next, the nose of the cherubin, which appeared to saint _frances_; with the payring of the naile of a seraphin; and one of the ribbes of _verbum caro_, fastened to one of the windowes, covered with the holy garments of the catholique faith. then he tooke me into a darke chappel, where he shewed me divers beames of the starre that appeared to the three kings in the east. also a violl of saint _michaels_ sweate, when he combatted with the divell: and the jaw-bone of dead _lazarus_, with many other precious things beside. and because i was liberall to him, giving him two of the plaines of _monte morello_, in the vulgare edition, and some of the chapters _del caprezio_, which he had long laboured in search of; he bestowed on me some of his reliques. first, he gave me one of the eye-teeth of _santa crux_; and a little violl, filled with some part of the sound of those belles, which hung in the sumptuous temple of _salomon_. next, he gave mee the feather of the phoenix, which was with _noah_ in the arke, as before i told you. and one of the woodden pattens, which the good saint _gerrard de magnavilla_ used to weare in his travailes, and which i gave (not long since) to _gerrardo di bousy_ at _florence_, where it is respected with much devotion. moreover, he gave me a few of those coales, wherewith the phoenix of _noah_ was roasted; all which things i brought away thence with me. now, most true it is, that my superiour would never suffer mee to shew them any where, untill he was faithfully certified, whether they were the same precious reliques, or no. but perceyving by sundrie myracles which they have wrought, and letters of sufficient credence receyved from the reverend patriarch, that all is true, he hath graunted me permission to shew them, and because i wold not trust any one with matters of such moment, i my selfe brought them hither with me. now i must tell you, that the feather of the same phoenix, i conveyed into a small cabinet or casket, because it should not be bent or broken. and the coales wherewith the said phoenix was roasted, i put into another casket, in all respects so like to the former, that many times i have taken one for another. as now at this instant it hath bin my fortune: for, imagining that i brought the casket with the feather, i mistooke my self, & brought the other with the coales. wherein doubtles i have not offended, because i am certaine, that we of our order do not any thing, but it is ordred by divine direction, and our blessed patron the lorde baron saint _anthony_. and so much the rather, because about a senight hence, the feast of saint _anthony_ is to bee solemnized, against the preparation whereof, and to kindle your zeale with the greater fervencie: he put the casket with the coales into my hand, meaning, to let you see the feather, at some more fitting season. and therefore my blessed sonnes and daughters, put off your bonnets, and come hither with devotion to looke upon them. but first let me tell you, whosoever is marked by any of these coales, with the signe of the crosse: he or she shall live all this yeare happily, and no fire whatsoever shall come neere to touch or hurt them. so, singing a solemne antheme in the praise of s. _anthony_, he unveyled the casket, and shewed the coales openly. the simple multitude, having (with great admiration and reverence) a long while beheld them, they thronged in crouds to fryar _onyon_, giving him farre greater offerings, then before they had, and entreating him to marke them each after other. whereupon, he taking the coales in his hand, began to marke their garments of white, and the veyles on the womens heads, with crosses of no meane extendure: affirming to them, that the more the coales wasted with making those great crosses, the more they still encreased in the casket, as often before hee had made triall. in this manner, having crossed all the _certaldanes_ (to his great benefit) and their abuse: he smiled at his sodaine and dexterious devise, in mockery of them, who thought to have made a scorne of him, by dispossessing him of the feather. for _bragoniero_ and _pizzino_, being present at his learned predication, and having heard what a cunning shift he found, to come off cleanly, without the least detection, and all delivered with such admirable protestations: they were faine to forsake the church, least they should have burst with laughing. but when all the people were parted and gone, they met friar _onyon_ at his inne, where closely they discovered to him, what they had done, delivering him his feather againe: which the yeare following, did yeeld him as much money, as now the coales had done. * * * * * this novell affoorded equall pleasing to the whole companie, friar _onyons_ sermon being much commended, but especially his long pilgrimage, and the reliques he had both seene, and brought home with him. afterward, the queene perceiving, that her reigne had now the full expiration, graciously she arose, and taking the crowne from off her owne head, placed on the head of _dioneus_, saying. it is high time _dioneus_, that you should taste part of the charge & paine, which poore women have felt and undergone in their soveraigntie and government: wherefore, be you our king, and rule us with such awefull authority, that the ending of your dominion may yeelde us all contentment. _dioneus_ being thus invested with the crowne, returned this answer. i make no doubt (bright beauties) but you many times have seene as good, or a better king among the chesse-men, then i am. but yet of a certainty, if you would be obedient to me, as you ought in dutie unto a true king: i should grant you a liberall freedome of that, wherein you take the most delight, and without which, our choisest desires can never be compleate. neverthelesse, i meane, that my government shall be according to mine owne minde. so, causing the master of the houshold to be called for, as all the rest were wont to do for conference with him: he gave him direction, for al things fitting the time of his regiment, and then turning to the ladies, thus he proceeded. honest ladies, we have alreadie discoursed of variable devises, and so many severall manners of humane industry, concerning the busines wherewith _licisca_ came to acquaint us: that her very words, have ministred me matter, sufficient for our morrowes conference, or else i stand in doubt, that i could not have devised a more convenient theame for us to talke on. she (as you have all heard) saide, that shee had not anie neighbour, who came a true virgin to her husband, and added moreover, that she knew some others, who had beguiled their husbandes, in very cunning and crafty manner. but setting aside the first part, concerning the proofe of children, i conceive the second to bee more apte for our intended argument. in which respect, my will is (seeing _licisca_ hath given us so good an occasion) that our discoursing to morrow,** may onely concerne such slye cunning and deceits, as women have heeretofore used, for satisfying their owne appetites, and beguiling their husbands, without their knowledge, or suspition, and cleanly escaping with them, or no. this argument seemed not very pleasing to the ladies, and therefore they urged an alteration thereof, to some matter better suting with the day, and their discoursing: whereto thus he answered. ladies, i know as well as your selves, why you would have this instant argument altered: but, to change me from it you have no power, considering the season is such, as shielding all (both men and women) from medling with any dishonest action; it is lawfull for us to speake of what wee please. and know you not, that through the sad occasion of the time, which now over-ruleth us, the judges have forsaken their venerable benches, the lawes (both divine and humane) ceasing, granting ample license to every one, to do what best agreeth with the conservation of life? therefore, if your honesties doe straine themselves a little, both in thinking and speaking, not for prosecution of any immodest deede, but onely for familiar and blamelesse entercourse: i cannot devise a more convenient ground, at least that carrieth apparant reason, for reproofe of perils, to ensue by any of you. moreover, your company, which hath bin most honest, since the first day of our meeting, to this instant: appeareth not any jot to be disgraced, by any thing either said or done, neither shall be (i hope) in the meanest degree. and what is he, knowing your choise and vertuous dispositions, so powerfull in their owne prevailing, that wanton words cannot misguide your wayes, no nor the terror of death it selfe, that dare insinuate a distempred thought? but admit, that some slight or shallow judgements, hearing you (perhaps sometimes) talke of such amorous follies, should therefore suspitiously imagine you to be faulty, or else you would bee more sparing of speech? their wit and censure are both alike, favouring rather of their owne vile nature, who would brand others with their basebred imperfections. yet there is another consideration beside, of some great injury offered to mine honor, and whereof i know not how you can acquit your selves. i that have bin obedient to you all, and borne the heavy load of your businesse, having now (with full consent) created mee your king, you would wrest the law out of my hands, and dispose of my authoritie as you please. forbeare (gentle ladies) all frivolous suspitions, more fit for them that are full of bad thoughts, then you, who have true vertue shining in your eyes; and therefore, let every one freely speake their minde, according as their humours best pleaseth them. when the ladies heard this, they made answer, that all should bee answerable to his minde. whereupon, the king gave them all leave to dispose of themselves till supper time. and because the sun was yet very high, in regard all the re counted novels had bin so short: _dioneus_ went to play at the tables with another of the yong gentlemen, & madame _eliza_, having withdrawne the ladies aside, thus spake unto them. during the time of our being heere, i have often bene desirous to let you see a place somwhat neere at hand, and which i suppose you have never seene, it being called _the valley of ladies_. till now, i could not finde any convenient time to bring you thither, the sunne continuing still aloft, which fitteth you with the apter leysure, and the sight (i am sure) can no way discontent you. the ladies replyed, that they were all ready to walk with her thither: and calling one of their women to attend on them, they set on, without speaking a word to any of the men. and within the distance of halfe a mile, they arrived at the _valley of ladies_, whereinto they entred by a strait passage at the one side, from whence there issued forth a cleare running river. and they found the saide valley to bee so goodly and pleasant, especially in that season, which was the hottest of all the yeare; as all the world was no where able to yeeld the like. and, as one of the said ladies (since then) related to mee, there was a plaine in the valley so directly round, as if it had beene formed by a compasse, yet rather it resembled the workmanship of nature, then to be made by the hand of man: containing in circuite somewhat more then the quarter of a mile, environed with sixe small hils, of no great height, and on each of them stood a little palace, shaped in the fashion of castles. the ground-plots descending from those hils or mountaines, grew lesse and lesse by variable degrees, as wee observe at entering into our theaters, from the highest part to the lowest, succinctly to narrow the circle by order. now, concerning these ground-plottes or little meadowes, those which the sun southward looked on, were full of vines, olive-trees, almond-trees, cherry-trees, and figge-trees, with divers other trees beside, so plentifully bearing fruites, as you could not discerne a hands bredth of losse. the other mountaines, whereon the northerne windes blow, were curiously covered with small thickets or woods of oakes, ashes, and other trees so greene and straite, as it was impossible to behold fairer. the goodly plaine it selfe, not having any other entrance, but where the ladies came in, was planted with trees of firre, cipresse, laurell, and pines; so singularly growing in formall order, as if some artificiall or cunning hand had planted them, the sun hardly piercing through their branches, from the top to the bottome, even at his highest, or any part of his course. all the whole field was richly spred with grasse, and such variety of delicate flowers, as nature yeilded out of her plenteous store-house. but that which gave no lesse delight then any of the rest, was a small running brooke, descending from one of the vallies, that divided two of the little hils, and fell through a veine of the intire rocke it selfe, that the fall and murmure thereof was most delightfull to heare, seeming all the way in the descent, like quicke-silver, weaving it selfe into artificiall workes, and arriving in the plaine beneath, it was there receyved into a small channell, swiftly running through the midst of the plaine, to a place where it stayed, and shaped it selfe into a lake or pond, such as our citizens have in their orchards or gardens, when they please to make use of such a commodity. this pond was no deeper, then to reach the breast of a man, and having no mud or soyle in it, the bottome thereof shewed like small beaten gravell, with prety pibble stones intermixed, which some that had nothing else to do, would sit downe and count them as they lay, as very easily they might. and not onely was the bottome thus apparantly seene, but also such plenty of fishes swimming every way, as the mind was never to be wearied in looking on them. nor was this water bounded in with any bankes, but onely the sides of the plain medow, which made it appeare the more sightly, as it arose in swelling plenty. and alwayes as it super-abounded in his course, least it should overflow disorderly: it fell into another channell, which conveying it along the lower valley, ran forth to water other needfull places. when the ladies were arrived in this goodly valley, and upon advised viewing it, had sufficiently commended it: in regard the heat of the day was great, the place tempting, and the pond free from sight of any, they resolved there to bathe themselves. wherefore they sent the waiting gentlewoman to have a diligent eye on the way where they entered, least any one should chance to steale upon them. all seven of them being stript naked, into the water they went, which hid their delicate white bodies, like as a cleare glasse concealeth a damask rose within it. so they being in the pond, and the water nothing troubled by their being there, they found much prety pastime together, running after the fishes, to catch them with their hands, but they were over-quicke and cunning for them. after they had delighted themselves there to their owne contentment, and were cloathed with their garments, as before: thinking it fit time for their returning backe againe, least their over-long stay might give offence, they departed thence in an easie pace, dooing nothing else all the way as they went, but extolling the _valley of ladies_ beyond all comparison. at the palace they arrived in a due houre, finding the three gentlemen at play, as they left them, to whom madame _pampinea_ pleasantly thus spake. now trust me gallants, this day wee have very cunningly beguiled you. how now? answered _dioneus_, begin you first to act, before you speake? yes truly sir, replyed madame _pampinea_: relating to him at large, from whence they came, what they had done there, the beautie of the place, and the distance thence. the king (upon hir excellent report) being very desirous to see it; sodainely commaunded supper to be served in, which was no sooner ended, but they and their three servants (leaving the ladies) walked on to the _valley_, which when they had considered, no one of them having ever bin there before; they thought it to be the paradise of the world. they bathed themselves there likewise, as the ladies formerlie had done, and being re-vested, returned backe to their lodgings, because darke night drew on apace: but they found the ladies dauncing, to a song which madame _fiammetta_ sung. when the dance was ended, they entertained the time with no other discourse, but onely concerning the _valley of ladies_, whereof they all spake liberally in commendations. whereupon, the king called the master of the houshold, giving him command, that (on the morrow) dinner should be readie betimes, and bedding to be thence carried, if any desired rest at mid-time of the day. all this being done, variety of pleasing wines were brought, banquetting stuffe, and other dainties; after which they fell to dauncing. and _pamphilus_, having receyved command, to begin an especial dance, the king turned himselfe unto madame _eliza_, speaking thus. faire lady, you have done me so much honour this day, as to deliver mee the crowne: in regard whereof, be you this night the mistresse of the song: and let it be such as best may please your selfe. whereunto madam _eliza_, with a modest blush arising in her face, replyed; that his will should be fulfilled, and then (with a delicate voyce) she beganne in this manner. _the song._ the chorus sung by all. _love, if i can scape free from forth thy holde, beleeve it for a truth, never more shall thy falshoode me enfolde._ _when i was yong, i entred first thy fights, supposing there to finde a solemne peace: i threw off all my armes, and with delights fed my poore hopes, as still they did encrease. but like a tyrant, full of rancorous hate thou tookst advantage: and i sought refuge, but it was too late. love, if i can scape free, &c._ _but being thus surprized in thy snares, to my misfortune, thou madst me her slave; was onely borne to feede me with despaires, and keepe me dying in a living grave. for i saw nothing dayly fore mine eyes, but rackes and tortures: from which i could not get in any wise. love, if i can scape free, &c._ _my sighes and teares i vented to the winde, for none would heare or pittie my complaints; my torments still encreased in this kinde, and more and more i felt these sharpe restraints. release me now at last from forth this hell. asswage thy rigour, delight not thus in cruelty to dwell, love, if i can scape free, &c._ _if this thou wilt not grant, be yet so kinde, release me from these worse then servile bands, which new vaine hopes have bred, wherein i finde; such violent feares, as comfort quite withstands. be now (at length) a little moov'd to pittie, be it nere so little: or in my death listen my swan-like dittie._ _love, if i can scape free from forth thy holde, beleeve it for a truth, never more shall thy falshood me enfolde._ after that madame _eliza_ had made an end of her song, which shee sealed up with an heart-breaking sigh: they all sate amazedly wondering at her moanes, not one among them being able to conjecture, what should be the reason of her singing in this manner. but the king being in a good and pleasing temper, calling _tindaro_, commaunded him to bring his bagge-pipe, by the sound whereof they danced divers daunces: and a great part of the night being spent in this manner, they all gave over, and departed to their chambers. _the end of the sixth day._ the seventh day. _when the assembly being met together, and under the regiment of_ dioneus: _the discourses are directed, for the discoverie of such policies and deceites, as women have used for beguiling of their husbandes, either in respect of their love, or for the prevention of some blame or scandal, escaping without sight, knowledge or otherwise._ the induction to the dayes discourses. all the starres were departed out of the east, but onely that, which we commonly cal bright _lucifer_, or the day-star, gracing the morning very gloriously: when the master of the household, being risen, went with all the provision, to the _valley of ladies_, to make everie thing in due and decent readines, according as his lord over-night had commanded him. after which departure of his, it was not long before the king arose, beeing awaked with the noise which the carriages made; and when he was up, the other two gentlemen and the ladies were quickly readie soone after. on they set towards the _valley_, even as the sunne was rising: and all the way as they went, never before had they heard so many sweete nightingales, and other pretty birds melodiously singing, as they did this morning, which keeping them company thoroughout the journey, they arrived at the _valley of ladies_, where it seemed to them, that infinit quires of delicate nightingales, and other birds, had purposely made a meeting, even as it were to give them a glad welcome thither. divers times they walked about the _valley_, never satisfied with viewing it from one end to the other; because it appeared farre more pleasing unto them, then it had done the precedent day: and because the dayes splendour was much more conforme to the beauty thereof. after they had broken their fast, with excellent wines and banquetting stuffe, they began to tune their instruments and sing; because (therein) the sweet birds should not excell them, the _valley_ (with delicate echoes) answering all their notes. when dinner time drew neere, the tables were covered under the spreading trees, and by the goodly ponds side, where they sate downe orderly by the kings direction: and all dinner while, they saw the fishes swimme by huge shoales in the pond, which sometimes gave them occasion to talke, as well as gaze on them. when dinner was ended, and the tables withdrawne, in as jocond manner as before, they renewed againe their hermonious singing. in divers places of this pleasant _valley_, were goodly field-beds readily furnished, according as the master of the houshold gave enstruction, enclosed with pavillions of costly stuffes, such as are sometimes brought out of _france_. such as were so disposed, were licensed by the king to take their rest: and they that would not, he permitted them to their wonted pastimes, each according to their minds. but when they were risen from sleepe, and the rest from their other exercises, it seemed to be more then high time, that they should prepare for talke and conference. so, sitting downe on turky carpets, which were spred abroad on the green grasse, and close by the place where they had dined: the king gave command, that madam _ã�millia_ should first begin, whereto she willingly yeelding obedience, and expecting such silent attention, as formerly had bin observed, thus she began. john _of_ lorraine _heard one knocke at his doore in the night time, whereuppon he awaked his wife_ monna tessa. _she made him beleeve, that it was a spirit which knocked at the doore, and so they arose, going both together to conjure the spirit with a prayer; and afterwardes, they heard no more knocking._ the first novell. _reprehending the simplicity of some sottish husbands: and discovering the wanton subtilties of some women, to compasse their unlawfull desires._ my gracious lord (quoth madame _ã�millia_) it had bene a matter highly pleasing to mee, that any other (rather than my selfe) should have begun to speake of this argument, which it hath pleased you to apoint. but seeing it is your highnesse pleasure, that i must make a passage of assurance for all the rest; i will not be irregular, because obedience is our cheefe article. i shall therefore (gracious ladies) strive, to speake something, which may bee advantageable to you heereafter, in regard, that if other women bee as fearfull as we, especially of spirits, of which all our sexe have generally bin timorous (although, upon my credite, i know not what they are, nor ever could meete with any, to tell me what they be) you may by the diligent observation of my novell: learne a wholesome and holy prayer, very availeable, and of precious power, to conjure and drive them away, whensoever they shall presume to assault you in any place. there dwelt sometime in _florence_, and in the street of saint _brancazio_, a woollen weaver, named _john_ of _lorrayne_; a man more happy in his art, then wise in any thing else beside: because, favouring somewhat of the _gregorie_, and (in very deede) little lesse then an ideot; hee was many times made captain of the woollen-weavers, in the quarters belonging to _santa maria novella_, and his house was the schoole or receptacle, for all their meetings and assemblies. he had divers other petty offices beside, by the dignity and authority whereof, hee supposed himselfe much exalted or elevated, above the common pitch of other men. and this humour became the more tractable to him, because he addicted himselfe oftentimes (as being a man of an easie inclination) to be a benefactor to the holy fathers of _santa maria novella_, giving (beside his other charitable almes) to someone a paire of breeches, to another a hood, and to another a whole habit. in reward whereof, they taught him (by heart) many wholesome prayers, as the _pater noster_ in the vulgar tongue; the song of saint _alexis_; the lamentations of saint _bernard_, the hymne of madame _matilda_, and many other such like matters, which he kept charily, and repeated usually, as tending to the salvation of his soule. this man, had a very faire and lovely wife, named _monna tessa_, the daughter of _manuccio della cuculia_, wise and well advised; who knowing the simplicity of her husband, and affecting _frederigo di neri pegolotti_, who was a comely yong gentleman, fresh, and in the floure of his time, even as she was, therefore they agreed the better together. by meanes of her chamber-maid, _frederigo_ and shee met often together, at a countrie farme of _john_ of _lorraynes_, which hee had neere to _florence_, and where she used to lodge all the summer time, called _camerata_, whether _john_ resorted somtimes to supper, and lodge for a night, returning home againe to his city house the next morning; yet often he would stay there longer with his owne companions. _frederigo_, who was no meane man in his mistresses favor, and therefore these private meetings the more welcome to him; received a summons or assignation from her, to be there on such a night, when hir husband had no intent of comming thither. there they supped merrily together, and (no doubt) did other things, nothing appertaining to our purpose, she both acquainting, and well instructing him, in a dozen (at the least) of her husbands devout prayers. nor did shee make any account, or _frederigo_ either, that this should be the last time of their meeting, because (indeede) it was not the first: and therefore they set down an order and conclusion together (because the chambermaide must be no longer the messenger) in such manner as you shall heare. _frederigo_ was to observe especially, that alwayes when hee went or came from his owne house, which stood much higher then _john_ of _lorraynes_ did, to looke upon a vine, closely adjoyning to her house, where stood the scull of an asses head, advanced upon an high pole; & when the face thereof looked towards _florence_, he might safely come, it being an assured signe, that _john_ kept at home. and if he found the doore fast shut, he should softly knocke three severall times, and thereon bee admitted entrance. but if the face stood towards _fiesola_; then he might not come, for it was the signe of _johns_ being there, and then there might be no medling at all. having thus agreed upon this conclusion, and had many merry meetings together: one night above the rest, where _frederigo_ was appointed to suppe with _monna tessa_, who had made ready two fat capons, drest in most dainty and delicate manner: it fell out so unfortunately, that _john_ (whose kue was not to come that night) came thither very late, yet before _frederigo_, wherewith she being not a little offended, gave _john_ a slight supper, of lard, bacon, and such like coarse provision, because the other was kept for a better guest. in the meane time, and while _john_ was at supper, the maide (by her mistresses direction) had conveighed the two capons, with boyled egges, bread and a bottle of wine (all folded up in a faire cleane table cloth) into her garden, that had a passage to it, without entering into the house, and where shee had divers times supt with _frederigo_. she further willed the maide, to set all those things under a peach-tree, which adjoyned to the fields side: but, so angry she was at her husbands unexpected comming, that shee forgot to bid her tarrie there, till _frederigoes_ comming; and to tell him of _johns_ being there: as also, to take what he found prepared readie for his supper. _john_ and she being gone to bed together, and the maide likewise, it was not long after, before _frederigo_ came, and knocking once softly at the doore, which was very neere to their lodging chamber, _john_ heard the noise, and so did his wife. but to the end, that _john_ might not have the least scruple of suspition, she seemed to be fast asleepe; and _frederigo_ pausing a while, according to the order directed, knockt againe the second time. _john_ wondering thereat very much, jogd his wife a little, and saide to her: _tessa_, hearest thou nothing? me thinkes one knocketh at our doore. _monna tessa_, who was better acquainted with the knocke, then plaine honest meaning _john_ was, dissembling as if shee awaked out of a drowsie dreame, saide: alas husband, dost thou know what this is? in the name of our blessed ladie, be not affraid, this is but the spirit which haunts our countrey houses, whereof i have often told thee, and it hath many times much dismayed me, living heere alone without thy comfort. nay, such hath bin my feare, that in divers nights past, so soone as i heard the knockes: i was feigne to hide my selfe in the bedde over-head and eares (as we usually say) never daring to be so bold, as to looke out, untill it was broad open day. arise good wife (quoth _john_) and if it be such a spirit of the countrey, as thou talkest of, never be affraid; for before we went to bed, i said the _telucis_, the _intemerata_, with many other good prayers beside. moreover, i made the signe of the crosse at every corner of our bed, in the name of the father, son, and holy ghost, so that no doubt at all needs to be made, of any power it can have to hurt or touch us. _monna tessa_, because (perhaps) _frederigo_ might receive some other suspition, and so enter into distaste of her by anger or offence: determined to arise indeede, and to let him covertly understand, that _john_ was there, and therefore saide to her husband. beleeve me _john_, thy counsell is good, and every one of thy words hath wisedome in it: but i hold it best for our owne safety, thou being heere; that wee should conjure him quite away, to the end he may never more haunt our house. conjure him wife? quoth _john_, by what meanes? and how? bee patient good man (quoth _tessa_) and i will enstruct thee. i have learned an excellent kinde of conjuration; for, the last weeke, when i went to procure the pardons at _fiesola_, one of the holy recluse nuns, who (indeede _john_) is my indeered sister and friend, and the most sanctimonius in life of them all; perceiving me to be troubled and terrified by spirits; taught me a wholesome and holy prayer, and protested withall, that shee had often made experiment thereof, before she became a recluse, & found it (alwayes) a present helpe to her. yet never durst i adventure to essay it, living heere by my selfe all alone: but honest _john_, seeing thou art heere with me, we will go both together, and conjure this spirit. _john_ replyed, that he was very willing; and being both up, they went fayre and softly to the doore, where _frederigo_ stoode still without, and was growne somewhat suspitious of his long attendance. when they were come to the doore, _monna tessa_ said to _john_: thou must cough and spet, at such time as i shall bid thee. well (quoth _john_) i will not faile you. immediately she beganne her prayer in this manner. _spirit, that walkst thus in the night, poore countrey people to affright: thou hast mistane thy marke and ayme, the head stood right, but_ john _home came, and therefore thou must packe away, for i have nothing else to say: but to my garden get the gone, under the peach-tree stands alone, there shalt thou finde two capons drest, and egges laide in mine owne hennes nest, bread, and a bottle of good wine, all wrapt up in a cloath most fine. is not this good goblins fare? packe and say you have your share; not doing harme to_ john _or me, who this night keepes me companie._ no sooner had she ended her devoute conjuring prayer, but she saide to her husband: now _john_, cough and spet: which _john_ accordingly did. and _frederigo_, being all this while without, hearing her witty conjuration of a spirit, which he himselfe was supposed to be, being ridde of his former jealous suspition: in the middst of all his melancholy, could very hardly refraine from laughing, the jest appeared so pleasing to him: but when _john_ cought and spet, softly he said to himselfe: when next thou spetst, spet out all thy teeth. the woman having three severall times conjured the spirite, in such manner you have already heard; returned to bed againe with her husband: and _frederigo_, who came as perswaded to sup with her, being supperlesse all this while; directed by the words of _monna tessa_ in hir praier, went into the garden. at the foot of the peach-tree, there he found the linnen cloth, with the two hot capons, bread, egges, and a bottle of wine in it, all which he carried away with him, and went to supper at better leysure. oftentimes afterward, upon other meetings of _frederigo_ and she together, they laughed heartily at her enchantment, and the honest beleefe of silly _john_. i cannot deny, but that some do affirme, that the woman had turned the face of the asses head towards _fiesola_, and a country travailer passing by the vine, having a long piked staffe on his necke; the staffe, (by chance) touched the head, and made it turne divers times about, & in the end faced _florence_, which being the cal for _frederigoes_ comming, by this meanes he was disappointed. in like manner some say, that _monna tessaes_ prayer for conjuring the spirit, was in this order. _spirit, spirit, go thy way, and come againe some other day, it was not i that turnd the head, but some other. in our bed are john and i: go from our dore, and see thou trouble us no more._ so that _frederigo_ departed thence, both with the losse of his labour & supper. but a neighbour of mine, who is a woman of good yeares, told me, that both the one and other were true, as she her selfe heard, when she was a little girle. and concerning the latter accident, it was not to _john_ of _lorrayne_, but to another, named _john de nello_, that dwelt at s. _peters_ gate, and of the same profession as _john_ of _lorrayne_ was. wherefore (faire ladies) it remaineth in your owne choice, to entertain which of the two prayers you please, or both together if you will: for they are of extraordinary vertue in such strange occurrences, as you have heeretofore heard, and (upon doubt) may prove by experience. it shall not therefore be amisse for you, to learne them both by hart, for (peradventure) they may stand you in good sted, if ever you chance to have the like occasion. peronella _hid a yong man her friend and lover, under a great brewing fat, upon the sodaine returning home of her husband; who told her, that hee had solde the saide fat, and brought him that bought it, to carry it away._ peronella _replyed, that shee had formerly solde it unto another, who was nowe underneath it, to see whether it were whole and sound, or no. whereupon, he being come forth from under it; she caused her husband to make it neate and cleane, and so the last buyer carried it away._ the second novell. _wherein is declared, what hard and narrow shifts and distresses, such as bee seriously linked in love, are many times enforced to undergo: according as their owne wit, and capacitie of their surprizers, drive them to in extremities._ not without much laughter and good liking, was the tale of madame _ã�millia_ listened unto, and both the prayers commended to be sound and soveraigne: but it being ended, the king commaunded _philostratus_, that hee should follow next in order, whereupon thus he began. deare ladies, the deceites used by men towards your sexe, but especially husbands, have bene so great and many, as when it hath sometime happened, or yet may, that husbands are requited in the self-same kinde: you need not finde fault at any such accident, either by knowledge thereof afterward, or hearing the same reported by any one; but rather you should referre it to generall publication, to the end, that immodest men may know, and finde it for trueth, that if they have apprehension and capacity; women are therein not a jote inferiour to them. which cannot but redound to your great benefite, because, when any one knoweth, that another is as cunning and subtile as himselfe; he will not be so rashly adventurous in deceite. and who maketh any doubt, that if those sleights and trickes, whereof this dayes argument may give us occasion to speake, should afterwardes be put in execution by men: would it not minister just reason, of punishing themselves for beguiling you, knowing, that (if you please) you have the like abilitie in your owne power? mine intent therefore is to tell you, what a woman (though but of meane quality) did to her husband, upon a sodaine, and in a moment (as it were) for her owne safety. not long since, there lived in _naples_, an honest meane man, who did take to wife, a fayre and lustie young woman, being named _peronella_. he professing the trade of a mason, and shee carding and spinning, maintained themselves in a reasonable condition, abating and abounding as their fortunes served. it came to passe, that a certayne young man, well observing the beauty and good parts of _peronella_, became much addicted in affection towardes her: and by his often and secret sollicitations, which he found not to be unkindly entertayned; his successe proved answerable to his hope, no unindifferencie appearing in their purposes, but where her estate seemed weakest, his supplies made an addition of more strength. now, for their securer meeting, to stand cleare from all matter of scandal or detection, they concluded in this order between themselves. _lazaro_, for so was _peronellaes_ husband named, being an earely riser every morning, either to seeke for worke, or to effect it being undertaken: this amorous friend being therewith acquainted, and standing in some such convenient place, where hee could see _lazaroes_ departure from his house, and yet himselfe no way discerned; poore _lazaro_ was no sooner gone, but presently he enters the house, which stood in a verie solitarie street, called the _avorio_. many mornings had they thus met together, to their no meane delight and contentation, till one especiall morning among the rest, when _lazaro_ was gone forth to worke, and _striguario_ (so was the amorous young man named) visiting _peronella_ in the house: upon a very urgent occasion, _lazaro_ returned backe againe, quite contrary to his former wont, keeping foorth all day, and never comming home till night. finding his doore to be fast lockt, and he having knockt softlie once or twice, he spake in this manner to himselfe. fortune i thanke thee, for albeit thou hast made mee poore, yet thou hast bestowed a better blessing on me, in matching me with so good, honest, & loving a wife. behold, though i went early out of my house, her selfe hath risen in the cold to shut the doore, to prevent the entrance of theeves, or any other that might offend us. _peronella_ having heard what her husband sayde, and knowing the manner of his knocke, said fearfully to _striguario_. alas deare friend, what shall wee doe? i am little lesse then a dead woman: for, _lazaro_ my husband is come backe again, and i know not what to do or say. he never returned in this order before now, doubtlesse, hee saw when you entred the doore; and for the safety of your honour and mine: creepe under this brewing fat, till i have opened the doore, to know the reason of his so soone returning. _striguario_ made no delaying of the matter, but got himselfe closelie under the fat, and peronella opening the doore for her husbands enterance, with a frowning countenance, spake thus unto him. what meaneth this so early returning home againe this morning? it seemeth, thou intendest to do nothing to day, having brought backe thy tooles in thy hands. if such be thine intent, how shall we live? where shall we have bread to fill our bellies? dooest thou thinke, that i will suffer thee to pawne my gowne, and other poore garments, as heeretofore thou hast done? i that card and spinne both night and day, till i have worne the flesh from my fingers; yet all will hardly finde oyle to maintaine our lampe. husband, husband, there is not one neighbour dwelling by us, but makes a mockerie of me, and tels me plainly, that i may be ashamed to drudge and moyle as i do; wondering not a little, how i am able to endure it; and thou returnest home with thy hands in thy hose, as if thou hadst no worke at all to do this day. having thus spoken, she fell to weeping, and then thus began again. poore wretched woman as i am, in an unfortunate houre was i borne, and in a much worse, when i was made thy wife. i could have had a proper, handsome yong man; one, that would have maintained mee brave and gallantly: but, beast as i was, to forgoe my good, and cast my selfe away on such a beggar as thou art, and whom none wold have had, but such an asse as i. other women live at hearts ease, and in jollity, have their amorous friends and loving paramours, yea, one, two, three at once, making their husbands looke like a moone cressent, whereon they shine sun-like, with amiable lookes, because they know not how to helpe it: when i (poore foole) live heere at home a miserable life, not daring once to dreame of such follies, an innocent soule, heartlesse and harmelesse. many times, sitting and sighing to my selfe: lord, thinke i, of what mettall am i made? why should not i have a friend in a corner, as well as others have? i am flesh and blood, as they are, not made of brasse or iron, and therefore subject to womens frailty. i would thou shouldest know it husband, and i tell it thee in good earnest; that if i would doe ill, i could quickely finde a friend at a neede. gallants there are good store, who (of my knowledge) love me dearely, and have made me very large and liberall promises, of golde, silver, jewels, and gay garments, if i would extend them the least favour. but my heart will not suffer me, i never was the daughter of such a mother, as had so much as a thought of such matters: no, i thanke our blessed ladie, and s. _friswid_ for it: and yet thou returnest home againe, when thou shouldst be at worke. _lazaro_, who stoode all this while like a well-beleeving logger-head, demurely thus answered. alas good wife! i pray you bee not so angry, i never had so much as an ill thought of you, but know wel enough what you are, and have made good proofe thereof this morning. understand therefore patiently (sweet wife) that i went forth to my work as dayly i use to do, little dreaming (as i thinke you doe not) that it had bene holy-day. wife, this is the feast day of saint _galeone_; whereon we may in no wise worke, and this is the reason of my so soone returning. neverthelesse (deare wife) i was not carelesse of our houshold provision: for, though we worke not, yet we must have foode, which i have provided for more then a moneth. wife, i remembred the brewing fat, whereof wee have little or no use at all, but rather it is a trouble to the house, then otherwise. i met with an honest friend, who stayeth without at the doore, to him i have sold the fat for ten _gigliatoes_, and he tarrieth to take it away with him. how husband? replied _peronella_, why now i am worse offended then before. thou that art a man, walkest every where, and shouldst be experienced in worldly affaires: wouldst thou bee so simple, as to sell such a brewing fat for ten _gigliatoes_? why, i that am a poore ignorant woman, a house-dove, sildome going out of my doore: have sold it already for twelve _gigliatoes_, to a very honest man, who (even a little before thy comming home) came to me, we agreed on the bargaine, and he is now underneath the fat, to see whether it be sound or no. when credulous _lazaro_ heard this, he was better contented then ever, and went to him that taried at the doore, saying. good man, you may goe your way, for, whereas you offered me but ten _gigliatoes_ for the fat, my loving wife hath sold it for twelve, and i must maintaine what shee hath done: so the man departed, and the variance ended. _peronella_ then saide to her husband. seeing thou art come home so luckily, helpe me to lift up the fat, that the man may come foorth, and then you two end the bargaine together. _striguario_, who though he was mewed up under the tubbe, had his eares open enough; and hearing the witty excuse of _peronella_, tooke himselfe free from future feare: and being come from under the fat, pretending also, as if he had herd nothing, nor saw _lazaro_, looking round about him, said. where is this good woman? _lazaro_ stepping forth boldly like a man, replyed: heere am i, what wold you have sir? thou? quoth _striguario_, what art thou? i ask for the good wife, with whom i made my match for the fat. honest gentleman (answered _lazaro_) i am that honest womans husband, for lacke of a better, and i will maintaine whatsoever my wife hath done. i crie you mercie sir, replyed _striguario_, i bargained with your wife for this brewing fat, which i finde to be whole and sound: only it is uncleane within, hard crusted with some dry soile upon it, which i know not well how to get off, if you will be the meanes of making it cleane, i have the money heere ready for it. for that sir (quoth _peronella_) take you no care, although no match at all had beene made, what serves my husband for, but to make it cleane? yes forsooth sir, answered sily _lazaro_, you shall have it neate and cleane before you pay the mony. so, stripping himselfe into his shirt, lighting a candle, and taking tooles fit for the purpose; the fat was whelmed over him, and he being within it, wrought untill he sweated, with scraping and scrubbing. so that these poore lovers, what they could not accomplish as they wold, necessity enforced them to performe as they might. and _peronella_, looking in at the vent-hole, where the liquor runneth forth for the meshing; seemed to instruct her husband in the businesse, as espying those parts where the fat was fowlest, saying: there, there _lazaro_, tickle it there, the gentleman payes well for it, and is worthy to have it: but see thou do thy selfe no harme good husband. i warrant thee wife, answered _lazaro_, hurt not your selfe with leaning your stomacke on the fat, and leave the cleansing of it to me. to be breefe, the brewing fat was neatly cleansed, _peronella_ and _striguario_ both well pleased, the money paide, and honest meaning _lazaro_ not discontented. _friar_ reynard, _falling in love with a gentlewoman, wife to a man of good account; found the meanes to become her gossip. afterward, he being conferring closely with her in her chamber, and her husband coming sodainly thither: she made him beleeve, that he came thither for no other end; but to cure his god-sonne by a charme, of a dangerous disease which he had by wormes._ the third novell. _serving as a friendly advertisement to married women, that monks, friars, and priests may be none of their gossips, in regard of unavoydable perilles ensuing thereby._ _philostratus_ told not this tale so covertly, concerning _lazaros_ simplicity, and _peronellaes_ witty policy; but the ladies found a knot in the rush, and laughed not a little, at his queint manner of discoursing it. but upon the conclusion, the king looking upon madam _eliza_, willed her to succeede next, which as willingly she granted, and thus began. pleasant ladies, the charme or conjuration wherewith madam _ã�millia_ laid her night-walking spirit, maketh me remember a novell of another enchantment; which although it carrieth not commendation equall to the other, yet i intend to report it, because it suteth with our present purpose, and i cannot sodainly be furnisht with another, answerable thereto in nature. you are to understand then, that there lived in _siena_, a proper yong man, of good birth and well friended, being named _reynard_. earnestly he affected his neere dwelling neighbour, a beautifull gentlewoman, and wife to a man of good esteeme: of whom hee grew halfe perswaded, that if he could (without suspition) compasse private conference with her, he should reach the height of his amorous desires. yet seeing no likely meanes wherewith to further his hope, and shee being great with childe, he resolved to become a godfather to the childe, at such time as it should be brought to christening. and being inwardly acquainted with her husband, who was named _credulano_; such familiar entercourses passed betweene them, both of _reynards_ kinde offer, and _credulanoes_ as courteous acceptance, that hee was set downe for a gossippe. _reynard_ being thus embraced for madam _agnesiaes_ gossip, and this proving the onely colourable meanes, for his safer permission of speech with her, to let her now understand by word of mouth, what long before she collected by his lookes and behaviour: it fell out no way beneficiall to him, albeit _agnesia_ seemed not nice or scrupulous in hearing, yet she had a more precious care of her honor. it came to passe, within a while after (whether by seeing his labour vainly spent, or some other urgent occasion moving him thereto, i know not) _reynard_ would needs enter into religion, and whatsoever strictnesse or austeritie hee found to be in that kinde of life, yet he determined to persevere therein, whether it were for his good or ill. and although within a short space, after he was thus become a religious monke, hee seemed to forget the former love which he bare to his gossip _agnesia_, and divers other enormous vanities beside: yet let me tell you, successe of time tutord him in them againe; and, without any respect to his poore holy habite, but rather in contempt thereof (as it were) he tooke an especiall delight, in wearing garments of much richer esteeme, yet favoured by the same monasticall profession, appearing (in all respects) like a court-minion or favourite, of a sprightly and poeticall disposition, for composing verses, sonnets, and canzons, singing them to sundry excellent instruments, and yet not greatly curious of his company, so they were some of the best, and madame _agnesia_ one, his former gossip. but why doe i trouble my selfe, in talking thus of our so lately converted friar, holy father _reynard_, when they of longer standing, and reputed meerely for saints in life, are rather much more vile then hee? such is the wretched condition of this world, that they shame not (fat, soggie, and nastie abbey-lubbers) to shew how full fedde they live in their cloysters, with cherry cheekes, and smooth shining lookes, gay and gaudy garments, far from the least expression of humility, not walking in the streets like doves: but high-crested like cockes, with well cramd gorges. nay, which is worse, if you did but see their chambers furnished with gally-pots of electuaries, precious unguents, apothecary boxes, filled with various confections, conserves, excellent perfumes, and other goodly glasses of artificiall oyles and waters: beside rundlets and small barrels full of greeke wine, _muscatella, lachrime christi,_ and other such like most precious wines, so that (to such as see them) they seeme not to bee chambers of religious men; but rather apothecaries shoppes, or appertaining to druggists, grocers, or perfumers. it is no disgrace to them to be gowty; because when other men know it not, they alledge, that strict fasting, feeding on grosse meates (though never so little,) continuall studying, and such like restraints from the bodies freer exercise, maketh them subject to many infirmities. and yet, when any one of them chanceth to fall sicke, the physitian must minister no such counsell to them, as chastity, abstinence from voluptuous meats, discipline of the body, or any of those matters appertaining to a modest religious life. for, concerning the plaine, vulgar, and plebeian people, these holy fathers are perswaded, that they know nothing really belonging to a sanctimonious life; as long watching, praying, discipline and fasting, which (in themselves) are not able, to make men look leane, wretched, and pale. because saint _dominicke_, saint _fraunces_, and divers other holy saints beside, observed the selfesame religious orders and constitutions, as now their carefull successors do. moreover, in example of those fore-named saints, who went wel cloathed, though they had not three garments for one, nor made of the finest woollen excellent cloath: but rather of the very coarsest of all other, and of the common ordinary colour, to expell cold onely, but not to appear brave or gallant, deceyving thereby infinite simple credulous soules, whose purses (neverthelesse) are their best pay-masters. but leave we this, and returne wee backe to vertuous fryar _reynard_, who falling againe to his former appetites; became an often visitant of his gossip _agnesia_, and now hee had learned such a blushlesse kinde of boldnesse; that he durst be more instant with her (concerning his privie sute) then ever formerly he had bin, yea, even to solicite the enjoying of his immodest desires. the good gentlewoman, seeing her selfe so importunately pursued, and fryar _reynard_ appearing now (perhappes) of sweeter and more delicate complexion, then at his entrance into religion: at a set time of his secret communing with her; she answered him in as apt tearmes, as they use to do, who are not greatly squeamish, in granting matters demanded of them. why how now friar _reynard_? quoth shee, doe god-fathers use to move such questions? whereto the friar thus replyed. madam, when i have laide off this holy habite (which is a matter very easie for mee to do) i shall seeme in your eye, in all respects made like another man, quite from the course of any religious life. _agnesia_, biting the lip with a prety smile, said, o my faire starres! you will never bee so unfriendly to me. what? you being my gossip, would you have me consent unto such a sinne? our blessed lady shield mee, for my ghostly father hath often told me, that it is utterly unpardonable: but if it were, i feare too much confiding on mine owne strength. gossip, gossip, answered the friar, you speake like a foole, and feare (in this case) is wholly frivolous, especially, when the motions mooved by such an one as my selfe, who (upon repentance) can grant you pardon and indulgence presently. but i pray you let mee aske you one question, who is the neerest kinsman to your son; either i, that stood at the font for his baptisme, or your husband that begot him? the lady made answere, that it was her husband. you say very true gossip, replyed the friar, and yet notwithstanding, doth not your husband (both at boord and bed) enjoy the sweet benefit of your company? yes, said the lady, why shold he not? then lady (quoth _reynard_) i, who am not so neere a kinsman to your sonne, as your husband is, why may ye not afford mee the like favour, as you do him? _agnesia_, who was no logitian, and therefore could not stand on any curious answer, especially being so cuningly moved; beleeved, or rather made shew of beleeving, that the godfather said nothing but truth, and thus answered. what woman is she (gossip) that knoweth how to answer your strange speeches? and, how it came to passe, i know not, but such an agreement passed betweene them, that, for once onely (so it might not infrindge the league of gossip-ship, but that title to countenance their further intent) such a favour should be affoorded, so it might stand cleare from suspition. an especiall time being appointed, when this amorous combate should be fought in loves field, friar _reynard_ came to his gossips house, where none being present to hinder his purpose, but onely the nursse which attended on the child, who was an indifferent faire & proper woman: his holy brother that came thither in his company (because friars were not allowed to walke alone) was sent aside with her into the pigeon loft, to enstruct her in a new kinde of _pater noster_, lately devised in their holy convent. in the meane while, as friar _reynard_ and _agnesia_ were entring into hir chamber, she leading her little son by the hand, and making fast the doore for their better safety: the friar laide by his holie habit, cowle, hood, booke, and beads, to bee (in all respects) as other men were. no sooner were they thus entred the chamber, but her husband _credulano_, being come into the house, and unseen of any, staid not till he was at the chamber doore, where hee knockt, and called for his wife. she hearing his voice: alas gossip (quoth she) what shall i do? my husband knocketh at the doore, and now he will perceive the occasion of our so familiar acquaintance. _reynard_ being stript into his trusse and straite strouses, began to tremble and quake exceedingly. i heare your husbands tongue gossip, said he, and seeing no harme as yet hath bin done, if i had but my garments on againe; wee would have one excuse or other to serve the turne, but till then you may not open the doore. as womens wits are sildome gadding abroad, when any necessitie concerneth them at home: even so _agnesia_, being sodainly provided of an invention, both how to speake and carry her selfe in this extreamitie, saide to the friar. get on your garments quickely, and when you are cloathed, take your little god-son in your armes, and listning wel what i shall say, shape your answeres according to my words, and then refer the matter to me. _credulano_ had scarsely ended his knocking, but _agnesia_ stepping to the doore said: husband, i come to you. so she opened the doore, and (going forth to him) with a chearefull countenance thus spake. beleeve me husband, you could not have come in a more happy time, for our yong son was sodainly extreamly sicke, and (as good fortune would have it) our loving gossip _reynard_ chanced to come in; and questionlesse, but by his good prayers and other religious paynes, we had utterly lost our childe, for he had no life left in him. _credulano_, being as credulous as his name imported, seemed ready to swoune with sodaine conceit: alas good wife (quoth he) how hapned this? sit downe sweet husband said she, and i will tell you al. our child was sodainly taken with a swouning, wherein i being unskilful, did verily suppose him to be dead, not knowing what to doe, or say. by good hap, our gossip _reynard_ came in, and taking the childe up in his armes, said to me. gossip, this is nothing else but wormes in the bellie of the childe, which ascending to the heart, must needs kill the child, without all question to the contrary. but be of good comfort gossip, and feare not, for i can charme them in such sort, that they shall all die, and before i depart hence, you shall see your son as healthfull as ever. and because the manner of this charm is of such nature, that it required prayer and exorcising in two places at once: nurse went up with his holye brother into our pigeon loft, to exercise their devotion there, while we did the like heere. for none but the mother of the childe must bee present at such a mystery, nor any enter to hinder the operation of the charme; which was the reason of making fast the chamber doore. you shall see husband anon the childe, which is indifferently recovered in his armes, and if nurse and his holy brother were returned from theyr meditations; he saith, that the charme would then be fully effected: for the child beginneth to looke chearefull and merry. so deerely did _credulano_ love the childe, that hee verily beleeved, what his wife had saide, never misdoubting any other treachery: and, lifting up his eyes, with a vehement sigh, said. wife, may not i goe in and take the child into my armes? oh no, not yet good husband (quoth she) in any case, least you should overthrow all that is done. stay but a little while, i will go in againe, and if all bee well, then will i call you. in went _agnesia_ againe, making the doore fast after her, the fryar having heard all the passed speeches, by this time he was fitted with his habite, and taking the childe in his armes, he said to _agnesia_. gossip methought i heard your husbands voice, is hee at your chamber doore? yes gossip _reynard_ (quoth _credulano_ without, while _agnesia_ opened the doore, and admitted him entrance) indeede it is i. come in sir, i pray you, replyed the friar, and heere receive your childe of mee, who was in great danger, of your ever seeing him any more alive. but you must take order, to make an image of waxe, agreeing with the stature of the childe, to be placed on the altar before the image of s. _frances_, by whose merites the childe is thus restored to health. the childe, beholding his father, made signes of comming to him, rejoycing merrily, as yong infants use to do; and _credulano_ clasping him in his armes, wept with conceite of joy, kissing him infinitely, and heartily thanking his gossip _reynard_, for the recovery of his god-son. the friars brotherly companion, who had given sufficient enstructions to the nurse, and a small purse full of sisters white thred, which a nunne (after shrift) had bestowed on him, upon the husbands admittance into the chamber (which they easily heard) came in also to them, and seeing all in very good tearmes, they holpe to make a joyfull conclusion, the brother saying to friar reynard: brother, i have finished all those foure jaculatory prayers, which you commanded me. brother, answered _reynard_, you have a better breath then i, and your successe hath prooved happier then mine, for before the arrivall of my gossip _credulano_, i could accomplish but two jaculatory prayers onely. but it appeareth, that we have both prevailed in our devout desires, because the childe is perfectly cured. _credulano_ calling for wine and good cheare, feasted both the friars very jocondly, and then conducting them forth of his house, without any further intermission, caused the childs image of waxe to be made, and sent it to be placed on the altar of saint _frances_, among many other the like oblations. tofano _in the night season, did locke his wife out of his house, and shee not prevailing to get entrance againe, by all the entreaties she could possiblie use: made him beleeve that she had throwne her selfe into a well, by casting a great stone into the same well_. tofano _hearing the fall of the stone into the well, and being perswaded that it was his wife indeed; came forth of his house, and ran to the welles side. in the meane while, his wife gotte into the house, made fast the doore against her husband, and gave him many reproachfull speeches._ the fourth novell. _wherein is manifested, that the malice and subtilty of a woman, surpasseth all the art or wit in man._ so soone as the king perceyved, that the novell reported by madame _eliza_ was finished: hee turned himselfe to madame _lauretta_, and told her it was his pleasure, that she should now begin the next, whereto she yeelded in this manner. o love: what, and how many are thy prevailing forces? how straunge are thy foresights? and how admirable thine attempts? where is, or ever was the philosopher or artist, that could enstruct the wiles, escapes, preventions, and demonstrations, which sodainly thou teachest such, as are thy apt and understanding schollers indeede? certaine it is, that the documents and eruditions of all other whatsoever, are weak, or of no worth, in respect of thine: as hath notably appeared, by the remonstrances already past, and whereto (worthy ladies) i will adde another of a simple woman, who taught her husband such a lesson, as shee never learned of any, but love himselfe. there dwelt sometime in _arezzo_ (which is a faire village of _tuscany_) a rich man, named _tofano_, who enjoyed in marriage a young beautifull woman, called _cheta_: of whom (without any occasion given, or reason knowne to himselfe) he became exceeding jealous. which his wife perceyving, she grew much offended thereat, and tooke it in great scorne, that she should be servile to so vile and slavish a condition. oftentimes, she demanded of him, from whence this jealousie in him received originall, he having never seene or heard of any; he could make her no other answer, but what his owne bad humour suggested, and drove him every day (almost) to deaths doore, by feare of that which no way needed. but, whether as a just scourge for this his grosse folly, or a secret decree, ordained to him by fortune and the fates, i am not able to distinguish: it came so to passe, that a young gallant made meanes to enjoy her favour, and she was so discreetly wise in judging of his worthinesse; that affection passed so farre mutually betweene them, as nothing wanted, but effects to answere words, suited with time and place convenient, for which order was taken as best they might, yet to stand free from all suspition. among many other evill conditions, very frequent and familiar in her husband _tofano_; he tooke a great delight in drinking, which not only he held to be a commendable quality, but was alwaies so often solicited thereto: that _cheta_ her selfe began to like and allow it in him, feeding his humour so effectually, with quaffing and carowsing, that (at any time when she listed) she could make him bowsie beyonde all measure: and leaving him sleeping in this drunkennesse, would alwayes get her selfe to bed. by helpe heereof, she compassed the first familiarity with her friend, yea, divers times after, as occasion served: and so confidently did she builde on her husbands drunkennesse, that not onely shee adventured to bring her friend home into her owne house; but also would as often go to his, which was some-what neere at hand, and abide with him there, the most part of the night season. while _cheta_ thus continued on these amorous courses, it fortuned, that her slye suspitious husband, beganne to perceive, that though shee drunke very much with him, yea, untill he was quite spent and gone: yet she remained fresh and sober still, and thereby imagined strange matters, that he being fast asleepe, his wife then tooke advantage of his drowsinesse, and might ---and so forth. beeing desirous to make experience of this his distrust, hee returned home at night (not having drunke any thing all the whole day) dissembling both by his words and behaviour, as if he were notoriously drunke indeede. which his wife constantly beleeving, saide to her selfe: that hee had now more neede of sleepe, then drinke; getting him immediately into his warme bed; and then going downe the staires againe, softly went out of doores unto her friends house, as formerly she had used to do, and there shee remained untill midnight. _tofano_ perceiving that his wife came not to bed, and imagining to have heard his doore both open and shut: arose out of his bed, and calling his wife _cheta_ divers times, without any answere returned: hee went downe the staires, and finding the doore but closed too, made it fast and sure on the inside, and then got him up to the window, to watch the returning home of his wife, from whence shee came, and then to make her conditions apparantly knowne. so long there he stayed, till at the last she returned indeede, and finding the doore so surely shut, shee was exceeding sorrowfull, essaying how she might get it open by strength: which when _tofano_ had long suffered her in vaine to approove, thus hee spake to her. _cheta, cheta,_ all thy labour is meerely lost, because heere is no entrance allowed for thee; therefore return to the place from whence thou camest, that all thy friends may judge of thy behaviour, and know what a night-walker thou art become. the woman hearing this unpleasing language, began to use all humble entreaties, desiring him (for charities sake) to open the doore and admit her entrance, because she had not bin in any such place, as his jelous suspition might suggest to him: but onely to visit a weak & sickly neighbour, the nights being long, she not (as yet) capable of sleepe, nor willing to sit alone in the house. but all her perswasions served to no purpose, he was so setled in his owne opinion, that all the town should now see her nightly gading, which before was not so much as suspected. _cheta_ seeing, that faire meanes would not prevaile, shee entred into roughe speeches and threatnings, saying: if thou wilt not open the doore and let me come in, i will so shame thee, as never base man was. as how i pray thee? answered _tofano_, what canst thou do to me? the woman, whom love had inspired with sprightly counsell, ingeniously enstructing her what to do in this distresse, stearnly thus replyed. before i will suffer any such shame as thou intended towards mee, i will drowne my selfe heere in this well before our doore, where being found dead, and thy villanous jealousie so apparantly knowne, beside thy more then beastly drunkennesse: all the neighbours will constantly beleeve, that thou didst first strangle me in the house, and afterwardes threw me into this well. so either thou must flie upon the supposed offence, or lose all thy goodes by banishment, or (which is much more fitting for thee) have thy head smitten off as a wilfull murtherer of thy wife; for all will judge it to be no otherwise. all which wordes, mooved not _tofano_ a jot from his obstinat determination: but he still persisting therein, thus she spake. i neither can nor will longer endure this base villanie of thine: to the mercy of heaven i commit my soul, and stand there my wheele, a witnesse against so hard-hearted a murtherer. no sooner had she thus spoke, but the night being so extreamly dark, as they could not discerne one another; cheta went to the well, where finding a verie great stone, which lay loose upon the brim of the well, even as if it had beene layde there on purpose, shee cried out aloud, saying. forgive me faire heavens, and so threw the stone downe into the well. the night being very still & silent, the fall of the great stone made such a dreadfull noise in the well; that he hearing it at the windowe, thought verily she had drowned her selfe indeede. whereupon, running downe hastily, and taking a bucket fastened to a strong cord: he left the doore wide open, intending speedily to helpe her. but she standing close at the doores entrance, before he could get to the wels side; she was within the house, softly made the doore fast on the inside, and then went up to the window, where _tofano_ before had stood talking to her. while he was thus dragging with his bucket in the well, crying and calling _cheta_, take hold good _cheta_, and save thy life: she stood laughing in the window, saying. water should bee put into wine before a man drinkes it, and not when he hath drunke too much already. _tofano_ hearing his wife thus to flout him out of his window, went back to the doore, and finding it made fast against him: he willed hir to grant him entrance. but she, forgetting all gentle language, which formerly she had used to him: in meere mockery and derision (yet intermixed with some sighes and teares, which women are saide to have at command) out aloud (because the neighbours should heare her) thus she replyed. beastly drunken knave as thou art, this night thou shalt not come within these doores, i am no longer able to endure thy base behaviour, it is more then high time, that thy course of life should bee publiquely known, and at what drunken houres thou returnest home to thy house. _tofano_, being a man of very impatient nature, was as bitter unto her in words on the other side, which the neighbours about them (both men and women) hearing; looked forth of their windowes, and demaunding a reason for this their disquietnesse, _cheta_ (seeming as if she wept) sayde. alas my good neighbours, you see at what unfitting houres, this bad man comes home to his house, after hee hath lyen in a taverne all day drunke, sleeping and snorting like a swine. you are my honest witnesses, how long i have suffered this beastlinesse in him, yet neyther your good counsell, nor my too often loving admonitions, can worke that good which wee have expected. wherefore, to try if shame can procure any amendment, i have shut him out of doores, until his drunken fit be over-past, and so he shall stand to coole his feet. _tofano_ (but in very uncivill manner) told her being abroad that night, and how she had used him: but the neighbours seeing her to be within the house, and beleeving her, rather then him, in regard of his too wellknowne ill qualities; very sharpely reproved him, gave him grosse speeches, pittying that any honest woman should be so continually abused. now my good neighbours (quoth she) you see what manner of man he is. what would you thinke of me, if i should walk the streets thus in the night time, or be so late out of mine owne house, as this dayly drunkard is? i was affraid least you would have given credit to his dissembling speeches, when he told you, that i was at the welles side, and threw something into the well: but that i know your better opinion of me, and how sildome i am to be seene out of doores, although he would induce your sharper judgement of me, and lay that shame upon me, wherein he hath sinned himselfe. the neighbours, both men and women, were all very severely incensed against _tofano_, condemning him for his great fault that night committed, and avouching his wife to be vertuous and honest. within a little while, the noise passing from neighbour to neighbour, at the length it came to the eares of her kindred, who forthwith resorted thither, and hearing how sharpely the neighbours reprehended _tofano_: they tooke him, soundly bastanadoed him, and hardly left any bone of him unbruised. afterward, they went into the house, tooke all such things thence as belonged to hir, taking hir also with them to their dwelling, and threatning _tofano_ with further infliction of punishment, both for his drunkennesse, and causlesse jealousie. _tofano_ perceyving how curstly they had handled him, and what crooked meanes might further be used against him, in regard her kindred & friends were very mightie: thought it much better, patiently to suffer the wrong alreadie done him, then by obstinate contending, to proceed further, and fare worse. he became a suter to her kindred, that al might be forgotten and forgiven, in recompence whereof; he would not onely refraine from drunkennesse, but also, never more be jelous of his wife. this being faithfully promised, and _cheta_ reconciled to her husband, all strife was ended, she enjoyed her friends favour, as occasion served, but yet with such discretion, as it was not noted. thus the coxcombe foole, was faine to purchase his peace, after a notorious wrong sustained, and further injuries to bee offered. _a jealous man, clouded with the habite of a priest, became the confessour to his owne wife; who made him beleeve, that she was deepely in love with a priest, which came every night, and lay with her. by meanes of which confession, while her jealous husband watched the doore of his house; to surprize the priest when he came: she that never meant to do amisse, had the company of a secret friend, who came over the toppe of the house to visite her, while her foolish husband kept the doore._ the fift novell. _in just scorne and mockery of such jealous husbands, that will be so idle headed upon no occasion. and yet when they have good reason for it, do least of all suspect any such injury._ madam _lauretta_ having ended her novell, and every one commended the woman, for fitting _tofano_ in his kinde; and, as his jealousie and drunkennesse justly deserved: the king (to prevent all losse of time) turned to madame _fiammetta_, commaunding her to follow next: whereuppon, very graciously, shee beganne in this manner. noble ladies, the precedent novell delivered by madame _lauretta_, maketh me willing to speake of another jealous man; as being halfe perswaded, that whatsoever is done to them by their wives, and especially upon no occasion given, they doe no more then well becommeth them. and if those grave heads, which were the first instituters of lawes, had diligently observed all things; i am of the minde, that they would have ordained no other penalty for women, then they appointed against such, as (in their owne defence) do offend any other. for jealous husbands, are meere insidiators of their wives lives, and most diligent pursuers of their deaths, being lockt up in their houses all the weeke long, imployed in nothing but domesticke drudging affayres: which makes them desirous of high festivall dayes, to receive some little comfort abroad, by an honest recreation or pastime, as husbandmen in the fields, artizans in our citie, or governours in our judiciall courtes; yea, or as our lord himselfe, who rested the seaventh day from all his travailes. in like manner, it is so willed and ordained by the lawes, as well divine as humane, which have regard to the glory of god, and for the common good of every one; making distinction betweene those dayes appointed for labour, and the other determined for rest. whereto jealous persons (in no case) will give consent, but all those dayes (which for other women are pleasing and delightfull) unto such, over whom they command, are most irksome, sadde and sorrowfull, because then they are lockt up, and very strictly restrained. and if question were urged, how many good women do live and consume away in this torturing hel of affliction: i can make no other answere, but such as feele it, are best able to discover it. wherefore to conclude the proheme to my present purpose, let none be over rash in condemning women: for what they do to their husbands, being jealous without occasion; but rather commend their wit and providence. somtime (faire ladies) there lived in _arimino_, a merchant, very rich in wealth and worldly possessions, who having a beautifull gentlewoman to his wife, he became extreamly jelous of her. and he had no other reason for this foolish conceit; but, like as he loved hir dearly, and found her to be very absolutely faire: even so he imagined, that althogh she devised by her best meanes to give him content; yet others would grow enamored of her, because she appeared so amiable to al. in which respect, time might tutor her to affect some other beside himselfe: the onely common argument of every bad minded man, being weake and shallow in his owne understanding. this jelous humour** increasing in him more and more, he kept her in such narrow restraint: that many persons condemned to death, have enjoyed larger libertie in their imprisonment. for, she might not bee present at feasts, weddings, nor goe to church, or so much as to be seen at her doore: nay, she durst not stand in her window, nor looke out of her house, for any occasion whatsoever. by means whereof, life seemed most tedious and offensive to her, and she supported it the more impatiently, because shee knew her selfe not any way faulty. seeing her husband still persist in this shamefull course towards her; she studied, how she might best comfort her selfe in this desolate case: by devising some one meane or other (if any at all were to bee founde) whereby he might be requited in his kind, and wear that badge of shame whereof he was now but onely affraid. and because she could not gain so small a permission, as to be seene at any window, where (happily) she might have observed some one passing by in the street, discerning a little parcell of her love: she remembred at length, that, in the next house to her husbands (they both joyning close together) there dwelt a comely yong proper gentleman, whose perfections carried correspondencie with her desires. she also considered with her selfe, that if there were any partition wall; such a chinke or cranny might easily be made therein, by which (at one time or other) she should gaine a sight of the young gentleman, and finde an houre so fitting, as to conferre with him, and bestow her lovely favour on him, if he pleased to accept it. if successe (in this case) proved answerable to her hope, then thus she resolved to outrun the rest of her wearisome dayes, except the frensie of jealousie did finish her husbands loathed life before. walking from one roome to another, thorough every part of the house; and no wall escaping without diligent surveying; on a day, when her husband was absent from home, she espyed in a corner very secret, an indifferent cleft in the wall, which though it yeelded no full view on the other side, yet she plainly perceived it to be an handsome chamber, and grew more then halfe perswaded, that either it might be the chamber of _philippo_ (for so was the neighbouring yong gentleman named) or else a passage guiding thereto. a chambermaid of hers, who compassioned her case very much; made such observance, by her mistresses direction, that she found it to be _philippoes_ bed chamber, and where alwayes he used to lodge alone. by often visiting this rift or chinke in the wall, especially when the gentleman was there; and by throwing in little stones, flowers, and such like things, which fell still in his way as he walked: so farre she prevailed, that he stepping to the chinke, to know from whence they came; shee called softly to him, who knowing her voyce, there they had such private conference together, as was not any way displeasing to either. so that the chinke being made a little larger; yet so, as it could not be easily discerned: their mouthes might meete with kisses together, and their hands folded each in other; but nothing else to be performed, for continuall feare of her jelous husband. now the feast of christmasse drawing neere, the gentlewoman said to her husband; that, if it stood with his liking: she would do such duty as fitted with so solemne a time, by going earely in a morning unto church, there to be confessed, and receive her saviour, as other christians did. how now? replied the jealous asse, what sinnes have you committed, that should neede confession? how husband? quoth she, what do you thinke me to be a saint? who knoweth not, i pray you, that i am as subject to sinne, as any other woman living in the world? but my sins are not to be revealed to you, because you are no priest. these words enflamed his jealousie more violently then before, and needes must he know what sinnes she had committed, & having resolved what to do in this case, made her answer: that hee was contented with her motion, alwaies provided, that she went to no other church, then unto their owne chappel, betimes in a morning; and their own chaplaine to confesse her, or some other priest by him appointed, but not any other: and then she to returne home presently againe. she being a woman of acute apprehension, presently collected his whole intention: but seeming to take no knowledge thereof, replyed, that she would not swerve from his direction. when the appointed day was come, she arose very earely, and being prepared answerable to her owne liking, to the chappell shee went as her husband had appointed, where her jealous husband (being much earlier risen than she) attended for her comming: having so ordred the matter with his chaplaine, that he was cloathed in his cowle, with a large hood hanging over his eyes, that she should not know him, and so he went and sate downe in the confessors place. shee being entred into the chappell, and calling for the priest to heare her confession, he made her answer: that he could not intend it, but would bring her to another holy brother, who was at better leysure than hee. so to her husband he brought her, that seemed (in all respects) like the confessor himselfe: save onely his hood was not so closely veyled, but shee knew his beard, and said to her selfe. what a mad world is this, when jealousie can metamorphose an ordinary man into a priest? but, let me alone with him, i meane to fit him with that which he lookes for. so, appearing to have no knowledge at all of him, downe she fell at his feete, and he had conveyed a few cherry stones into his mouth, to trouble his speech from her knowledge; for, in all things else, he thought himselfe to be sufficiently fitted for her. in the course of her confession, she declared, that she was married to a most wicked jealous husband, and with whom she lead a very hatefull life. neverthelesse (quoth she) i am indifferently even with him, for i am beloved of an holie fryar, that every night commeth and lyeth with me. when the jealous husband heard this, it stabbed him like a dagger to the heart, and, but for this greedy covetous desire to know more; he would faine have broke off confession, and got him gone. but, perceiving that it was his wisest course, he questioned further with his wife, saying: why good woman, doth not your husband lodge with you? yes sir, quoth she. how is it possible then (replyed the husband) that the friar can lodge there with you too? she, dissembling a farre fetcht sigh, thus answered. reverend sir, i know not what skilfull art the fryar useth, but this i am sure, every doore in our house will flye open to him, so soone as he doth but touch it. moreover, he told me, that when he commeth unto my chamber doore, he speaketh certaine words to himselfe, which immediately casteth my husband into a dead sleepe, and, understanding him to bee thus sleepily entranced: he openeth the doore, entreth in, lieth downe by me, and this every night he faileth not to do. the jealous coxcomb angerly scratching his head, and wishing his wife halfe hangd, said: mistresse, this is very badly done, for you should keepe your selfe from all men, but your husband onely. that shall i never doe, answered shee, because (indeed) i love him dearely. why then (quoth our supposed confessor) i cannot give you any absolution. i am the more sorry sir, said she, i came not hither to tell you any leasings, for if i could, yet i would not, because it is not good to fable with such saint-like men as you are. you do therein (quoth hee) the better, and surely i am very sorry for you, because in this dangerous condition, it will bee the utter losse of your soule: neverthelesse, both for your husbands sake and your owne, i will take some paines, and use such especiall prayers in your name, which may (perchance) greatly avayle you. and i purpose now and then, to send you a novice or young clearke of mine, whom you may safely acquaint with your minde, and signifie to me, by him, whether they have done you good, or no: and if they prove helpefull, then will we further proceed therein. alas sir, said she, never trouble your selfe, in sending any body to our house; because, if my husband should know it, he is so extreamly jelous, as all the world cannot otherwise perswade him, but that he commeth thither for no honest intent, and so i shall live worse then now i do. fear not that, good woman, quoth he, but beleeve it certainly, that i will have such a care in this case, as your husband shall never speake thereof to you. if you can doe so sir, sayde she, proceed i pray you, and i am well contented. confession being thus ended, and she receiving such pennance as hee appointed, she arose on her feete, and went to heare masse; while our jealous woodcocke (testily puffing and blowing) put off his religious habite, returning home presently to his house, beating his braines al the the way as he went, what meanes he might best devise, for the taking of his wife and the friar together, whereby to have them both severely punished. his wife being come home from the chappell, discerned by her husbands lookes, that he was like to keepe but a sorry christmasse: yet he used his utmost industry, to conceale what he had done, & which she knew as well as himself. and he having fully resolved, to watch his own street doore the next night ensuing in person, in expectation of the friars comming, saide to his wife. i have occasion both to suppe and lodge out of my house this night, wherefore see you the streete doore to be surely made fast on the inside, and the doore at the middest of the staires, as also your own chamber doore, and then (in gods name) get you to bed. whereto she answered, that all should be done as hee had appointed. afterward, when she saw convenient time, she went to the chink in the wall, and making such a signe as shee was woont to doe: _phillippo_ came thither, to whom she declared all her mornings affayres, & what directions her husband had given her. furthermore she saide, certaine i am, that he will not depart from the house, but sit and watch the doore without, to take one that comes not heere. if therefore, you can climbe over the house top, and get in at our gutter window, you and i may conferre more familiarly together. the young gentleman being no dullard, had his lesson quickly taught him; and when night was come, _geloso_ (for so must wee tearme the cocke-braind husband) armes himselfe at all points, with a browne bill in his hand, and so he sits to watch his owne doore. his wife had made fast all the doores, especially that on the midst of the stayres, because he should not (by any means) come to her chamber; and so, when the houre served, the gentleman adventured over the house top, found the gutter window, and the way conducting him to her chamber, where i leave them to their further amorous conference. _geloso_, more then halfe mad with anger, first, because hee had lost his supper: next, having sitten almost all the night (which was extreamely cold and windie) his armor much molesting him, and yet he could see no friar come: when day drew neere, and hee ashamed to watch there any longer; conveighed himselfe to some more convenient place, where putting off his armes, and seeming to come from the place of his lodging; about the ninth houre, he found his doore open, entred in, & went up the stayres, going to dinner with his wife. within a while after, according as _geloso_ had ordred the businesse, a youth came thither, seeming to be the novice sent from the confessor, and he being admitted to speake with her, demanded, whether shee were troubled or molested that night passed, as formerly she had bin, and whether the partie came or no? the woman, who knew well enough the messenger (notwithstanding all his formall disguise) made answer: that the party expected, came not: but if hee had come, it was to no purpose; because her minde was now otherwise altred, albeit she changed not a jote from her amorous conclusion. what should i now further say unto you? _geloso_ continued his watch many nights afterward, as hoping to surprize the friar at his entrance, and his wife kept still her contented quarter, according as opportunitie served. in the conclusion, _geloso_ being no longer able to endure his bootlesse watching, nor some (more then ordinary) pleasing countenance in his wife: one day demaunded of her (with a very stearne and frowning brow) what secret sinnes shee had revealed to the ghostly father, upon the day of her shrift? the woman replyed, that she would not tell him, neyther was it a matter reasonable, or lawfull for her to doe. wicked woman, answered _geloso_: i knowe them all well enough, even in despight of thee, and every word that thou spakest unto him. but huswife, now i must further know, what the fryar is, with whom you are so farre in love, and (by meanes of his enchantments) lyeth with you every night; tell me what and who he is, or else i meane to cut your throate. the woman immediately made answer, it was not true, that she was in love with any fryar. how? quoth _geloso_, didst thou not thou confesse so much to the ghostly father, the other day when thou wast at shrift? no sir, sayde she, but if i did, i am sure he would not disclose it to you, except hee suffered you to bee there present, which is an article beyonde his dutie. but if it were so, then i confesse freely, that i did say so unto him. make an end then quickely wife (quoth _geloso_) and tell mee who the friar is. the woman fell into a hearty laughter, saying. it liketh me singularly well, when a wise man will suffer himselfe to be ledde by a simple woman, even as a sheepe is to the slaughter, and by the hornes. if once thou wast wise, that wisedome became utterly lost, when thou felst into that divellish frensie of jealousie, without knowing anie reason for it: for, by this beastlike and no manly humour, thou hast eclipsed no meane part of my glory, and womanly reputation. doest thou imagine husband, that if i were so blinded in the eyes of my head, as thou art in them which should informe thine understanding; i could have found out the priest, that would needs bee my confessor? i knew thee husband to be the man, and therefore i prepared my wit accordingly, to fit thee with the foolish imagination which thou soughtest for, and (indeed) gave it thee. for, if thou hadst beene wise, as thou makest the world to beleeve by outward apparance, thou wouldest never have expressed such a basenesse of minde, to borrow the coulour of a sanctified cloake, thereby to undermine the secrets of thine honest meaning wife. wherefore, to feede thee in thy fond suspition, i was the more free in my confession, and tolde thee truely, with whom, and how heinously i had transgressed. did i not tell thee, that i loved a fryar? and art not thou he whom i love, being a fryar, and my ghostly father, though (to thine owne shame) thou madst thy selfe so? i said moreover, that there is not any doore in our house, that can keepe it selfe shut against him, but (when he pleaseth) he comes and lies with me. now tell me husband, what doore in our house hath (at any time) bin shut against thee, but they are freely thine owne, & grant thee entrance? thou art the same friar that confest me, and lieth every night with me, and so often as thou sentst thy yong novice or clearke to me, as often did i truly returne thee word, when the same fryar lay with me. but (by jealousie) thou hast so lost thine understanding, that thou wilt hardly beleeve all this. alas good man, like an armed watchman, thou satst at thine owne doore all a cold winters night, perswading mee (poore silly credulous woman) that, upon urgent occasions, thou must needs suppe and lodge from home. remember thy selfe therefore better heereafter, become a true understanding man, as thou shouldst bee, and make not thy selfe a mocking stocke to them, who knoweth thy jealous qualities, as well as i do, and be not so watchfull over me, as thou art. for i sweare by my true honesty, that if i were but as willing, as thou art suspitious: i could deceive thee, if thou hadst an hundred eyes, as nature affords thee but two, and have my pleasures freely, yet thou be not a jot the wiser, or my credit any way impaired. our wonderfull wise _geloso_, who (very advisedly considred) that he had wholly heard his wives secret confession, and dreamed now on no other doubt beside, but (perceiving by her speeches) how hee was become a scorne to al men: without returning other answer, confirmed his wife to bee both wise and honest, and now when he hadde just occasion to be jealous indeede, hee utterly forsware it, and counted them all coxcombes that would be so misguided. wherefore, she having thus wisely wonne the way to her owne desires, and he reduced into a more humane temper: i hope there was no more neede, of clambring over houses in the night time like cats, nor walking in at gutter windowes, but all abuses were honestly reformed. _madame_ isabella, _delighting in the company of her affected friend, named_ lionello, _and she being likewise beloved by_ signior lambertuccio: _at the same time as shee had entertained_ lionello, _shee was also visited by_ lambertuccio. _her husband returning home in the very instant: shee caused_ lambertuccio _to run forth with a drawne sword in his hand, and (by that meanes) made an excuse sufficient for_ lionello _to her husband._ the sixth novell. _wherein is manifestly discerned, that if love be driven to a narrow straite in any of his attempts, yet hee can accomplish his purpose by some other supply._ wondrously pleasing to all the company, was the reported novell of madame _fiammetta_, every one applauding the womans wisedome, and that she had done no more, then as the jealous foole her husband justly deserved. but shee having ended, the king gave order unto madame _pampinea_, that now it was her turne to speake, whereupon, thus she began. there are no meane store of people who say (though very false and foolishly,) that love maketh many to be out of their wits, and that such as fall in love, do utterly loose their understanding. to mee this appeareth a very ydle opinion, as already hath beene approved by the related discourses, and shall also bee made manifest by another of mine owne. in our city of _florence_, famous for some good, though as many bad qualities, there dwelt (not long since) a gentlewoman, endued with choice beauty and admirable perfections, being wife to signior _beltramo_, a very valiant knight, and a man of great possessions. as oftentimes it commeth to passe, that a man cannot alwayes feede on one kind of bread, but his appetite will be longing after change: so fared it with this lady, named _isabella_, she being not satisfied with the delights of her husband; grew enamoured of a young gentleman, called _lionello_, compleate of person and commendable qualities, albeit not of the fairest fortunes, yet his affection every way sutable to hers. and full well you know (faire ladies) that where the mindes irreciprocally accorded, no dilligence wanteth for the desires execution: so this amorous couple, made many solemne protestations, untill they should bee friended by opportunity. it fortuned in the time of their hopefull expectation a knight, named signior _lambertuccio_, fell likewise in love with _isabella_: but because he was somewhat unsightly of person, and utterly unpleasing in the eye, she grew regardlesse of his frequent solicitings, and would not accept either tokens, or letters. which when hee saw, (being very rich and of great power) hee sought to compasse his intent by a contrary course, threatning her with scandall and disgrace to her reputation, and with his associates to bandie against her best friends. she knowing what manner of man he was, and how able to abuse any with infamous imputations, wisely returned him hopefull promises, though never meaning to performe any, but onely (lady-like) to flatter and foole him therewith. some few miles distant from _florence, beltramo_ had a castle of pleasure, and there his lady _isabella_ used to live all summer, as all other doe the like, being so possessed. on a day, _beltramo_ being ridden from home, and she having sent for _lionello_, to take the advantage of her husbands absence; accordingly he went, not doubting but to winne what he had long expected. signior _lambertuccio_ on the other side, meeting _beltramo_ riding from his castle, and _isabella_ now fit to enjoy his company: gallops thither with all possible speede, because hee would bee no longer delayed. scarcely was _lionello_ entred the castle, and receiving directions by the waiting woman, to her ladies chamber: but _lambertuccio_ gallopped in at the gate, which the woman perceiving, ranne presently and acquainted her lady with the comming of _lambertuccio_. now was shee the onely sorrowfull woman of the world; for nothing was now to bee feared, but stormes and tempests, because _lambertuccio_, spake no other, then lightning and thunder, and _lionello_, (being no lesse affraide then shee) by her perswasion crept behind the bed, where he hid himselfe very contentedly. by this time _lambertuccio_ was dismounted from his courser, which he fastened (by the bridle) to a ring in the wall, and then the waiting woman came to him, to guide him to her lady and mistresse: who stood ready at the staires head, graced him with a very acceptable welcome, yet marvelling much at his so sodaine comming. lady (quoth he) i met your husband upon the way, which granting mine accesse to see you; i come to claime your long delayed promise, the time being now so favourable for it. before he had uttered halfe these words, _beltramo_, having forgot an especiall evidence in his study, which was the onely occasion of his journey, came gallopping backe againe into the castell court, and seeing such a goodly gelding stand fastened there, could not redily imagine who was the owner thereof. the waiting woman, upon the sight of her masters entring into the court, came to her lady, saying: my master _beltramo_ is returned backe, newly alighted, and (questionlesse) comming up the staires. now was our lady _isabella_, ten times worse affrighted then before, (having two severall amourous suters in her house, both hoping, neither speeding, yet her credite lying at the stake for either) by this unexpected returne of her husband. moreover, there was no possible meanes, for the concealing of signior _lambertuccio_, because his gelding stood in the open court, and therefore made a shrewde presumption against her, upon the least doubtfull question urged. neverthelesse, as womens wits are alwayes best upon sudden constraints, looking forth of her window, and espying her husband preparing to come up: she threw her selfe on her day couch, speaking thus (earnestly) to _lambertuccio_. sir, if ever you loved mee, and would have me faithfully to beleeve it, by the instant safety both of your owne honour, and my life, doe but as i advise you. forth draw your sword, and, with a stearne countenance, threatning death and destruction: run downe the staires, and when you are beneath, say. i sweare by my best fortunes, although i misse of thee now heere, yet i will be sure to finde thee some where else. and if my husband offer to stay you, or moove any question to you: make no other answere, but what you formerly spake in fury. beside, so soone as you are mounted on horsebacke, have no further conference with him, upon any occasion whatsoever; to prevent all suspition in him, of our future intendments. _lambertuccio_ sware many terrible oathes, to observe her directions in every part, and having drawne forth his sword, grasping it naked in his hand, and setting worse lookes one the businesse, then ever nature gave him, because he had spent so much labour in vaine; he failed not in a jot of the ladies injunction. _beltramo_ having commanded his horse to safe custody, and meeting _lambertuccio_ discending downe the staires, so armed, swearing, and most extreamely storming, wondring extraordinarily as his threatning words, made offer to imbrace him, and understand the reason of his distemper. _lambertuccio_ repulsing him rudely, and setting foote in the stirrup, mounted on his gelding, and spake nothing else but this. i sweare by the fairest of all my fortunes, although i misse of thee heere: yet i will be sure to find thee some where else, and so he gallopped mainely away. when _beltramo_ was come up into his wives chamber, hee found her cast downe upon her couch, weeping, full of feare, and greatly discomforted; wherefore he said unto her, what is hee that signior _lambertuccio_ is so extreamely offended withall, and threatneth in such implacable manner? the lady arising from her couch, and going neere to the beds, because _lionello_ might the better heare her; returned her husband this answere. husband (quoth she) never was i so dreadfully affrighted till now; for, a young gentleman, of whence, or what he is, i know not, came running into our castle for rescue, being pursued by signior _lambertuccio_; with a weapon ready drawne in his hand. ascending up our stayres, by what fortune, i know not, he found my chamber doore standing open, finding me also working on my sampler, and in wonderfull feare and trembling. good madame (quoth hee) for gods sake helpe to save my life, or else i shall be slaine heere in your chamber. hearing his pittious cry, and compassionating his desperate case; i arose from my worke, and in my demaunding of whence, and what he was, that durst presume so boldly into my bed-chamber: presently came up signior _lambertuccio_ also, in the same uncivill sorte, as before i tolde you, swaggering and swearing, where is this traiterous villaine? heereupon, i stept (somewhat stoutly) to my chamber doore, and as hee offered to enter, with a womans courage i resisted him, which made him so much enraged against mee, that when hee saw mee to debarre his entrance; after many terrible and vile oathes and vowes, hee ranne downe the stayres againe, in such like manner as you chaunced to meete him. now trust mee deare wife (said _beltramo_) you behaved your selfe very well and worthily: for, it would have beene a most notorious scandall to us, if a man should bee slaine in your bed-chamber: and signior _lambertuccio_ carryed himselfe most dishonestly, to pursue any man so outragiously, having taken my castle as his sanctuary. but alas wife, what is become of the poore affrighted gentleman? introth sir (quoth she) i know not, but (somewhere or other) heereabout hee is hidden. where art thou honest friend? said plaine meaning _beltramo_; come forth and feare not, for thine enemy is gone. _lionello_, who had heard all the fore-passed discourse, which shee had delivered to her husband _beltramo_, came creeping forth amazedly (as one now very fearefully affrighted indeede) from under the further side of the bedde, and _beltramo_ saide to him, what a quarrell was this, between thee and furious _lambertuccio_? not any at all sir, replyed _lionello_, to my knowledge, which verily perswadeth me; that either he is not well in his wits, or else he mistaketh me for some other; because, so soone as he saw me on the way, somewhat neere to this your castle, he drew forth his sword, and swearing an horrible oath, said. traitor thou art a dead man. upon these rough words, i stayed not to question the occasion of mine offending him: but fled from him so fast as possibly i could; but confesse my selfe (indeede) over-bold, by presuming into your ladies bed chamber, which yet (equalled with her mercie) hath bin the onely meanes at this time, of saving my life. she hath done like a good lady, answered _beltramo_, and i do verie much commend her for it. but, recollect thy dismayed spirits together, for i will see thee safely secured hence, afterward, looke to thy selfe so well as thou canst. dinner being immediately made ready, and they having merrily feasted together: he bestowed a good gelding on _lionello_, and rode along with him to _florence_, where he left him quietly in his owne lodging. the selfe-same evening (according as _isabella_ had given enstruction) _lionello_ conferred with _lambertuccio_: and such an agreement passed betweene them, that though some rough speeches were noised abroad, to set the better colour on the businesse; yet al matters were so cleanly carried, that _beltramo_ never knew this queint deceitfull policy of his wife. lodovico _discovered to his mistresse madame_ beatrix, _how amorously he was affected to her. she cunningly sent_ egano _her husband into his garden, in all respects disguised like herselfe, while (friendly)_ lodovico _conferred with her in the meane while. afterward,_ lodovico _pretending a lascivious allurement of his mistresse, thereby to wrong his honest master, insted of her, beateth_ egano _soundly in the garden._ the seventh novell. _whereby is declared, that such as keepe many honest seeming servants, may sometime finde a knave among them, and one that proves to be over-sawcy with his master._ this so sodaine dexterity of wit in _isabella_, related in verie modest manner by madame _pampinea_, was not onely admired by all the company; but likewise passed with as generall approbation. but yet madam _philomena_ (whom the king had commanded next to succeede) peremptorily sayde. worthy ladies, if i am not deceived; i intend to tell you another tale presently; as much to be commended as the last. you are to understand then, that it is no long while since, when there dwelt in _paris_ a _florentine_ gentleman, who falling into decay of his estate, by over-bountifull expences; undertooke the degree of a merchant, and thrived so well by his trading, that he grew to great wealth, having one onely sonne by his wife, named _lodovico_. this sonne, partaking somewhat in his fathers former height of minde, and no way inclineable to deale in merchandize, had no meaning to be a shop-man, and therefore accompanied the gentlemen of _france_, in sundry services for the king; among whom, by his singular good carriage and qualities, he happened to be not meanly esteemed. while thus he continued in the court, it chanced, that certaine knights, returning from _jerusalem_, having there visited the holy sepulcher, and comming into company where _lodovico_ was: much familiar discourse passed amongst them, concerning the faire women of _france, england,_ and other parts of the world where they had bin, and what delicate beauties they had seene. one in the company constantly avouched, that of all the women by them so generally observed, there was not any comparable to the wife of _egano de galluzzi_, dwelling in _bologna_, and her name madam _beatrix_, reputed to be the onely faire woman of the world. many of the rest maintained as much, having bin at _bologna_, and likewise seene her. _lodovico_ hearing the woman to be so highly commended, and never (as yet) feeling any thought of amorous inclination; became sodainely toucht with an earnest desire of seeing her, and his minde could entertaine no other matter, but onely of travailing thither to see her, yea, and to continue there, if occasion so served. the reason for his journey urged to his father, was to visit _jerusalem_, and the holy sepulcher, which with much difficulty, at length he obtained his leave. being on his journey towards _bologna_, by the name of _anichino_, and not of _lodovico_, and being there arrived; upon the day following, and having understood the place of her abiding: it was his good happe, to see the lady at her window; she appearing in his eye farre more faire, then all reports had made her to be. heereupon, his affection became so enflamed to her, as he vowed, never to depart from _bologna_, untill he had obtained her love. and devising by what meanes he might effect his hopes, he grew perswaded (setting all other attempts aside) that if he could be entertained into her husbands service, and undergo some businesse in the house, time might tutor him to obtaine his desire. having given his attendants sufficient allowance, to spare his company, and take no knowledge of him, selling his horses also, and other notices which might discover him: he grew into acquaintance with the hoste of the house where he lay, revealing an earnest desire in himselfe, to serve some lord or worthy gentleman, if any were willing to give him entertainment. now beleeve me sir (answered the hoste) you seeme worthy to have a good service indeede, and i know a noble gentleman of this cittie, who is named _egano_: he will (without all question) accept your offer, for hee keepeth many men of verie good deserving, and you shall have my furtherance therein so much as may be. as he promised, so he performed, and taking _anichino_ with him unto _egano_: so farre he prevailed by his friendly protestations, and good opinion of the young gentleman; that _anichino_ was (without more ado) accepted into _eganoes_ service, then which, nothing could be more pleasing to him. now had he the benefit of dayly beholding his hearts mistresse, and so acceptable proved his service to _egano_, that he grew very farre in love with him: not undertaking any affayres whatsoever, without the advice and direction of _anichino_, so that he reposed his most especiall trust in him, as a man altogether governed by him. it fortuned upon a day, that _egano_ being ridden to flye his hawke at the river, and _anichino_ remaining behinde at home, madame _beatrix_, who (as yet) had taken no notice of _anichinoes_ love to her (albeit her selfe, observing his fine carriage and commendable qualities, was highly pleased to have so seeming a servant) called him to play at the chesse with her: and _anichino_, coveting nothing more then to content her, carried himselfe so dexteriously in the game, that he permitted hir still to win, which was no little joy to her. when all the gentle-women, and other friends there present, as spectators to behold their play, had taken their farewell, and were departed, leaving them all alone, yet gaming still: _anichino_ breathing forth an intire sigh, madame _beatrix_ looking merrily on him, said. tell me _anichino_, art not thou angrie, to see me win? it should appeare so by that solemne sigh. no truly madame, answered _anichino_, a matter of farre greater moment, then losse of infinite games at the chesse, was the occasion why i sighed. i pray thee (replyed the lady) by the love thou bearest me, as being my servant (if any love at all remain in thee towards me) give me a reason for that harty sigh. when he heard himselfe so severely conjured, by the love he bare to her, and loved none else in the world beside: he gave a farre more hart-sicke sigh, then before. then his lady and mistresse entreated him seriously, to let her know the cause of those two deepe sighes: whereto _anichino_ thus replyed. madam, if i should tell you, i stand greatly in feare of offending you: and when i have told you, i doubt your discovery thereof to some other. beleeve me _anichino_ (quoth she) therein thou neither canst, or shalt offend me. moreover, assure thy selfe, that i will never disclose it to any other, except i may do it with thy consent. madame (saide hee) seeing you have protested such a solemne promise to mee, i will reveale no meane secret unto you. so, with teares standing in his eyes, he told her what he was; where he heard the first report of her singular perfections, and instantly became** enamored of her, as the maine motive of his entring into her service. then, most humbly he entreated her, that if it might agree with her good liking, she would be pleased to commisserate his case; and grace him with her private favours. or, if shee might not be so mercifull to him; that yet she would vouchsafe, to let him live in the lowly condition as he did, and thinke it a thankefull duty in him, onely to love her. o singular sweetnesse, naturally living in faire feminine blood! how justly art thou worthy of praise in the like occasions? thou couldst never be wonne by sighes and teares; but hearty imprecations have alwayes prevailed with thee, making thee apt and easie to amorous desires. if i had praises answerable to thy great and glorious deservings, my voice should never faint, nor my pen waxe weary, in the due and obsequious performance of them. madam _beatrix_, well observing _anichino_ when he spake, and giving credit to his so solemne protestations; they were so powerfull in prevailing with her, that her senses (in the same manner) were enchanted; and sighes flew as violently from her, as before he had vented them: which stormy tempest being a little over-blowne, thus she spake. _anichino_, my hearts deere affected friend, live in hope, for i tell thee truly, never could gifts, promises, nor any courtings used to me by lords, knights, gentlemen, or other (although i have bin solicited by many) winne the lest grace or favour at my hand, no, nor move me to any affection. but thou, in a minute of time (compared with their long and tedious suing) hast expressed such a soveraigne potency in thy sweet words, that thou hast made me more thine, then mine owne: and beleeve it unfeinedly, i hold thee to be worthy of my love. wherefore, with this kisse i freely give it thee, and make thee a further promise, that before this night shall be fully past, thou shalt in better manner perceive it. adventure into my chamber about the houre of midnight, i will leave the doore open: thou knowest, on which side of the bed i use to rest, come thither and feare not: if i sleep, the least gentle touch of thy hand will wake me, and then thou shalt see how much i love thee. so, with a kinde kisse or two, the bargaine was concluded, she licensing his departure for that time, and he staying in hope of his hearts happinesse, till when, he thought every houre a yeare. in the meane while, _egano_ returned home from hawking, and so soone as he had supt (being very weary) he went to bed, and his ladie likewise with him, leaving her chamber doore open, according as she had promised. at the houre appointed, _anichino_ came, finding the doore but easily put too, which (being entred) softly he closed againe, in the same manner as he found it. going to the beds side where the lady lay, and gently touching her brest with his hand, he found her to be awake, and perceiving he was come according unto promise, shee caught his hand fast with hers, and held him very strongly. then, turning (as she could) towards _egano_, she made such meanes, as hee awaked, whereupon she spake unto him as followeth. sir, yesternight i would have had a fewe speeches with you: but, in regard of your wearinesse and early going to bed, i could not have any opportunity. now, this time and place being most convenient, i desire to bee resolved by you: among all the men retained into your service; which of them you do thinke to be the best, most loyall, and worthiest to enjoy your love? _egano_ answered thus: wife, why should you move such a question to me? do not you know, that i never had any servant heeretofore, or ever shall have heereafter, in whom i reposed the like trust as i have done, and do in _anichino_? but to what end is this motion of yours? i will tell you sir (quoth she) and then be judge yourself, whether i have reason to move this question, or no. mine opinion every way equalled yours, concerning _anichino_, & that he was more just and faithfull to you, then any could be amongest all the rest: but husband, like as where the water runneth stillest, the foord is deepest, even so, his smooth lookes have beguiled both you and me. for, no longer agoe, then this verie day, no sooner were you ridden foorth on hauking, but he (belike purposely) tarrying at home, watching such a leysure as best fitted his intent: was not ashamed to solicite mee, both to abuse your bed, and mine owne spotlesse honor. moreover, he prosecuted his impious purpose with such alluring perswasions: that being a weake woman, and not willing to endure over many amorous proofes (onely to acquaint you with his most sawcie immodestie, and to revenge your selfe uppon him as best you may; your selfe beeing best able to pronounce him guiltie) i made him promise, to meete him in our garden, presently after midde-night, and to finde mee sitting under the pine-tree, never meaning (as i am vertuous) to be there. but, that you may know the deceite and falshoode of your servant, i would have you to put on my night-gowne, my head attire, and chinne-cloath, and sitting but a short while there underneath the pine-tree: such is his insatiate desire, as he will not faile to come, and then you may proceede, as you finde occasion. when _egano_ heard these words, sodainely hee started out of bed, saying. doe i foster such a snake in mine owne bosome? gramercie wife for this politicke promise of thine, and beleeve mee, i meane to follow it effectually. so, on he put his ladies night-gown, her formall head attire and chin-cloth, going presently downe into the garden, to expect _anichinoes_ comming to the pine-tree. but before the matter grew to this issue, let me demand of you faire ladies, in what a lamentable condition (as you may imagine) was poore _anichino_; to bee so strongly detained by her, heare all his amorous suite discovered, and likely to draw very heavy afflictions on him? undoubtedly, he looked for immediate apprehension by _egano_, imprisonment and publike punishment for his so malapert presumption: and had it proved so, she had much renowned her selfe, and dealt with him but as he had justlie deserved. but frailtie in our feminine sex is too much prevalent, and makes us wander from vertuous courses, when we are wel onward in the way to them. madam _beatrix_, whatsoever passed betweene her and _anichino_, i know not, but, either to continue this new begunne league for further time, or, to be revenged on her husbands simplicity, in over-rashlie giving credit to so smooth a ly; this was her advise to him. _anichino_ quoth she, take a good cudgell in thy hand, then go into the garden so farre as the pine; and there, as if formerly thou hadst solicited mee unto this secret meeting, only but by way of approving my honestie: in my name, revile thy master so bitterly as thou canst, bestowing manie sound blowes on him with thy cudgell; yet urge the shame still (as it were) to mee, and never leave him, till thou hast beaten him out of the garden, to teach him keepe his bed another time. such an apt scholler as _anichino_ was in this kind, needs no tuturing, but a word is enough to a ready wit. to the garden goes he, with a good willow cudgell in his hand, and comming neere to the pine-tree, there he found _egano_ disguised like to his lady, who arising from the place where he sate, went with chearefull gesture to welcome him; but _anichino_ (in rough and stearne manner) thus spake unto him. wicked, shamelesse, and most immodest woman, art thou come, according to thine unchaste and lascivious promise? couldest thou so easily credite, (though i tempted thee, to trie the vertue of thy continencie) i would offer such a damnable wrong to my worthy master, that so deerely loves me, and reposeth his especiall confidence in me? thou art much deceived in me, and shalt finde, that i hate to be false to him. so lifting up the cudgell, he gave him therewith halfe a score good bastinadoes, laying them on soundly, both on his armes and shoulders: and _egano_ feeling the smart of them, durst not speake one worde, but fled away from him so fast as hee could, _anichino_ still following, and multiplying many other injurious speeches against him, with the epithites of strumpet, lustfull and insatiate woman. go thou lewde beast (quoth he) most unworthy the title of a lady, or to be wife unto so good a natured man, as my mayster is, to whom i will reveale thy most ungracious incivility to morrow, that he may punish thee a little better then i have done. _egano_ being thus well beaten for his garden walke, got within the doore, and so went up to his chamber againe: his lady there demanding of him, whether _anichino_ came according to his promise, or no? come? quoth egano, yes wife, he came, but deerely to my cost: for hee verily taking me for thee, hath beaten me most extreamly, calling me an hundred whores and strumpets, reputing thee to bee the wickedest woman living. in good sadnesse _beatrix_, i wondred not a little at him, that he would give thee any such vile speeches, with intent to wrong mee in mine honour. questionlesse, because hee saw thee to be joviall spirited, gracious and affable towardes all men; therefore hee intended to make triall of thine honest carriage. well sir (sayde shee) twas happy that hee tempted mee with words, and let you taste the proofe of them by deeds: and let him thinke, that i brooke those words as distastably, as you do or can, his ill deeds. but seeing he is so just, faithfull, and loyall to you, you may love him the better, and respect him as you finde occasion. whereto _egano_ thus replyed. now trust me wife, thou hast said very well: and drawing hence the argument of his setled perswasion; that he had the chastest woman living to his wife, and so just a servant, as could not be fellowed: there never was any further discoverie of this garden-night accident. perhaps, madame _beatrix_ and _anichino_ might subtilly smile thereat in secret, in regard that they knew more then any other else beside did. but, as for honest meaning _egano_, hee never had so much as the verie least mistrust of ill dealing, either in his lady, or _anichino_; whom hee loved and esteemed farre more respectively uppon this proofe of his honestie towards him, then hee would or could possibly have done, without a triall so playne and pregnant. arriguccio berlinghieri, _became immeasurably jelous of his wife_ simonida, _who fastened a thred about her great toe, for to serve as a signall, when her amorous friend should come to visite her._ arriguccio _findeth the fallacie, and while he pursueth the amorous friend, shee causeth her maide to lye in her bed against his returne: whom he beateth extreamly, cutting away the lockes of her haire (thinking he had doone all this violence to his wife_ simonida:) _and afterward fetcheth her mother & brethren, to shame her before them, and so be rid of her. but they finding all his speeches to be utterly false; and reputing him to bee a drunken jealous foole; all the blame and disgrace falleth on himselfe._ the eight novell. _whereby appeareth, that an husband ought to be very well advised, when he meaneth to discover any wrong offered his wife; except hee himselfe do rashly run into all the shame and reproach._ it seemed to the whole assembly, that madam _beatrix_, dealte somewhat strangely, in the manner of beguiling her husband; and affirmed also, that _anichino_ had great cause of fear, when she held him so strongly by her beds side, and related all his amorous temptation. but when the king perceyved, that madame _philomena_ sate silent, he turned to madam _neiphila_, willing her to supply the next place; who modestly smiling, thus began. faire ladies, it were an heavy burthen imposed on me, and a matter much surmounting my capacity, if i should vainely imagine, to content you with so pleasing a novell, as those have already done, by you so singularly reported: neverthelesse, i must discharge my dutie, and take my fortune as it fals, albeit i hope to finde you mercifull. you are to know then, that sometime there lived in our citie, a very welthy merchant, named _arriguccio berlinghieri_, who (as many merchants have done) fondly imagined, to make himselfe a gentleman by marriage. which that he might the more assuredly do, he took to wife a gentlewoman, one much above his degree or element, she being named _simonida_. now, in regard that he delighted (as it is the usuall life of a merchant) to be often abroad, and little at home, whereby shee had small benefit of his company; shee grew very forward in affection with a young gentleman, called signior _roberto_, who had solicited hir by many amorous meanes, and (at length) prevailed to win her favor. which favour being once obtained; affection gaddes so farre beyond al discretion, and makes lovers so heedelesse of their private conversations: that either they are taken tardy in their folly, or else subjected to scandalous suspition. it came to passe, that _arriguccio_, either by rumour, or some other more sensible apprehension, had received such intelligence concerning his wife _simonida_, as he grew into extraordinarie jealousie of her, refraining travaile abroad, as formerly he was wont to doe, and ceassing from his verie ordinary affayres, addicting all his care and endeavour, onely to be watchfull of his wife; so that he never durst sleepe, untill she were by him in the bed, which was no meane molestation to her, being thus curbd from her familiar meetings with _roberto_. neverthelesse, having a long while consulted with her wittes, to find some apte meanes for conversing with him, being thereto also very earnestlie still solicited by him; you shall heare what course she undertooke. her chamber being on the streete side, and somewhat juttying over it, she observed the disposition of her husband, that every night it was long before he fell asleepe: but beeing once falne into it, no noyse whatsoever, could easily wake him. this his solemne and sound sleeping, emboldned her so farre, as to meete with _roberto_ at the streete doore, which (while her husband slept) softly she would open to him, and there in private converse with him. but, because shee would know the certaine houre of his comming, without the least suspition of any: she hung a thred forth of her chamber window, descending downe, within the compasse of _robertoes_ reach in the street, and the other end thereof, guided from the window to the bed, being conveyed under the cloathes, and shee being in bed, she fastned it about her left great toe, wherewith _roberto_ was sufficiently acquainted, and thus enstructed withall; that at his comming, he should plucke the thred, & if her husband was in his dead sleep, she would let go the thred, and come downe to him: but if he slept not, she would hold it strongly, and then his tarrying would prove but in vaine; there could be no meeting that night. this devise was highly pleasing both to _roberto_ and _simonida_, being the intelligencer of their often meeting, and many times also advising the contrary. but in the end, as the quaintest cunning may faile at one time or another; so it fortuned one night, that _simonida_ being in a sound sleepe, and _arriguccio_ waking, because his drowsie houre was not as yet come: as he extended forth his legge in the bed, he found the thred, which feeling in his hand, and perceiving it was tyed to his wives great toe; it prooved apt tinder to kindle further jealousie, and now hee suspected some treachery indeede, and so much the rather because the thred guided (under the cloathes) from the bed to the window, and there hanging downe into the streete, as a warning to some further businesse. now was _arriguccio_ so furiously enflamed, that hee must needes bee further resolved in this apparant doubt: and because therein hee would not be deceived, softly he cut the thred from his wives toe, and made it fast about his owne; to trye what successe would ensue thereon. it was not long before _roberto_ came, and according as hee used to doe, hee pluckt the thred, which _arriguccio_ felt, but because hee had not tyed it fast, and _roberto_ pulling it over-hardly, it fell downe from the window into his hand, which he understood as his lesson, to attend her comming, and so hee did. _arriguccio_ stealing softly out of bed from his wife, and taking his sword under his arme, went downe to the doore, to see who it was, with full intent of further revenge. now, albeit he was a merchant, yet he wanted not courage, and boldnesse of spirit, and opening the doore without any noyse, onely as his wife was wont to doe: _roberto_, there waiting his entrance, perceived by the doores unfashionable opening, that it was not _simonida_, but her husband, whereupon he betooke himselfe to flight, and _arriguccio_ fiercely followed him. at the length, _roberto_ perceiving that flight avayled him not, because his enemy still pursued him: being armed also with a sword, as _arriguccio_ was; he returned backe upon him, the one offering to offend, as the other stood upon his defence, and so in the darke they fought together. _simonida_ awaking, even when her husband went foorth of the chamber, and finding the thred to be cut from her toe; conjectured immediately, that her subtle cunning was discovered, and supposing her husband in pursuite of _roberto_, presently she arose; and, considering what was likely to ensue thereon, called her chamber-maide (who was not ignorant in the businesse) and by perswasions prevailed so with her, that she lay downe in her place in the bed, upon solemne protestations and liberall promises, not to make her selfe knowne, but to suffer all patiently, either blowes, or other ill usage of her husband, which shee would recompence in such bountifull sort, as she should have no occasion to complaine. so, putting out the watch-light, which every night burned in the chamber, she departed thence, and sate downe in a close corner of the house, to see what would be the end of all this stirre, after her husbands comming home. the fight (as you have formerly heard) continuing betweene _roberto_ and _arriguccio_, the neighbours hearing of the clashing of their swords in the streets; arose out of their beds, and reproved them in very harsh manner. in which respect _arriguccio_, fearing to be knowne, and ignorant also what his adversary was (no harme being as yet done on either side) permitted him to depart; and extreamely full of anger, returned backe againe to his house. being come up into his bed-chamber, thus he began; where is this lewde and wicked woman? what? hast thou put out the light, because i should not finde thee? that shall not avayle thee, for i can well enough finde a drab in the darke. so, groping on to the beds side, and thinking hee had taken hold on his wife, he grasped the chamber-maide, so beating her with his fists, and spurning her with his feet, that all her face was bloody & bruised. next, with his knife he cut off a great deal of her haire: giving her the most villanous speeches as could be devised: swearing, that he would make her a shame to all the world. you need make no doubt, but the poore maide wept exceedingly, as she had good occasion to doe: and albeit many times she desired mercy, and that hee would not bee so cruell to her: yet notwithstanding, her voyce was so broken with crying, and his impacience so extreame, that rage hindered all power of distinguishing, or knowing his wives tongue from a strangers. having thus madly beaten her, and cut the lockes off from her head, thus he spake to her. wicked woman, and no wife of mine, be sure i have not done with thee yet; for, although i meane not now to beate thee any longer: i will goe to thy brethren, and they shall understand thy dishonest behaviour. then will i bring them home with me, and they perceiving how much thou hast abused both their honour and thine owne; let them deale with thee as they finde occasion, for thou art no more a companion for me. no sooner had he uttered these angry words, but hee went forth of the chamber, bolting it fast on the outward side, as meaning to keepe her safely inclosed, & out of the house he went alone by himselfe. _simonida_, who had heard all this tempestuous conflict, perceiving that her husband had lockt the streete doore after him, and was gone whether he pleased: unbolted the chamber doore, lighted a waxe candle, and went in to see her poore maide, whom she found to be most pittifully misused. she comforted her as well as she could, brought her into her owne lodging chamber, where washing her face and hurts in very soveraigne waters, and rewarding her liberally with _arriguccioes_ owne gold; she held her selfe to bee sufficiently satisfyed. so, leaving the maide in her lodging, and returning againe to her owne chamber: she made up the bed in such former manner, as if no body had lodged therein that night. then hanging up her lampe fresh fild with oyle, and clearly lighted, she deckt her selfe in so decent sort, as if she had bin in no bed all that night. then taking sowing worke in her hand, either shirts or bands of her husbands; hanging the lampe by her, and sitting downe at the stayres head, she fell to worke in very serious manner, as if shee had undertaken some imposed taske. on the other side, _arriguccio_ had travelled so farre from his house, till he came at last to the dwelling of _simonidaes_ brethren: where hee knockt so soundly, that he was quickely heard, and (almost as speedily) let in. _simonidaes_ brethren, and her mother also, hearing of _arriguccioes_ comming thither so late. rose from their beds, and each of them having a waxe candle lighted came presently to him, to understand the cause of this his so unseasonable visitation. _arriguccio_, beginning at the originall of the matter, the thred found tyed about his wives great toe, the fight and houshold conflict after following: related every circumstance to them. and for the better proofe of his words, he shewed them the thred it selfe, the lockes supposed of his wives haire, and adding withall; that they might now dispose of _simonida_ as themselves pleased, because she should remaine no longer in his house. the brethren to _simonida_ were exceedingly offended at this relation, in regard they beleeved it for truth, and in this fury, commanded torches to be lighted, preparing to part thence with _arriguccio_ home to his house, for the more sharpe reprehension of their sister. which when their mother saw, she followed them weeping, first entreating one, and then the other, not to be over rash in crediting such a slander, but rather to consider the truth thereof advisedly: because the husband might be angry with his wife upon some other occasion, and having outraged her, made this the meanes in excuse of himselfe. morever she said, that she could not chuse but wonder greatly, how this matter should thus come to passe; because she had good knowledge of her daughter, during the whole course of her education, faultlesse and blamelesse in every degree; with many other good words of her beside, as proceeding from naturall affection of a mother. being come to the house of _arriguccio_, entring in, and ascending up the stayres: they heard _simonida_ sweetly singing at her working; but pausing, upon hearing their rude trampling, shee demaunded, who was there. one of the angry brethren presently answered: lewde woman as thou art, thou shalt know soone enough who is heere: our blessed lady be with us (quoth _simonida_) and sweet saint frances helpe to defend me, who dare use such unseemely speeches? starting up and meeting them on the staire head: kinde brethren, (said she) is it you? what, and my loving mother too? for sweet saint charities sake, what may be the reason of your comming hither in this manner. shee being set downe againe to her worke, so neatly apparelled, without any signe of outrage offered her, her face unblemished, her haire comely ordered, and differing wholly from the former speeches of her husband: the brethren marvelled thereat not a little; and asswaging somewhat the impetuous torrent of their rage; began to demaund in coole blood, (as it were) from what ground her husbands complaints proceeded, and threatning her roughly, if she would not confesse the truth intirely to them. ave maria (quoth _simonida_, crossing her selfe) alas deare brethren, i know not what you say, or meane, nor wherein my husband should bee offended, or make any complaint at all of me. _arriguccio_ hearing this, looked on her like a man that had lost his senses: for well he remembred, how many cruell blowes he had given her on the face, beside scratches of his nailes, and spurnes of his feet, as also the cutting of her haire, the the least shew of all which misusage, was not now to be seene. her brethren likewise briefly told her, the whole effect of her husbands speeches, shewing her the thred, and in what cruell manner he sware hee did beate her. _simonida_, turning then to her husband, and seeming as confounded with amazement, said. how is this husband? what doe i heare? would you have me supposed (to your owne shame and disgrace) to be a bad woman, and your selfe a cruell curst man, when (on either side) there is no such matter? when were you this night heere in the house with mee? or when should you beate mee, and i not feele nor know it. beleeve me (sweete heart) all these are meerely miracles to me. now was _arriguccio_ ten times more mad in his minde, then before, saying. divell, and no woman, did wee not this night goe both together to bed? did not i cut this thred from thy great toe, tyed it to mine, and found the craftie compact betweene thee and thy minnion? did not i follow and fight with him in the streets? came i not backe againe, and beate thee as a strumpet should be? and are not these the locks of haire, which i my selfe did cut from thy head? alas sir (quoth she) where have you been? doe you know what you say? you did not lodge in this house this night, neither did i see you all the whole day and night, till now. but leaving this, and come to the matter now in question, because i have no other testimony then mine owne words. you say, that you did beate me, and cut those lockes of haire from my head. alas sir, why should you slander your selfe? in all your life time you did never strike me. and to approve the truth of my speeches, doe you your selfe, and all else heere present, looke on me advisedly, if any signe of blow or beating is to be seene on me. nor were it an easie matter for you to doe either to smite, or so much as lay your hand (in anger) on me, it would cost dearer then you thinke for. and whereas you say, that you did cut those lockes of haire from my head; it is more then either i know, or felt, nor are they in colour like to mine: but, because my mother and brethren shall be my witnesses therein, and whether you did it without my knowledge; you shall all see, if they be cut, or no. so, taking off her head attyre, she displayed her hayre over her shoulders, which had suffered no violence, neither seemed to bee so much as uncivilly or rudely handled. when the mother and brethren saw this, they began to murmure against _arriguccio_, saying, what thinke you of this sir? you tell us of strange matters which you have done, and all proving false, we wonder how you can make good the rest. _arriguccio_ looked wilde, and confusedly, striving still to maintaine his accusation: but seeing every thing to bee flatly against him, he durst not attempt to speake one word. _simonida_ tooke advantage of this distraction in him, and turning to her brethren, saide. i see now the marke whereat he aymeth, to make me doe what i never meante: namely, that i should acquaint you with his vile qualities, and what a wretched life i leade with him, which seeing hee will needes have me to reveale; beare with me if i doe it upon compulsion. mother and brethren, i am verily perswaded, that those accidents which he disclosed to you, hath doubtlesse (in the same manner) happened to him, and you shall heare how. very true it is, that this seeming honest man, to whom (in a lucklesse houre) you married me, stileth himselfe by the name of a merchant, coveting to be so accounted and credited, as holy in outward appearance, as a religious monke, and as demure in lookes, as the modestest maide: like a notorious common drunkard, is a taverne hunter, where making his luxurius matches, one while with one whore, then againe with another; hee causeth mee every night to sit tarrying for him, even in the same sort as you found me: sometimes till midnight, and otherwhiles till broad day light in the morning. and questionlesse, being in his wounted drunken humour, hee hath lyen with one of his sweet consorts, about whose toe he found the thred, and finding her as false to him, as he hath alwayes been to me: did not onely beat her, but also cut the haire from her head. and having not yet recovered his sences, is verily perswaded, and cannot be altered from it; but that hee performed all this villany to me. and if you doe but advisedly observe his countenance, he appeareth yet to be more then halfe drunke. but whatsoever he hath said concerning me, i make no account at all thereof, because he spake it in his drunkennesse, and as freely as i forgive him, even so (good mother and kinde brethren) let mee entreate you to do the like. when the mother had heard these words, and confidently beleeved her daughter: she began to torment her selfe with anger, saying. by the faith of my body daughter, this unkindnesse is not be endured, but rather let the dogge be hanged, that his qualities may be knowne, he being utterly unworthy, to have so good a woman to his wife, as thou art. what could he have done more, if he had taken thee in the open streete, and in company of some wanton gallants? in an unfortunate houre wast thou married to him, base jealous coxecombe as he is, and it is quite against sense, or reason, that thou shouldest be subject to his fooleries. what was hee, but a merchant of eale-skinnes or orenges; bred in some paltry countrey village; taken from hogge-rubbing; clothed in sheepes-sattin, with clownish startops, leather stockings, and caddies garters: his whole habite not worth three shillings: and yet he must have a faire gentlewoman to his wife, of honest fame, riches and reputation; when, comparing his pedegree with hers, hee is farre unfit to wipe her shooes. oh my deare sonnes, i would you had followed my counsell, and permitted her to match in the honourable family of _count guido_, which was much mooved, and seriously pursued. but you would needs bestow her on this goodly jewell; who, although shee is one of the choysest beauties in florence, chaste, honest and truely vertuous: is not ashamed at midnight, to proclaime her for a common whore, as if we had no better knowledge of her. but by the blessed mother of saint _john_, if you would be ruled by mine advise; our law should make him dearely smart for it. alas my sonnes, did i not tell you at home in our owne house, that his words were no way likely to prove true? have not your eyes observed his unmannerly behaviour to your sister? if i were as you are, hearing what he hath said, and noting his drunken carriage beside; i should never give over, as long as he had any life left in him. and were i a man, as i am a woman; none other then my selfe should revenge her wrongs, making him a publike spectacle to all drabbing drunkards. when the brethren had heard and observed all these occurrences; in most bitter manner they railed on _arriguccio_, bestowing some good bastinadoes on him beside, concluding thus with him in the end. quoth one of them, wee will pardon this shamefull abusing of our sister, because thou art a notorious drunkard: but looke to it (on perill of thy life) that we have no more such newes hereafter; for, beleeve it unfainedly, if any such impudent rumours happen to our eares, or so much as a flying fame thereof; thou shalt surely be paide for both faults together. so home againe went they, and _arriguccio_ stood like one that had neither life or motion, not knowing (whether what he had done) was true, or no, or if he dreamed all this while, and so (without uttering any word) he left his wife, and went quietly to bed. thus by her wisdome, she did not onely prevent an imminent perill: but also made a free and open passage, to further contentment with her amourous friend, yet dreadlesse of any distaste or suspition in her husband. lydia, _a lady of great beauty, birth, and honor, being wife to_ nicostratus, _governour of_ argos, _falling in love with a gentleman, named_ pyrrhus; _was requested by him (as a true testimony of her unfeigned affection) to performe three severall actions of her selfe. she did accomplish them all, and imbraced and kissed_ pyrrhus _in the presence of_ nicostratus; _by perswading him, that whatsoever he saw, was meerely false._ the ninth novell. _wherein is declared, that great lords may sometime be deceived by their wives, as well as men of meaner condition._ the novell delivered, by madame _neiphila_ seemed so pleasing to all the ladies; as they could not refraine from hearty laughter, beside much liberality of speech. albeit the king did oftentimes urge silence, and commanded _pamphilus_ to follow next. so, when attention was admitted, _pamphilus_ began in this order. i am of opinion, faire ladies, that there is not any matter, how uneasie or doubtfull soever it may seeme to be; but the man or woman that affecteth fervently, dare boldly attempt, and effectually accomplish. and this perswasion of mine, although it hath beene sufficiently approved, by many of our passed novels: yet notwithstanding, i shall make it much apparent to you, by a present discourse of mine owne. wherein i have occasion to speake of a lady, to whom fortune was more favourable, then either reason or judgement, could give direction. in which regard, i would not advise any of you, to entertaine so high an imagination of minde, as to tracke her footsteps of whom i am now to speake: because fortune containeth not alwayes one and the same disposition, neither can all mens eyes be blinded after one manner. and so proceed we to our tale. in _argos_, a most ancient citie of _achaya_, much more renowned by her precedent kings, then wealth, or any other great matter of worth: there lived as lieutenant or governour thereof, a noble lord, named _nicostratus_, on whom (albeit hee was well stept into yeares) fortune bestowed in a marriage a great lady, no lesse bold of spirit, then choisely beautifull. _nicostratus_, abounding in treasure and wealthy possessions, kept a goodly trains of servants, horses, houndes, hawkes, and what else not, as having an extraordinary felicity in all kinds of game, as singular exercises to maintaine his health. among his other servants and followers, there was a yong gentleman, gracefull of person, excellent in speech, and every way as active as no man could be more: his name _pyrrhus_, highly affected of _nicostratus_, and more intimately trusted then all the rest. such seemed the perfections of this _pyrrhus_, that _lydia_ (for so was the lady named) began to affect him very earnestly, and in such sort, as day or night shee could take no rest, but devised all meanes to compasse her harts desire. now, whether he observed this inclination of her towards him, or else would take no notice thereof, it could not be discerned by any outward apprehension: which moved the more impatiency in her, & drove her hopes to dispairing passions. wherein to finde some comfort and ease, she called an ancient gentlewoman of her chamber, in whom shee reposed especiall confidence, and thus she spake to her. _lesca_, the good turnes and favours thou hast received from me, should make thee faithfull and obedient to me: and therefore set a locke uppon thy lippes, for revealing to any one whatsoever, such matters as now i shall impart to thee; except it be to him that i command thee. thou perceivest _lesca_, how youthfull i am, apt to all sprightly recreations, rich, and abounding in all that a woman can wish to have, in regard of fortunes common & ordinary favours: yet i have one especiall cause of complaint: namely, the inequality of my mariage, my husband being over-ancient for me; in which regard, my youth finds it selfe too highly wronged, being defeated of those duties and delights, which women (farre inferiour to me) are continuallie cloyed withall, and i am utterly deprived of. i am subject to the same desires they are, and deserve to taste the benefit of them, in as ample manner, as they do or can. hitherto i have lived with the losse of time, which yet (in some measure) may be releeved and recompenced: for, though fortune were mine enemy in mariage, by such a disproportion of our conditions: yet she may befriend in another nature, and kindely redeeme the injury done me. wherefore _lesca_, to be as compleate in this case, as i am in all the rest beside; i have resolved upon a private friend, and one more worthy then any other; namely, my servant _pyrrhus_, whose youth carieth some correspondency with mine; and so constantly have i setled my love to him, as i am not well, but when i thinke on him, or see him: and (indeede) shall dye, except the sooner i may enjoy him. and therefore, if my life and well-fare be respected by thee, let him understand the integrity of mine affection, by such good means as thou findest it most expedient to be done: entreating him from me, that i may have some conference with him, when he shall thereto be solicited by me. the chamber-gentlewoman _lesca_, willingly undertooke the ladies embassie; and so soone as opportunity did favor her: having withdrawne _pyrrhus_ into an apt and commodious place, shee delivered the message to him, in the best manner she could devise. which _pyrrhus_ hearing, did not a little wonder thereat, never having noted any such matter; and therefore sodainly conceyved, that the lady did this onely to try him; whereupon, somewhat roundly and roughly, hee returned this answere. _lesca_, i am not so simple, as to credite any such message to be sent from my lady, and therefore be better advised of thy words. but admit that it should come from her, yet i cannot be perswaded, that her soule consented to such harsh language, far differing from a forme so full of beauty**. and yet admit againe, that her hart and tongue herein were relatives: my lord and master hath so farre honoured mee, and so much beyond the least part of merite in mee: as i will rather dye, then any way offer to disgrace him: and therefore i charge thee, never more to move mee in this matter. _lesca_, not a jot danted at his stearne words, presently she saide. _pyrrhus_, both in this and all other messages my lady shall command me, i will speake to thee whensoever shee pleaseth, receive what discontent thou canst thereby; or make presumption of what doubts thou maist devise. but as i found thee a senselesse fellow, dull, and not shaped to any understanding, so i leave thee: and in that anger parted from him, carrying backe the same answer to her lady. she no sooner heard it, but instantly shee wished her selfe to be dead; and within some few dayes after, she conferred againe with her chamber-woman, saying. _lesca_, thou knowest well enough, that the oxe falleth not at the first blow of the axe, neither is the victory won, upon a silly and shallow adventure: wherefore, i thinke it convenient, that once more thou shouldst make another tryall of him, who (in prejudice to me) standeth so strictly on his loyalty, and choosing such an houre as seemeth most commodious, soundly possesse him with my tormenting passions. bestirre thy wittes, and tippe thy tongue with a womans eloquence, to effect what i so earnestly desire: because, by languishing in this love-sicke affliction, it well bee the danger of my death, and some severe detriment to him, to be the occasion of so great a losse. _lesca_, comforted her lady, so much as lay in her power to doe, and having sought for _pyrrhus_, whom she found at good leysure; and, in a pleasing humour, thus she beganne. _pyrrhus_, some few dayes since i tolde thee, in what extreame agonies thy lady and mine was, onely in regarde of her love to thee: and now againe i come once more, to give thee further assurance thereof: wherefore, beleeve it unfeignedly, that if thy obstinacie continue still, in like manner as the other day it did, expect very shortly to heare the tydings of her death. it is my part therefore, to entreat thee, to comfort her long languishing desires: but if thou persist in thy harsh opinion, in stead of reputing thee a wise and fortunate yong man, i shall confesse thee to bee an ignoraunt asse. what a glorie is it to thee, to be affected of so faire and worthy a lady, beyond all men else whatsoever? next to this, tell me, how highly maist thou confesse thy selfe beholding to fortune, if thou but duly consider, how shee hath elected thee as sole soveraigne of her hopes, which is a crowne of honour to thy youth, and a sufficient refuge against all wants and necessities? where is any to thy knowledge like thy selfe, that can make such advantage of his time, as thou maist do, if thou wert wise? where canst thou find any one to go beyond thee in armes, horses, sumptuous garments, and gold, as will be heaped on thee, if _lydia_ may be the lady of thy love? open then thine understanding to my words, returne into thine owne soule, and bee wise for thy selfe. remember (_pyrrhus_) that fortune presents her selfe but once before any one, with cheerefull lookes, and her lappe wide open of richest favours, where if choice be not quickely made, before she folde it up, and turn her backe: let no complaint afterward be made of her, if the fellow that had so faire an offer, proove to be miserable, wretched, and a beggar, only thorow his owne negligence. beside, what else hath formerly bin saide, there is now no such neede of loyaltie in servants to their ladies, as should be among deare friends and kindred: but servants ought rather (as best they may) be such to their masters, as they are to them. doest thou imagine, that if thou hadst a faire wife, mother, daughter, or sister, pleasing in the eye of our _nicostratus_; he would stand on such nice tearmes of duty or loyaltie, as now thou doest to his ladie? thou wert a verie foole to rest so perswaded. assure thy selfe, that if entreaties and faire meanes might not prevaile, force, and compulsion (whatsoever ensued thereon) woulde winne the masterie. let us then use them, and the commodities unto them belonging, as they would us and ours. use the benefit of thy fortune, & beware of abusing her favour. she yet smiles on thee; but take heede least she turne her backe, it will then be over-late to repent thy folly. and if my ladie die through thy disdaine, be assured, that thou canst not escape with life, beside open shame and disgrace for ever. _pyrrhus_, who had often considered on _lescaes_ first message, concluded with himselfe; that if any more she moved the same matter: hee would returne her another kinde of answere, wholly yeelding to content his lady; provided, that he might remaine assured, concerning the intyre truth of the motion, and that it was not urged onely to trie him, wherefore, thus he replyed. _lesca_, do not imagine mee so ignorant, as not to know the certaintie of all thy former allegations, confessing them as freely as thou doest, or canst. but yet let mee tell thee withall, that i knowe my lord to be wise and judicious, and having committed all his affaires to my care and trust: never blame mee to misdoubt; least my ladie (by his counsell and advice) make thee the messenger of this motion, thereby to call my fidelitie in question. to cleare which doubt, and for my further assurance of her well meaning toward me; if she will undertake the performance of three such things as i must needes require in this case: i am afterward her owne, in any service she can command me. the first of them, is, that in the presence of my lord and master, she kill his faire faulcon, which so dearly hee affecteth. the second, to send me a locke or tuft of his beard, being puld away with her owne hand. the third and last, with the same hand also, to pluck out one of his best and soundest teeth, and send it mee as her loves true token. when i finde all these three effectually performed, i am wholly hers, & not before. these three strict impositions, seemed to _lesca_, and her ladie likewise, almost beyond the compasse of all possibility. nevertheles love, being a powerfull oratour in perswading, as also adventurous even on the most difficult dangers; gave her courage to undertake them all: sending _lesca_ backe againe to him, with full assurance, of these more then _herculean_ labours. moreover, her selfe did intend to adde a fourth taske, in regard of his strong opinion concerning the great wisedome of his lord and maister. after she had effected all the other three, she would not permit him to kisse her, but before his lords face: which yet should be accomplished in such sort, as _nicostratus_ himselfe should not beleeve it, although apparantly he saw it. well, (quoth _pyrrhus_) when all these wonders are performed, assure my ladie, that i am truelie hers. within a short while after, _nicostratus_ made a solemne feastivall (according as yearely he used to doe) in honour of his birth day, inviting many lords and ladies thereto. on which rejoycing day, so soone as dinner was ended, and the tables withdrawne: _lydia_ came into the great hall, where the feast was solemnly kept; very rich and costly apparrelled; and there, in presence of _pyrrhus_, and the whole assemblie, going to the perch whereon the faulcone sate, wherein her husband tooke no little delight, and having untyed her, as if shee meant to beare her on her fist: tooke her by the jesses, and beating her against the wal, killed her. _nicostratus_ beholding this, called out aloud unto her, saying. alas madame! what have you done? she making him no answere, but turning to the lords and ladies, which had dined there, spake in this manner. ill should i take revenge on a king, that had offended me, if i had not so much heart, as to wreake my spleene on a paltry hawke. understand then, worthy lords and ladies, that this faulcone hath long time robbed me of those delights, which men (in meere equitie) ought to have with their wives: because continually, so soone as breake of day hath appeared, my husband, starting out of bed, makes himselfe readie, presently to horsse, and with this faulcon on his fist, rides abroad to his recreation in the fields. and i, in such forsaken sort as you see, am left all alone in my bed, discontented and despised: often vowing to my selfe, to bee thus revenged as now i am, being with-held from it by no other occasion, but onely want of a fit and apt time, to do it in the presence of such persons, as might bee just judges of my wrongs, and as i conceive you all to be. the lords and ladies hearing these words, and beleeving this deed of hers to be done no otherwise, but out of her entire affection to _nicostratus_, according as her speeches sounded: compassionately turning towards him (who was exceedingly displeased) and all smiling, said. now in good sadnesse sir; madame _lydia_ hath done well, in acting her just revenge upon the hawke, that bereft her of her husbands kinde companie; then which nothing is more precious to a loving wife, and a hell it is to live without it. and _lydia_, being sodainly withdrawne into her chamber; with much other friendly and familiar talke, they converted the anger of _nicostratus_ into mirth and smiling. _pyrrhus_, who had diligently observed the whole cariage of this businesse, saide to himselfe. my ladie hath begun well, and proceeding on with no worse successe, will (no doubt) bring her love to an happy conclusion. as for the lady her selfe, she having thus kild the hawke, it was no long while after, but being in the chamber with her husband, and they conversing familiarly together: she began to jest with him, & hee in the like manner with her, tickling and toying each the other, till at the length she played with his beard, and now she found occasion aptly serving, to effect the second taske imposed by _pyrrhus_. so, taking fast hold on a small tuft of his beard, she gave a sodaine snatch, and plucked it away quite from his chin. whereat _nicostratus_ beeing angerly moved, she (to appease his distaste) pleasantly thus spake. how now my lord? why do you looke so frowningly? what? are you angry for a few loose haires of your beard? how then should i take it, when you plucke mee by the haire of my head, and yet i am not a jot discontented, because i know you do it but in jesting manner? these friendly speeches cut off all further contention, and she kepte charily the tuft of her husbands beard, which (the verie selfe-same day) shee sent to _pyrrhus_ her hearts chosen friend. but now concerning the third matter to be adventured, it drove her to a much more serious consideration, then those two which shee had already so well and exactly performed. notwithstanding, like a ladie of unconquerable spirit, and (in whom) love enlarged his power more and more: she sodainly conceited, what course was best to bee kept in this case, forming her attempt in this manner. upon _nicostratus_ wayted two young gentlemen, as pages of his chamber, whose fathers had given them to his service, to learne the manners of honourable courtship, and those qualities necessarily required in gentlemen. one of them, when _nicostratus_ sate downe to dinner or supper, stood in office of his carver, delivering him all the meats whereon he fed. the other (as taster) attended on his cup, and he dranke no other drinke, but what hee brought him, and they both were highly pleasing unto him. on a day, _lydia_ called these two youths aside; and, among some other speeches, which served but as an induction to her intended policy; she perswaded them, that their mouths yeelded an unsavoury & ill-pleasing smell, whereof their lord seemed to take dislike. wherefore she advised them, that at such times as they attended on him in their severall places: they should (so much as possibly they could) withdraw their heads aside from him, because their breath might not be noyous unto him. but withall, to have an especiall care, of not disclosing to any one, what she had told them; because (out of meere love) she had acquainted them therewith: which very constantly they beleeved, and followed the same direction as she had advised, being loath to displease, where service bound them to obey. choosing a time fitting for her purpose, when _nicostratus_ was in private conference with her, thus she began. sir, you observe not the behaviour of your two pages, when they wait on you at the table? yes but i do wife (quoth he) how squemishly they turn their heads aside from me, and it hath often bin in my minde, to understand a reason why they do so. seating herselfe by him, as if shee had some weighty matter to tell him; she proceeded in this manner. alas my lord, you shall not need to question them, because i can sufficiently resolve you therein: which (neverthelesse) i have long concealed, because i would not be offensive to you. but in regard, it is now manifestly apparant, that others have tasted, what (i immagined) none but my selfe did, i will no longer hide it from you. assuredly sir, there is a most strange and unwonted ill-savour, continually issuing from your mouth, smelling most noysomely, and i wonder what should be the occasion. in former times, i never felt any such foule breathing to come from you: and you, who do daily converse with so many worthy persons, should seeke meanes to be rid of so great an annoyance. you say verie true wife (answered _nicostratus_) and i protest to you on my credite, i feele no such ill smell, neither know what should cause it, except i have some corrupted tooth in my mouth. perhaps sir (quoth she) it may be so, and yet you feele not the savour which others do, yea, very offensively. so, walking with her to a window, he opened wide his mouth, the which nicely shee surveyed on either side, and, turning her head from him, as seeming unable to endure the savour: starting, and shrieking out alowd, she said. santa maria! what a sight is this? alas my good lord, how could you abide this, and for so long a while? heere is a tooth on this side, which (so farre as i can perceive) is not onely hollow and corrupted: but also wholly putrified and rotten, and if it continue still in your head, beleeve it for a truth, that it will infect and spoile all the rest neere it. i would therefore counsell you, to let it be pluckt out, before it breede your further danger. i like your counsell well _lydia_, replyed _nicostratus_, and presently intend to follow it; let therefore my barber be sent for, and, without any longer delay, he shall plucke it forth instantly. how sir? (quoth she,) your barber? uppon mine honour, there shall come no barber heere. why sir, it is such a rotten tooth, and standeth so fairely for my hand: that, without helpe or advice of any barber, let mee alone for plucking it forth, without putting you to any paine at all. moreover, let me tell you sir, those tooth-drawers are so rude and cruell, in performing such offices, as my heart cannot endure, that you should come within compasse of their currish courtesie, neither shall you sir, if you will be ruled by me. if i should faile in the manner of their facilitie, yet love & duty hath enstructed me, to forbeare your least paining, which no unmannerly barber will do. having thus spoken, and he well contented with her kinde offer, the instruments were brought, which are used in such occasions, all being commanded forth of the chamber, but onely _lesca_, who evermore kept still in her company. so, locking fast the doore, and _nicostratus_ being seated, as she thought fittest for her purpose, she put the tanacles into his mouth, catching fast hold on one of his soundest teeth: which, notwithstanding his loud crying, _lesca_ held him so strongly, that forth she pluckt it, and hid it, having another tooth readie made hot & bloody, very much corrupted and rotten, which she helde in the tanacles, and shewed to him, who was well-neere halfe dead with anguish. see sir (quoth she) was this tooth to be suffered in your head, and to yeeld so foule a smell as it did? he verily beleeving what she said, albeit hee had endured extreame paine, and still complained on her harsh and violent pulling it out: rejoyced yet, that he was now ridde of it, and she comforting him on the one side, and the anguish asswaging him on the other, he departed forth of the chamber. in the mean while, by _lesca_ she sent the sound tooth to _pyrrhus_, who (wondering not a little at her so many strange attempts; which hee urged so much the rather, as thinking their performance impossible, and, in meere loyall duty to his lord) seeing them all three to be notably effected; he made no further doubt of her intire love towardes him, but sent her assurance likewise, of his readinesse and serviceable diligence, whensoever she would command him. now, after the passage of all these adventures, hardly to bee undertaken by any other woman: yet she held them insufficient for his security, in the grounded perswasion of her love to him, except shee performed another of her owne, and according as shee had boldly promised. houres do now seeme dayes, and dayes multiplicitie of yeeres, till the kisse may be given, and receyved in the presence of _nicostratus_, yet hee himselfe to avouch the contrary. madam _lydia_ (upon a pretended sicknesse) keepeth her chamber, and as women can hardly be exceeded in dissimulation: so, shee wanted no wit, to seeme exquisitely cunning, in all the outwarde apparances of sicknesse. one day after dinner, shee being visited by _nicostratus_, and none attending on him but _pyrrhus_ onely: she earnestly entreated, that as a mitigation, to some inward afflictions which she felt, they would helpe to guide her into the garden. most gladly was her motion graunted, and _nicostratus_ gently taking her by one arme, and _pyrrhus_ by the other, so they conducted her into the garden, seating her in a faire floury grasse-plot, with her backe leaning to a peare-tree. having sitten there an indifferent while, and _pyrrhus_, being formerly enstructed, in the directions which she had given him, thus shee spake, some-what faintly. _pyrrhus_, i have a kinde of longing desire upon a sodaine, to taste of these peares: wherefore, climbe up into the tree, and cast me downe one or two; which instantly hee did. being aloft in the tree, and throwing downe some of the best and ripest peares; at length (according to his premeditated lesson) looking downe, he said. forbeare my lord, do you not see, in how weake and feeble condition my ladie is, being shaken with so violent a sicknesse? and you madam, how kinde and loving soever you are to my lord, are you so little carefull of your health, being but now come forth of your sicke chamber, to be ruffled and tumbled in such rough manner? though such dalliances are not amisse in you both; being fitter for the private chamber, then an open garden, and in the presence of a servant: yet time and place should alwaies bee respectively considered, for the avoiding of ill example, and better testimonie of your owne wisedomes, which ever should be like your selves. but if so soone, and even in the heate of a yet turbulent sickenesse, your equall love can admit these kisses and embraces: your private lodginges were much more convenient, where no servants eye can see such wantonnesse, nor you be reproved of indiscretion, for being too publique in your familiaritie. madame _lydia_, sodainely starting, and turning unto her husband, sayde. what doth _pyrrhus_ prate? is he well in his wittes? or is he franticke? no madame, replyed _pyrrhus_, i am not franticke. are you so fond as to thinke that i do not see your folly? _nicostratus_ wondering at his words, presently answered. now trust me _pyrrhus_, i think thou dreamest. no my lord, replyed _pyrrhus_, i dreame not a jot, neither do you, or my ladie: but if this tree could affoord the like kindnesse to me, as you do to her, there would not a peare bee left uppon it. how now _pyrrhus_? (quoth _lydia_) this language goeth beyond our understanding, it seemeth thou knowest not what thou saist. beleeve me husband, if i were as well as ever i have bin, i would climb this tree, to see those idle wonders which hee talketh of: for, while he continueth thus above, it appeareth, hee can finde no other prattle, albeit he taketh his marke amisse. heereupon, he commanded _pyrrhus_ to come downe, and being on the ground: now _pyrrhus_ (quoth he) tell me what thou saydst. _pyrrhus_, pretending an alteration into much amazement, straungely looking about him, saide; i know not verie well (my lord) what answere i should make you, fearing least my sight hath bin abused by error: for when i was aloft in that tree, it seemed manifestly to me: that you embraced my lady (though somewhat rudely, in regard of her perillous sicknesse, yet lovingly) and as youthfully as in your yonger daies, with infinite kisses, and wanton dalliances, such as (indeede) deserved a far more private place in my poore opinion. but in my descending downe, mee thought you gave over that amorous familiaritie, and i found you seated as i left you. now trust mee _pyrrhus_, answered _nicostratus_, thy tongue and wit have very strangely wandred, both from reason and all reall apprehension: because we never stirred from hence, since thou didst climbe up into the tree, neither mooved otherwise, then as now thou seest us. alas my lord (saide _pyrrhus_) i humbly crave pardon for my presumption, in reprooving you for medling with your owne: which shall make me hereafter better advised, in any thing what soever i heare or see. mervaile and amazement, encreased in _nicostratus_ far greater then before, hearing him to avouch still so constantly what he had seene, no contradiction being able to alter him, which made him rashly sweare and say. i will see my selfe, whether this peare-tree bee enchanted, or no: and such wonders to be seene when a man is up in it, as thou wouldst have us to beleeve. and being mounted up so hy, that they were safe from his sodaine comming on them, _lydia_ had soone forgotten her sicknes, and the promised kisse cost her above twenty more, beside verie kinde and hearty embraces, as lovingly respected and entertained by _pyrrhus_. which _nicostratus_ beholding aloft in the tree; cryed out to her, saying. wicked woman, what doest thou meane? and thou villain _pyrrhus_, darst thou abuse thy lord, who hath reposed so much trust in thee? so, descending in haste downe againe, yet crying so to them still: _lydia_ replyed, alas my lord, why do you raile and rave in such sort? so, hee found her seated as before, and _pyrrhus_ waiting with dutifull reverence, even as when he climbed up the tree: but yet he thought his sight not deceyved, for all their demure and formall behaviour, which made him walke up and downe, extreamely fuming and fretting unto himselfe, and which in some milder manner to qualifie, _pyrrhus_ spake thus to him. i deny not (my good lord) but freely confesse, that even as your selfe, so i, being above in the tree, had my sight most falsely deluded: which is so apparantly confirmed by you, and in the same sort, as there needeth no doubt of both our beguiling; in one and the same suspitious nature. in which case to be the more assuredly resolved, nothing can be questioned, but whether your beleefe do so farre misleade you, as to thinke, that my ladie (who hath alwayes bene most wise, loyall, and vertuous,) would so shamefullie wrong you: yea, and to performe it before your face, wherein i dare gadge my life to the contrary. concerning my selfe, it is not fit for mee, to argue or contest in mine owne commendation: you that have ever knowne the sincerity of my service, are best able to speake in my behalfe: and rather wold i be drawne in peeces with foure wilde horses, then bee such an injurious slave to my lord and master. now then, it can be no otherwise, but we must needs rest certainely perswaded, that the guile and offence of this false appearance, was occasioned by thee onely. for all the world could not make me otherwise beleeve, but that i saw you kisse and most kindely imbrace my lady: if your owne eyes had not credited the like behaviour in me to her, of which sinne, i never conceived so much as a thought. the lady (on the other side) seeming to be very angerly incensed, starting faintly upon her feet, yet supporting her selfe by the tree, said. it appeareth sir, that you have entertained a goodly opinion of me as, if i were so lewde and lasciviously disposed, or addicted to the very least desire of wantonnesse: that i would bee so forgetfull of mine owne honour, as to adventure it in your sight, and with a servant of my house? oh sir, such women as are so familiarly affected, need learne no wit of men in amourous matters; their private chambers shall be better trusted, then an open blabing and tell-tale garden. _nicostratus_, who verily beleeved what they had both said, and that neither of them would adventure such familiarity before his face: would talke no more of the matter, but rather studyed of the rarity of such a miracle, not seene, but in the height of the tree, and changing againe upon the descent. but _lydia_, containing still her collourable kinde of impatience, and angerly frowning upon _nicostratus_, stearnely saide. if i may have my will, this villanous and deceiving tree, shall never more shame me, or any other woman: and therefore _pyrrhus_, runne for an axe, and by felling it to the ground, in an instant, revenge both thy wrong and mine. doest not thou serve a worthy lord? and have not i a wise husband, who, without any consideration, will suffer the eye of his understanding to be so dazeled, with a foolish imagination beyond all possibility? for, although his eyes did apprehend such a folly, and it seemed to be a truth indeed: yet, in the depth of setled judgement, all the world should not perswade him, that it was so. _pyrrhus_ had quickely brought the axe, and hewing downe the tree, so soone as the lady saw it fall; turning her selfe to _nicostratus_, she said. now that i have seene mine honour and honesties enemy laid along; mine anger is past, and husband, i freely pardon you: intreating you heartily henceforward, not to presume or imagine, that my love eyther is, or can bee altred from you. thus the mocked and derided _nicostratus_, returned in againe with his lady and _pyrrhus_; where perhaps (although the peare-tree was cut downe) they could find as cunning meanes to over-reach him. _two citizens of_ siena, _the one named_ tingoccio mini, _& the other_ meucio di tora, _affected both one woman, called_ monna mita, _to whom the one of them was a gossip. the gossip dyed, and appeared afterward to his companion, according as he had formerly promised him to doe, and tolde him what strange wonders he had seene in the other world._ the tenth novell. _wherein such men are covertly reprehended, who make no care or conscience at all of those things that should preserve them from sinne._ now there remained none but the king himselfe, last of all to recount his novell; who, after hee heard the ladies complaints indifferently pacified, for the rash felling downe of such a precious peare-tree; thus he began. faire ladies, it is a case more then manifest, that every king, who will be accounted just and upright: should first of all, and rather then any other, observe those lawes which he himselfe hath made; otherwise he ought to be reputed as a servant, worthy of punishment, and no king. into which fault and reprehension, i your king, shall well neere be constrained to fall; for yesterday i enacted a law, upon the forme of our discoursing, with full intent, that this day i would not use any part of my priviledge; but being subject (as you all are) to the same law, i should speake of that argument, which already you have done. wherein, you have not onely performed more then i could wish, upon a subject so sutable to my minde: but in every novell, such variety of excellent matter, such singular illustrations, and delicate eloquence hath flowne from you all; as i am utterly unable to invent any thing (notwithstanding the most curious search of my braine) apt or fit for the purpose, to paragon the meanest of them already related. and therefore seeing i must needs sinne in the law established by my selfe; i tender my submission, as worthy of punishment, or what amends else you please to enjoyne mee. now, as returned to my wonted priviledge, i say, that the novell recounted by madame _eliza_, of the fryar godfather and his gossip _agnesia_, as also the sottishnesse of the _senese_ her husband, hath wrought in me (worthy ladies) to such effect; as, forbearing to speake any more of these wily prancks, which witty wives exercise on their simple husbands; i am to tell you a pretty short tale; which, though there is matter enough in it, not worthy the crediting, yet partly it will bee pleasing to heare. sometime there lived in _sienna_ two popular men; the one being named _tingoccio mini_ and the other _meucio de tora_; men simple, and of no understanding, both of them dwelling in _porta salaia_. these two men lived in such familiar conversation together, and expressed such cordiall affection each to other, as they seldome walked asunder; but (as honest men use to doe) frequented churches and sermons, oftentimes hearing, both what miseries and beatitudes were in the world to come, according to the merits of their soules that were departed out of this life, and found their equall repaiment in the other. the manifold repetition of these matters, made them very earnestly desirous to know, by what meanes they might have tydings from thence, for their further confirmation. and finding all their endeavours utterly frustrated, they made a solemne vow and promise (each to other under oath) that hee which first dyed of them two, should returne backe againe (so soone as possibly he could) to the other remaining alive, and tell him such tydings as hee desired to heare. after the promise was thus faithfully made, and they still keeping company, as they were wont to doe: it fortuned, that _tingoccio_ became gossip to one, named _ambrosito anselmino_, dwelling in _camporeggio_, who by his wife, called _monna mita_, had a sweet and lovely sonne. _tingoccio_ often resorting thither, and consorted with his companion _meucio_; the she-gossip, being a woman worthy the loving, faire and comely of her person: _tingoccio_, notwithstanding the gossipship betweene them, had more then a moneths minde to his godchilds mother. _meucio_ also fell sicke of the same disease, because shee seemed pleasing in his eye, and _tingoccio_ gave her no meane commendations; yet, carefully they concealed their love to themselves, but not for one & the same occasion. because _tingoccio_ kept it closely from _meucio_, lest he should hold it disgracefull in him, to beare amourous affection to his gossip, and thought it unfitting to bee knowne. but _meucio_ had no such meaning, for hee knew well enough that _tingoccio_ loved her, and therefore conceived in his minde, that if he discovered any such matter to him: he will (quoth he) be jealous of me, and being her gossip, which admitteth his conference with her when himselfe pleaseth; he may easily make her to distaste me, and therefore i must rest contented as i am. their love continuing on still in this kinde, _tingoccio_ prooved so fortunate in the businesse, that having better meanes then his companion, and more prevayling courses, when, where, and how to court his mistresse, which seemed to forward him effectually. all which _meucio_ plainely perceived, and though it was tedious and wearisome to him, yet hoping to finde some successe at length: he would not take notice of any thing, as fearing to infringe the amity betweene him and _tingoccio_, and so his hope to be quite supplanted. thus the one triumphing in his loves happinesse, and the other hoping for his felicity to come; a lingaring sickenesse seazed on _tingoccio_, which brought him to so low a condition, as at the length he dyed. about some three or foure nights after, _meucio_ being fast asleepe in his bed, the ghoste of _tingoccio_ appeared to him, and called so loude, that _meucio_ awaking, demanded who called him? i am thy friend _tingoccio_, replied the ghoste, who according to my former promise made, am come again in vision to thee, to tell thee tidings out of the nether world. _meucio_ was a while somewhat amazed; but, recollecting his more manly spirits together, boldly he said. my brother and friend, thou art heartily welcome: but i thought thou hadst beene utterly lost. those things (quoth _tingoccio_) are lost, which cannot be recovered againe, and if i were lost, how could i then be heere with thee? alas _tingoccio_, replyed _meucio_, my meaning is not so: but i would be resolved, whether thou art among the damned soules, in the painefull fire of hell torments, or no? no (quoth _tingoccio_) i am not sent thither, but for divers sinnes by mee committed i am to suffer very great and grievous paines. then _meucio_ demaunded particularly, the punishments inflicted there, for the severall sinnes committed heere: wherein _tingoccio_ fully resolved him. and upon further question, what hee would have to be done for him here, made answere, that _meucio_ should cause masses, prayers and almes deeds to be performed for him, which (he said) were very helpefull to the soules abiding there, and _meucio_ promised to see them done. as the ghost was offering to depart, _meucio_ remembred _tingoccioes_ gossip _monna mita_, and raysing himselfe higher upon his pillowe, said. my memorie informeth me, friend _tingoccio_, of your kinde gossip _monna mita_, with whom (when you remained in this life) i knew you to be very familiar: let me intreat you then to tell me, what punishment is inflicted on you there, for that wanton sinne committed heere? oh brother _meucio_, answered _tingoccio_, so soone as my soule was landed there, one came immediately to me, who seemed to know all mine offences readily by heart, and forthwith commanded, that i should depart thence into a certaine place, where i must weepe for my sinnes in very grievous paines. there i found more of my companions, condemned to the same punishment as i was, and being among them, i called to minde some wanton dalliances, which had passed betweene my gossip and me, and expecting therefore farre greater afflictions, then as yet i felt (although i was in a huge fire, and exceedingly hot) yet with conceite of feare, i quaked and trembled wondrously. one of my other consorts being by me, and perceiving in what an extreame agony i was; presently said unto me. my friend, what hast thou done more, then any of us here condemned with thee, that thou tremblest and quakest, being in so hot a fire? oh my friend (quoth i) i am in feare of a greater judgement then this, for a grievous offence by mee heretofore committed while i lived. then hee demaunded of mee what offence it was, whereto thus i answered. it was my chance in the other world, to be godfather at a childs christning, and afterward i grew so affectionate to the childs mother, as (indeed) i kissed her twice or thrise. my companyon laughing at me in mocking manner, replyed thus. goe like an asse as thou art, and be no more afraid hereafter, for here is no punishment inflicted, in any kinde whatsoever, for such offences of frailty committed, especially with gossips, as i my selfe can witnesse. now day drew on, and the cockes began to crow, a dreadfull hearing to walking spirits, when _tingoccio_ said to _meucio_. farewell my friendly companion, for i may tarry no longer with thee, and instantly hee vanished away. _meucio_ having heard this confession of his friend, and verily beleeving it for a truth, that no punishment was to be inflicted in the future world, for offences of frailty in this life, and chiefly with gossips: began to condemne his owne folly, having bin a gossip to many wives, yet modesty restrained him from such familiar offending. and therefore being sorry for this grosse ignorance, hee made a vowe to be wiser hereafter. and if fryar _reynard_ had been acquainted with this kind of shrift (as doubtlesse he was, though his gossip _agnesia_ knew it not) he needed no such syllogismes, as he put in practise, when he converted her to his lustfull knavery, in the comparison of kinred by him moved, concerning her husband, the childe and himselfe. but, these are the best fruits of such fryerly confessions, to compasse the issue of their inordinate appetites; yet clouded with the cloake of religion, which hath beene the overthrow of too many. * * * * * by this time the gentle blast of _zephirus_ began to blow, because the sunne grew neere his setting, wherewith the king concluded his novell, and none remaining more to be thus imployed: taking the crowne from off his owne head, he placed it on madame _laurettaes_, saying, madame, i crowne you with your owne crowne, as queene of our company. you shall henceforth command as lady and mistresse, in such occasions as shall be to your liking, and for the contentment of us all; with which words he set him downe. and madame _lauretta_ being now created queene, shee caused the master of the houshold to bee called, to whom she gave command, that the tables should be prepared in the pleasant vally, but at a more convenient houre, then formerly had beene, because they might (with better ease) returne backe to the pallace. then shee tooke order likewise, for all such other necessary matters, as should bee required in the time of her regiment: and then turning her selfe to the whole company, she began in this manner. it was the will of _dioneus_ yesternight, that our discourses for this day, should concerne the deceits of wives to their husbands. and were it not to avoyde taxation, of a spleenitive desire to be revenged, like the dog being bitten, biteth againe: i could command our to morrows conference, to touch mens treacheries towards their wives. but because i am free from any such fiery humour, let it be your generall consideration, to speake of such queint beguylings, as have heretofore past, either of the woman to the man, the man to the woman, or of one man to another: and i am of opinion, that they will yeeld us no lesse delight, then those related (this day) have done. when she had thus spoken, she rose; granting them all liberty, to goe recreate themselves untill supper time. the ladies being thus at their owne disposing, some of them bared their legges and feete, to wash them in the coole current. others, not so minded, walked on the greene grasse, and under the goodly spreading trees. _dioneus_ and madame _fiammetta_, they sate singing together, the love-warre betweene _arcit_ and _palemon_. and thus with diversity of disports, in choice delight and much contentment, all were imployed, till supper drew neere. when the houre was come, and the tables covered by the ponds side: we need not question their dyet and dainties, infinite birds sweetly singing about them, as no musicke in the world could be more pleasing; beside calme windes, fanning their faces from the neighbouring hilles (free from flyes, or the least annoyance) made a delicate addition to their pleasure. no sooner were the tables withdrawne, and all risen: but they fetcht a few turnings about the vally, because the sunne was not (as yet) quite set. then in the coole evening, according to the queenes appointment: in a soft and gentle pace, they walked homeward: devising on a thousand occasions, as well those which the dayes discourses had yeelded, as others of their owne inventing beside. it was almost darke night, before they arrived at the pallace; where, with variety of choice wines, and abounding plenty of rare banquetting, they out-wore the little toile and wearinesse, which the long walke had charged them withall. afterward, according to their wonted order, the instruments being brought and played on, they fell to dancing about the faire fountaine; _tindaro_ intruding (now and then) the sound of his bagpipe, to make the musicke seeme more melodious. but in the end, the queene commanded madame _philomena_ to sing; whereupon the instruments being tuned fit for the purpose, thus she began. the song. the chorus sung by the whole company. _wearisome is my life to me, because i cannot once againe returne; unto the place which made me first to mourne._ _nothing i know, yet feele a powerfull fire, burning within my brest, through deepe desire; to be once more where first i felt unrest, which cannot be exprest. o my sole good! o my best happinesse! why am i thus restrainde? is there no comfort in this wretchednesse? then let me live content, to be thus painde. wearisome is my life to me, &c._ _i cannot tell what was that rare delight, which first enflamde my soule, and gave command in spight, that i should find no ease by day or night, but still live in controule. i see, i heare, and feele a kinde of blisse, yet find no forme at all: other in their desire, finde blessednesse, but i have none, nor thinke i ever shall. wearisome is my life to me, &c._ _tell me if i may hope in following dayes, to have but one poore sight, of those bright sunny rayes, dazeling my sence, did o'recome me quite, bequeath'd to wandring wayes. if i be posted off and may not prove. to have the smallest grace: or but to know, that this proceeds from love, why should i live despisde in every place? wearisome is my life to me, &c._ _me thinkes milde favour whispers in mine eare, and bids me not despaire; there will a time appeare to quell and quite confound consuming care, and joy surmount proud feare. in hope that gracious time will come at length, to cheare my long dismay: my spirits reassume your former strength, and never dread to see that joyfull day. wearisome is my life to me, because i cannot once againe returne; unto the place which made me first to mourne._ this song gave occasion to the whole company, to imagine, that some new and pleasing apprehension of love, constrained madame _philomena_ to sing in this manner. and because (by the discourse thereof) it plainely appeared, that shee had felt more then shee saw, shee was so much the more happy, and the like was wished by all the rest. wherefore, after the song was ended; the queene remembring, that the next day following was friday, turning her selfe graciously to them all, thus she spake. you know noble ladies, and you likewise most noble gentlemen, that to morrow is the day consecrated to the passion of our blessed lord and saviour, which (if you have not forgotten it, as easily you cannot) we devoutly celebrated, madame _neiphila_ being then queene, ceasing from all our pleasant discoursing, as we did the like on the saturday following, sanctifying the sacred sabboth, in due regard of it selfe. wherefore, being desirous to imitate precedent good example, which in worthy manner shee began to us all: i hold it very decent and necessary, that we should asttaine to morrow, and the day ensuing, from recounting any of our pleasant novels, reducing to our memories, what was done (as on those dayes) for the salvation of our soules. this holy and religious motion made by the queene, was commendably allowed by all the assembly, and therefore, humbly taking their leave of her, and an indifferent part of the night being already spent; severally they betooke themselves to their chambers. _the end of the seaventh day._ the eight day. whereon all the discourses, passe under the rule and government, of the honourable ladie lauretta. and the argument imposed, is, concerning such wittie deceyvings; as have, or may be put in practise, by wives to their husbands; husbands to their wives: or one man towards another. the induction. earely on the sonday morning, _aurora_ shewing her selfe bright and lovely; the sunnes golden beames beganne to appeare, on the toppes of the neere adjoyning mountaines; so, that hearbes, plants, trees, and all things else, were verie evidently to be discerned. the queene and her companie, being all come foorth of their chambers, and having walked a while abroad, in the goodly greene meadowes, to taste the sweetnesse of the fresh and wholesome ayre, they returned backe againe into the palace, because it was their dutie so to do. afterward, betweene the houres of seaven and eight, they went to heare masse, in a faire chappell neere at hand, and thence returned to their lodgings. when they had dined merrily together, they fell to their wonted singing and dauncing: which beeing done, such as were so pleased (by license of the queene first obtained) went either to their rest, or such exercises as they tooke most delight in. when midday, and the heate thereof was well over-past, so that the aire seemed mild and temperate: according as the queene had commanded; they were all seated againe about the fountaine, with intent to prosecute their former pastime. and then madame _neiphila_, by the charge imposed on her, as first speaker for this day, beganne as followeth. gulfardo _made a match or wager, with the wife of_ gasparuolo, _for the obtaining of her amorous favour, in regard of a summe of money first to be given her. the money hee borrowed of her husband, and gave it in payment to her, as in case of discharging him from her husbands debt. after his returne home from_ geneway, _hee told him in the presence of his wife, how he had payde the whole summe to her, with charge of delivering it to her husband, which she confessed to be true, albeit greatly against her will._ the first novell. _wherein is declared, that such women as will make sale of their honestie, are sometimes over-reached in their payment, and justly served as they should be._ seeing it is my fortune, gracious ladies, that i must give beginning to this dayes discoursing, by some such novel which i thinke expedient; as duty bindeth me, i am therewith well contented. and because the deceits of women to men, have beene at large and liberally related; i will tell you a subtile tricke of a man to a woman. not that i blame him for the deede, or thinke the deceyte not well fitted to the woman: but i speake it in a contrarie nature, as commending the man, and condemning the woman very justly, as also to shew, how men can as well beguile those crafty companions, which least beleeve any such cunning in them, as they that stand most on their artificiall skill. howbeit, to speake more properly, the matter by me to be reported, deserveth not the reproachfull title of deceite, but rather of a recompence duly returned: because women ought to be chaste and honest, & to preserve their honour as their lives, without yeelding to the contamination thereof, for any occasion whatsoever. and yet (neverthelesse, in regard of our frailty) many times we proove not so constant as we should be: yet i am of opinion, that she which selleth her honestie for money, deserveth justly to be burned. whereas on the contrary, she that falleth into the offence, onely through intire affection (the powerfull lawes of love beeing above all resistance) in equity meriteth pardon, especially of a judge not over-rigorous: as not long since wee heard from _philostratus_, in revealing what hapned to madam _phillippa de prato_, upon the dangerous edict. understand then, my most worthy auditors, that there lived sometime in _millaine_ an _almaigne_ soldiour, named _gulfardo_, of commendable carriage in his person, and very faithfull to such as he served, a matter not common among the _almaignes_. and because he made just repayment, to every one which lent him monies; he grew to such especiall credit, and was so familiar with the very best marchants; as (manie times) he could not be so ready to borrow, as they were willing alwaies to lend him. he thus continuing in the cittie of _millaine_, fastened his affection on a verie beautifull gentlewoman, named mistresse _ambrosia_, wife unto a rich merchant, who was called signior _gasparuolo sagastraccio_, who had good knowledge of him, and respectively used him. loving this gentlewoman with great discretion, without the least apprehension of her husband: he sent upon a day to entreate conference with her, for enjoying the fruition of her love, and she should find him ready to fulfill whatsoever she pleased to command him, as, at any time he would make good his promise. the gentlewoman, after divers of these private solicitings, resolutely answered, that she was as ready to fulfill the request of _gulfardo_, provided, that two especiall considerations might ensue thereon. first, the faithfull concealing thereof from any person living. next, because she knew him to be rich, and she had occasion to use two hundred crowns, about businesse of important consequence: he should freely bestow so many on her, and (ever after) she was to be commanded by him. _gulfardo_ perceiving the covetousnesse of this woman, who (notwithstanding his doting affection) he thought to be intirely honest to her husband: became so deepely offended at her vile answere, that his fervent love converted into as earnest loathing her; determining constantlie to deceive her, and to make her avaritious motion, the only means whereby to effect it. he sent her word, that he was willing to performe her request, or any farre greater matter for her: in which respect, he onely desired for to know, when she would be pleased to have him come see her, and to receive the money of him? no creature hee acquainted with his setled purpose, but onely a deere friend and kinde companion, who alwayes used to keepe him company, in the neerest occasions that concerned him. the gentlewoman, or rather most disloyall wife, uppon this answer sent her, was extraordinarily jocond and contented, returning him a secret letter, wherein she signified: that _gasparuolo_ her husband, had important affaires which called him to _geneway_: but he should understand of his departure, and then (with safety) he might come see her, as also his bringing of the crownes. in the meane while, _gulfardo_ having determined what he would do, watched a convenient time, when he went unto _gasparuolo_, and sayde: sir, i have some businesse of maine importance, and shall neede to use but two hundred crownes onely: i desire you to lend me so many crownes, upon such profite as you were wont to take of mee, at other times when i have made use of you, and i shall not faile you at my day. _gasparuolo_ was well contented with the motion, and made no more adoe, but counted downe the crownes: departing thence (within few dayes after) for _geneway_, according** to his wives former message; she giving _gulfardo_ also intelligence of his absence, that now (with safety) hee might come see her, and bring the two hundred crownes with him. _gulfardo_, taking his friend in his company, went to visite mistresse _ambrosia_, whom he found in expectation of his arrivall, and the first thing he did, he counted downe the two hundred crownes; and delivering them to her in the presence of his friend, saide: mistresse _ambrosia_, receive these two hundred crownes, which i desire you to pay unto your husband on my behalfe, when he is returned from _geneway. ambrosia_, receyved the two hundred crownes, not regarding wherefore _gulfardo_ used these words: because shee verily beleeved, that hee spake in such manner, because his friend should take no notice, of his giving them to her, upon any covenant passed betweene them; whereuppon, she sayde. sir, i will pay them to my husband for you; and cause him to give you a sufficient discharge: but first i will count them over my selfe, to see whether the summe be just, or no. and having drawne them over upon the table, the summe containing truly two hundred crownes (wherewith she was most highly contented) she lockt them safe uppe in her cuppe-boord, and _gulfardoes_ friend being gone (as formerly it was compacted betweene them) shee came to converse more familiarly with him, having provided a banquet for him. what passed between them afterward, both then, and oftentimes beside, before her husbande returned home, is a matter out of my element, and rather requires my ignorance then knowledge. when _gasparuolo_ was come from _geneway, gulfardo_ observing a convenient time, when he was sitting at the doore with his wife; tooke his friend with him, and comming to _gasparuolo_, said. worthy sir, the two hundred crownes which you lent me, before your journy to _geneway_, in regard they could not serve my turne, to compasse the businesse for which i borrowed them: within a day or two after, in the presence of this gentleman my friend, i made repayment of them to your wife, and therefore i pray you crosse me out of your booke. _gasparuolo_ turning to his wife, demanded; whether it was so, or no? she beholding the witnesse standing by, who was also present at her receyving them: durst not make deniall, but thus answered. indeede husband, i received two hundred crownes of the gentleman, and never remembred, to acquaint you therewith since your comming home: but hereafter i will be made no more your receiver, except i carried a quicker memory. then saide _gasparuolo_: signior _gulfardo_, i finde you alwaies a most honest gentleman, and will be readie at any time, to doe you the like, or a farre greater kindnesse; depart at your pleasure, and feare not the crossing of my booke. so _gulfardo_ went away merrily contented, and _ambrosia_ was served as she justly merited; she paying the price of her owne leudnesse to her husband, which she had a more covetous intent to keepe, questionlesse, not caring how many like lustfull matches shee coulde make, to be so liberally rewarded, if this had succeeded to her minde: whereas he shewed himselfe wise and discreete, in paying nothing for his pleasure, and requiting a covetous queane in her kinde. _a lustie youthfull priest of_ varlungo, _fell in love with a pretty woman, named_ monna belcolore. _to compasse his amorous desire, hee lefte his cloake (as a pledge of further payment) with her. by a subtile sleight afterward, he made meanes to borrow a morter of her, which when hee sent home againe in the presence of her husband; he demaunded to have his cloake sent him, as having left it in pawne for the morter. to pacifie her husband, offended that shee did not lend the priest the morter without a pawne: she sent him backe his cloake againe, albeit greatly against her will._ the second novell. _approving, that no promise is to be kept with such women as will make sale of their honesty for coyne. a warning also for men, not to suffer priests to be over familiar with their wives._ both the gentlemen and ladies gave equall commendations, of _gulfardoes_ queint beguiling the _millaine_ gentlewoman _ambrosia_, and wishing all other (of her minde) might alwaies be so served. then the queene, smiling on _pamphilus_, commaunded him to follow next: whereupon, thus he began. i can tell you (faire ladies) a short novell, against such as are continually offensive to us, yet we being no way able to offend him; at least, in the same manner as they do injurie us. and for your better understanding what and who they be, they are our lusty priests, who advance their standard, and make their publike predications against our wives, winning such advantage over them, that they can pardon them both of the sinne and punishment, whensoever they are once subjected unto theyr perswasions, even as if they brought the soldane bound and captived, from _alexandria_ to _avignon_. which imperious power, we (poore soules) cannot exercise on them, considering, we have neither heart nor courage, to do our devoire in just revenge on their mothers, sisters, daughters, and friends, with the like spirit as they rise in armes against our wives. and therefore, i meant to tell you a tale of a country mans wife, more to make you laugh at the conclusion thereof; then for any singularity of words or matter: yet this benefite you may gaine thereby, of an apparant proofe that such sinamon, amorous and perswading priests, are not alwayes to be credited on their words or promises. let me then tell you, that at _varlungo_, which you know to bee not farre distant hence, there dwelt an youthfull priest, lustie, gallant, and proper of person (especially for womens service) commonly called by the name of sweet sir _simon_. now, albeit he was a man of slender reading, yet notwithstanding, he had store of latine sentences by heart; some true, but twice so many maimed and false, saint-like shewes, holy speeches, and ghostly admonitions, which hee would preach under an oake in the fields, when he had congregated his parishioners together. when women lay in childe-bed, hee was their daily comfortable visitant, and would man them from their houses, when they had any occasion to walke abroad: carrying alwaies a bottle of holy water about him, wherewith he would sprinkle them by the way, peeces of hallowed candles, and chrisome cakes, which pleased women extraordinarily, and all the country affoorded not such another frolicke priest, as this our nimble and active sweet sir _simon_. among many other of his feminine parishioners, all of them being hansome and comely women: yet there was one more pleasing in his wanton eye, then any of the rest, named _monna belcolore_, and wife to a plaine mecanicke man, called _bentivegna del mazzo_. and, to speake uprightly, few countrey villages yeelded a woman, more fresh and lovely of complexion, although not admirable for beauty, yet sweete sir _simon_ thought her a saint, and faine would be offering at her shrine. divers prety pleasing qualities she had, as sounding the cymball, playing artificially on the timbrill, and singing thereto as it had beene a nightingale, dancing also so dexteriously, as happy was the man that could dance in her company. all which so enflamed sweet sir _simon_, that he lost his wonted sprightly behaviour, walked sullen, sad and melancholly, as if he had melted all his mettall, because hee could hardly have a sight of her. but on the sonday morning, when hee heard or knew that she was in the church, hee would tickle it with a _kyrie_ and a _sanctus_, even as if hee contended to shewe his singular skill in singing, when it had beene as good to heare an asse bray. whereas on the contrary, when she came not to church, masse, and all else were quicklie shaken uppe, as if his devotion waited onely on her presence. yet he was so cunning in the carriage of his amorous businesse, both for her credite and his owne; as _bentivegna_ her husband could not perceive it, or any neighbour so much as suspect it. but, to compasse more familiar acquaintance with _belcolore_, hee sent her sundry gifts and presents, day by day, as sometime a bunch of dainty greene garlicke, whereof he had plenty growing in his garden, which he manured with his owne hands, and better then all the countrey yeelded; otherwhiles a small basket of pease or beanes, and onyons or scallions, as the season served. but when he could come in place where she was; then he darted amourous wincks and glances at her, with becks, nods, and blushes, loves private ambassadours, which shee (being but countrey-bred) seeming by outward appearance, not to see, retorted disdainefully, and forthwith would absent her selfe, so that sweet sir _simon_ laboured still in vaine, and could not compasse what he coveted. it came to passe within a while after, that on a time, (about high noone) sir _simon_ being walking abroad, chanced to meete with _bentivegna_, driving an asse before him, laden with divers commodities, and demaunding of him, whither he went, _bentivegna_, thus answered. in troth sir _simon_, i am going to the city, about some especiall businesse of mine owne, and i carry these things to signior _bonacorci da cinestreto_, because he should helpe me before the judge, when i shall be called in question concerning my patrimony. sir _simon_ looking merrily on him, said. thou doest well _bentivegna_, to make a friend sure before thou need him; goe, take my blessing with thee, and returne againe with good successe. but if thou meet with _laguccio_, or _naldino_, forget not to tell them, that they must bring me my shooe-tyes before sunday. _bentivegna_ said, hee would discharge his errand, and so parted from him, driving his asse on towards _florence_. now began sir _simon_ to shrug, and scratch his head, thinking this to be a fit convenient time, for him to goe visite _belcolore_, and to make triall of his fortune: wherefore, setting aside all other businesse, he stayed no where till he came to the house, whereinto being entred, he saide: all happinesse be to them that dwell heere. _belcolore_ being then above in the chamber, when she heard his tongue, replyed. sweet sir _simon_! you are heartely welcome, whether are you walking, if the question may bee demaunded? beleeve me dainty ducke, answered sir _simon_, i am come to sit a while with thee, because i met thy husband going to the citie. by this time, _belcolore_ was descended downe the stayres, and having once againe given welcome to sir _simon_, she sate downe by him, cleansing of colewort seeds from such other course chaffe, which her husband had prepared before his departure. sir _simon_ hugging her in his armes, and fetching a vehement sigh, said. my _belcolore_, how long shall i pine and languish for thy love? how now sir _simon_? answered she, is this behaviour fitting for an holy man? holy-men _belcolore_, (quoth sir _simon_) are made of the same matter as others be, they have the same affections, and therefore subject to their infirmities. santa maria, answered _belcolore_, dare priests doe such things as you talke of? yes _belcolore_ (quoth he) and much better then other men can, because they are made for the very best businesse, in which regard they are restrained from marriage. true (quoth _belcolore_) but much more from medling with other mens wives. touch not that text _belcolore_, replyed sir _simon_, it is somewhat above your capacity: talke of that i come for, namely thy love, my ducke, and my dove. sir _simon_ is thine, i pray thee be mine. _belcolore_ observing his smirking behaviour, his proper person, pretty talke, and queint insinuating; felt a motion to female frailty, which yet she would withstand so long as she could, and not be over-hasty in her yeelding. sir _simon_ promiseth her a new paire of shoes, garters, ribbands, girdles, or what else she would request. sir _simon_ (quoth she) all these things which you talke of, are fit for women: but if your love to mee be such as you make choice of, fulfill what i will motion to you, and then (perhaps) i shall tell you more. sir _simons_ heate made him hasty to promise whatsoever she would desire; whereupon, thus shee replyed. on saturday, said she, i must goe to _florence_, to carry home such yarne as was sent me to spinne, and to amend my spinning wheele: if you will lend mee ten florines, wherewith i know you are alwayes furnished, i shall redeeme from the usurer my best petticote,** and my wedding gowne (both well neere lost for lacke of repaiment) without which i cannot be seene at church, or in any other good place else, and then afterward other matters may be accomplished. alas sweet _belcolore_ answered sir _simon_, i never beare any such sum about me, for men of our profession, doe seldome carry any money at all: but beleeve me on my word, before saturday come, i will not faile to bring them hither. oh sir (quoth _belcolore_) you men are quicke promisers, but slow performers. doe you thinke to use me, as poore _billezza_ was, who trusted to as faire words, and found her selfe deceived? now sir _simon_, her example in being made scandall to the world, is a sufficient warning for me: if you be not so provided, goe and make use of your friend, for i am not otherwise to be moved. nay _belcolore_ (quoth he) i hope you will not serve me so, but my word shall be of better worth with you. consider the conveniency of time, wee being so privately here alone: whereas at my returning hither againe, some hinderance may thwart me, and the like opportunity be never obtained. sir, sir, (said she) you have heard my resolution; if you will fetche the florines, doe; otherwise, walke about your businesse, for i am a woman of my word. sir _simon_ perceiving, that she would not trust him upon bare words, nor any thing was to be done, without _salvum me fac_, whereas his meaning was _sine custodia_; thus answered. well _belcolore_, seeing you dare not credit my bringing the tenne florines, according to my promised day: i will leave you a good pawne, my very best cloake, lyned quite thorough with rich silke, and made up in the choysest manner. _belcolore_ looking on the cloake, said. how much may this cloake bee worth? how much? quoth sir _simon_, upon my word _belcolore_, it is of a right fine flanders serdge, and not above eight dayes since, i bought it thus (ready made) of _lotto_ the fripperer, and payed for it sixe and twenty florines, a pledge then sufficient for your ten. is it possible, said shee, that it should cost so much? well, sir _simon_, deliver it me first, i will lay it up safe for you against saturday, when if you fetch it not; i will redeeme mine owne things with it, and leave you to release it your selfe. the cloake is laid up by _belcolore_, and sir _simon_ so forward in his affection; that (in briefe) he enjoyed what hee came for; and departed afterward in his light tripping cassocke, but yet thorow by-lanes, and no much frequented places, smelling on a nosegay, as if hee had beene at some wedding in the countrey, and went thus lightly without his cloake, for his better ease. as commonly after actions of evill, repentance knocketh at the doore of conscience, and urgeth a guilty remembrance, with some sence of sorrow: so was it now with sweet sir _simon_, who survaying over all his vailes of offering candles, the validity of his yearely benefits, and all comming nothing neere the summe of (scarce halfe) sixe and twenty florines; he began to repent his deed of darkenesse, although it was acted in the day-time, and considered with himselfe, by what honest (yet unsuspected meanes) hee might recover his cloake againe, before it went to the broaker, in redemption of _belcolores_ pawned apparrell, and yet to send her no florines neither. having a cunning reaching wit, especially in matters for his owne advantage, and pretending to have a dinner at his lodging, for a few of some invited friends: he made use of a neighbours boy, sending him to the house of _belcolore_, with request of lending him her stone morter, to make greene-sawce in for his guests, because hee had meate required such sawce. _belcolore_ suspecting no treachery, sent him the stone morter with the pestell, and about dinner time, when he knew _bentivegna_ to bee at home with his wife, by a spye which was set for the purpose; hee called the clearke (usually attending on him) and said. take this morter and pestell, beare them home to _belcolore_, and tell her: sir _simon_ sends them home with thankes, they having sufficiently served his turne, and desire her likewise, to send me my cloake, which the boy left as a pledge for better remembrance, and because she would not lend it without a pawne. the clearke comming to the house of _belcolore_, found her sitting at dinner with her husband, and delivering her the pestell and morter, performed the rest of sir _simons_ message. _belcolore_ hearing the cloake demaunded, stept up to make answere: but _bentivegna_, seeming (by his lookes) to be much offended, roughly replyed. why how now wife? is not sir _simon_ our especiall friend, and cannot be be pleasured without a pawne? i protest upon my word, i could find in my heart to smite thee for it. rise quickely thou wert best, and send him backe his cloake; with this warning hereafter, that whatsoever he will have, be it your poore asse, or any thing else being ours, let him have it: and tell him (master clearke) he may command it. _belcolore_ rose grumbling from the table, and fetching the cloake forth of the chest, which stood neere at hand in the same roome; shee delivered it to the clearke, saying. tell sir _simon_ from me, and boldly say you heard me speake it: that i made a vow to my selfe, he shall never make use of my morter hereafter, to beat any more of his sawcinesse in, let my husband say whatsoever he will, i speake the word, and will performe it. away went the clearke home with the cloake, and told sir _simon_ what she had said, whereto he replyed. if i must make use of her morter no more; i will not trust her with the keeping of my cloake, for feare it goe to gage indeed. _bentivegna_ was a little displeased at his wives words, because hee thought she spake but in jest; albeit _belcolore_ was so angry with sir _simon_, that she would not speake to him till vintage time following. but then sir _simon_, what by sharpe threatenings of her soule to be in danger of hell fire, continuing so long in hatred of a holy priest, which words did not a little terrifie her; besides daily presents to her, of sweet new wines, roasted chesse-nuts, figges and almonds: all unkindnesse became converted to former familiarity; the garments were redeemed; he gave her sonnets which she would sweetly sing to her cimbale, and further friendship increased betweene her and sweet sir _simon._ calandrino, bruno, _and_ buffalmaco, _all of them being painters by profession, travelled to the plaine of_ mugnone, _to finde the precious stone called_ helitropium. calandrino _perswaded himselfe to have found it; returned home to his house heavily loaden with stones. his wife rebuking him for his absence, hee groweth into anger, and shrewdly beateth her. afterward, when the case is debated among his other friends_ bruno _and_ buffalmaco, _all is found to be meere foolery._ the third novell. _justly reprehending the simplicity of such men, as are too much addicted to credulitie, and will give credit to every thing they heare._ _pamphilus_ having ended his novell, whereat the ladies laughed exceedingly, so that very hardly they could give over: the queene gave charge to madame _eliza_, that shee should next succeed in order; when, being scarcely able to refraine from smyling, thus she began. i know not (gracious ladies) whether i can move you to as hearty laughter, with a briefe novell of mine owne, as _pamphilus_ lately did with his: yet i dare assure you, that it is both true and pleasant, and i will relate it in the best manner i can. in our owne citie, which evermore hath contained all sorts of people, not long since there dwelt, a painter, named _calandrino_, a simple man; yet as much addicted** to matters of novelty, as any man whatsoever could be. the most part of his time, he spent in the company of two other painters, the one called _bruno_, and the other _buffalmaco_, men of very recreative spirits, and of indifferent good capacity; often resorting to the said _calandrino_, because they tooke delight in his honest simplicity, and pleasant order of behaviour. at the same time likewise, there dwelt in _florence_, a yong gentleman of singular disposition, to every generous and witty conceite, as the world did not yeeld a more pleasant companion, he being named _maso del saggio_, who having heard somwhat of _calandrinos_ sillinesse: determined to jest with him in merry manner, and to suggest his longing humours after novelties, with some conceit of extraordinary nature. he happening (on a day) to meete him in the church of saint _john_, and seeing him seriously busied, in beholding the rare pictures, and the curious carved tabernacle, which (not long before) was placed on the high altar in the said church: considered with himselfe, that he had now fit place and opportunity, to effect what hee had long time desired. and having imparted his minde to a very intimate friend, how he intended to deale with simple _calandrino_: they went both very neere him, where he sate all alone, and making shew as if they saw him not; began to consult between themselves, concerning the rare properties of precious stones; whereof _maso_ discoursed as exactly, as he had beene a most skilfull lapidarie; to which conference of theirs, _calandrino_ lent an attentive eare, in regard it was matter of singular rarity. soone after, _calandrino_ started up, and perceiving by their loude speaking, that they talked of nothing which required secret counsell: he went into their company (the onely thing which _maso_ desired) and holding on still the former argument; _calandrino_ would needs request to know, in what place these precious stones were to be found, which had such excellent vertues in them? _maso_ made answere, that the most of them were to be had in _berlinzona_, neere to the city of _bascha_, which was in the territory of a countrey, called _bengodi_, where the vines were bound about with sawcidges, a goose was sold for a penny, and the goslings freely given in to boote. there was also an high mountaine, wholly made of _parmezane_, grated cheese, whereon dwelt people, who did nothing else but make _mocharones_ and _raviuolies_, boiling them with broth of capons, and afterward hurled them all about, to whosoever can or will catch them. neere to this mountaine runneth a faire river, the whole streame being pure white bastard, none such was ever sold for any money, and without one drop of water in it. now trust me sir, (said _calandrino_) that is an excellent countrey to dwell in: but i pray you tell me sir, what doe they with the capons after they have boyld them? the _baschanes_ (quoth _maso_) eate them all. have you sir, said _calandrino_, at any time beene in that countrey? how? answered _maso_, doe you demaund if i have beene there? yes man, above a thousand times, at the least. how farre sir, i pray you (quoth _calandrino_) is that worthy countrey, from this our city? in troth replyed _maso_, the miles are hardly to be numbred, for the most part of them we travell when we are nightly in our beddes, and if a man dreame right; he may be there upon a sudden. surely sir, said _calandrino_, it is further hence, then to _abruzzi_? yes questionlesse, replyed _maso_; but, to a willing minde, no travell seemeth tedious. _calandrino_ well noting, that _maso_ delivered all these speeches, with a stedfast countenance, no signe of smyling, or any gesture to urge the least mislike: he gave such credit to them, as to any matter of apparent and manifest truth, and upon this assured confidence, he said. beleeve me sir, the journey is over-farre for mee to undertake, but if it were neerer; i could affoord to goe in your company; onely to see how they make these _macherones_, and to fill my belly with them. but now wee are in talke sir, i pray you pardon mee to aske, whether any such precious stones, as you spake off, are to be found in that countrey, or no? yes indeed, replyed _maso_, there are two kinds of them to be found in those territories, both being of very great vertue. one kind, are gritty stones, of _settignano_, and of _montisca_, by vertue of which places, when any mill-stones or grind-stones are to bee made, they knede the sand as they use to doe meale, and so make them of what bignesse they please. in which respect, they have have a common saying there: that nature maketh common stones, but _montisca_ mill-stones. such plenty are there of these mill-stones, so slenderly here esteemed among us, as emeralds are with them, whereof they have whole mountaines, farre greater then our _montemorello_, which shine most gloriously at midnight. and how meanly soever we account of their mill-stones; yet there they drill them, and enchase them in rings, which afterward they send to the great soldane, and have whatsoever they will demaund for them. the other kinde is a most precious stone indeede, which our best lapidaries call the _helitropium_, the vertue whereof is so admirable; as whosoever beareth it about him, so long as he keepeth it, it is impossible for any eye to discerne him, because he walketh meerely invisible. o lord sir (quoth _calandrino_) these stones are of rare vertue indeede: but where else may a man finde that _helitropium_? whereto _maso_ thus answered: that countrey onely doth not containe the _helitropium_; for they be many times found upon our plaine of _mugnone_. of what bignesse sir (quoth _calandrino_) is the stone, and what coulour? the _helitropium_, answered _maso_, is not alwayes of one quality, because some are bigge, and others lesse; but all are of one coulour, namely blacke. _calandrino_ committing all these things to respective memory, and pretending to be called thence by some other especiall affaires; departed from _maso_, concluding resolvedly with himselfe, to finde this precious stone, if possibly hee could: yet intending to doe nothing, untill hee had acquainted _bruno_ and _buffalmaco_ therewith, whom he loved dearly: he went in all hast to seeke them; because, (without any longer trifling the time) they three might bee the first men, that should find out this precious stone, spending almost the whole morning, before they were all three met together. for they were painting at the monastery of the sisters of _faenza_, where they had very serious imployment, and followed their businesse diligently: where having found them, and saluting them in such kinde manner, as continually he used to doe, thus he began. loving friends, if you were pleased to follow mine advise, wee three will quickely be the richest men in _florence_; because, by information from a gentleman (well deserving to be credited) on the plaine of _mugnone_: there is a precious stone to be found, which whosoever carrieth it about him, walketh invisible, and is not to be seene by any one. let us three be the first men to goe and finde it, before any other heare thereof, and goe about it, and assure our selves that we shall finde it, for i know it (by discription) so soone as i see it. and when wee have it, who can hinder us from bearing it about us. then will we goe to the tables of our bankers, or money changers, which we see daily charged with plenty of gold and silver, where we may take so much as wee list, for they (nor any) are able to descrie us. so, (in short time) shall wee all be wealthy, never needing to drudge any more, or paint muddy walles, as hitherto we have done; and, as many of our poore profession are forced to doe. _bruno_ and _buffalmaco_ hearing this, began to smile, and looking merrily each on other, they seemed to wonder thereat, and greatly commended the counsell of _calandrino. buffalmaco_ demaunding how the stone was named. now it fortuned, that _calandrino_ (who had but a grosse and blockish memory) had quite forgot the name of the stone, and therefore said. what neede have wee of the name, when we know, and are assured of the stones vertue? let us make no more adoe, but (setting aside all other businesse) goe seeke where it is to be found. well my friend (answered _bruno_) you say wee may find it, but how, and by what meanes? there are two sorts of them (quoth _calandrino_) some bigge, others smaller, but all carry a blacke colour: therefore (in mine opinion) let us gather all such stones as are blacke, so shall we be sure to finde it among them, without any further losse of time. _buffalmaco_ and _bruno_, liked and allowed the counsell of _calandrino_, which when they had (by severall commendations) given him assurance of, _bruno_ saide. i doe not thinke it a convenient time now, for us to go about so weighty a businesse: for the sun is yet in the highest degree, and striketh such a heate on the plaine of _mugnone_, as all the stones are extreamly dryed, and the very blackest will nowe seeme whitest. but in the morning, after the dew is falne, and before the sunne shineth forth, every stone retaineth his true colour. moreover, there be many labourers now working on the plaine, about such businesse as they are severally assigned, who seeing us in so serious a search:** may imagine what we seeke for, & partake with us in the same inquisition, by which meanes they may chance to speed before us, and so wee may lose both our trot and amble. wherefore, by my consent, if your opinion jumpe with mine, this is an enterprise onely to be perfourmed in an early morning, when the blacke stones are to be distinguisht from the white, and a festivall day were the best of all other, for then there will be none to discover us. _buffalmaco_ applauded the advice of _bruno_, and _calandrino_ did no lesse, concluding all together; that sunday morning (next ensuing) should be the time, and then they all three would go seeke the stone. but _calandrino_ was verie earnest with them, that they shold not reveale it to any living body, because it was tolde him as an especiall secret: disclosing further to them, what hee had heard concerning the countrey of _bengodi_, maintaining (with solemn oaths and protestations) that every part thereof was true. uppon this agreement, they parted from _calandrino_, who hardly enjoyed anie rest at all, either by night or day, so greedie he was to bee possessed of the stone. on the sonday morning, hee called up his companions before breake of day, and going forth at s. _galls_ port, they stayed not, till they came to the plaine of _mugnone_, where they searched all about to finde this strange stone. _calandrino_ went stealing before the other two, and verilie perswaded himselfe, that he was borne to finde the _helitropium_, and looking on every side about him, hee rejected all other stones but the blacke, whereof first he filled his bosome, and afterwards, both his pockets. then he tooke off his large painting apron, which he fastened with his girdle in the manner of a sacke, and that he filled full of stones likewise. yet not so satisfied, he spred abroad his cloake, which being also full of stones, hee bound it up carefully, for feare of loosing the very least of them. all which _buffalmaco_ and _bruno_ well observing (the day growing on, and hardly they could reach home by dinner time) according as merrily they had concluded, and pretending not to see _calandrino_, albeit he was not farre from them: what is become of _calandrino_? saide _buffalmaco. bruno_ gazing strangely every where about him, as if hee were desirous to finde him, replyed. i saw him not long since, for then he was hard by before us; questionlesse, he hath given us the slippe, is privilie gone home to dinner, and making starke fooles of us, hath lefte us to picke up blacke stones, upon the parching plaines of _mugnone_. well (quoth _buffalmaco_) this is but the tricke of an hollow-hearted friend, and not such as he protested himselfe to be, to us. could any but wee have bin so sottish, to credit his frivolous perswasions, hoping to finde any stones of such vertue, and here on the fruitlesse plains of _mugnone_? no, no, none but we would have beleeved him. _calandrino_ (who was close by them) hearing these wordes, and seeing the whole manner of their wondering behaviour: became constantly perswaded, that hee had not onely founde the precious stone; but also had some store of them about him, by reason he was so neere to them, and yet they could not see him, therefore he walked before them. now was his joy beyond all compasse of expression, and being exceedingly proud of so happy an adventure: did not meane to speake one word to them, but (heavily laden as hee was) to steale home faire and softly before them, which indeede he did, leaving them to follow after, if they would. _bruno_ perceiving his intent, said to _buffalmaco_: what remaineth now for us to doe? why should not we go home, as well as hee? and reason too, replyed _bruno_, it is in vaine to tarry any longer heere: but i solemnly protest, _calandrino_ shall no more make an asse of me: and were i now as neere him, as not long since i was, i would give him such a remembrance on the heele with this flint stone, as should sticke by him this moneth, to teach him a lesson for abusing his friends. hee threw the stone, and hit him shrewdly on the heele therewith; but all was one to _calandrino_, whatsoever they saide, or did, as thus they still followed after him. and although the blow of the stone was painfull to him; yet he mended his pace so wel as he was able, in regard of beeing over-loaden with stones, and gave them not one word all the way, because he tooke himselfe to bee invisible, and utterly unseene of them. _buffalmaco_ taking uppe another flint-stone, which was indifferent heavie and sharp, said to _bruno_. seest thou this flint? casting it from him, he smote _calandrino_ just in the backe therewith, saying. oh that _calandrino_ had bin so neere, as i might have hit him on the backe with the stone. and thus all the way on the plaine of _mugnone_, they did nothing else but pelt him with stones, even so farre as the port of s. _gall_, where they threwe downe what other stones they had gathered, meaning not to molest him any more, because they had done enough already. there they stept before him unto the port, and acquainted the warders with the whole matter, who laughing heartily at the jest, the better to upholde it; would seeme not to see _calandrino_ in his passage by them, but suffered him to go on, sore wearied with his burthen, and sweating extreamly. without resting himselfe in any place, he came home to his house, which was neere to the corner of the milles, fortune being so favourable to him in the course of this mockery, that as he passed along the rivers side, and afterward through part of the city; he was neither met nor seen by any, in regard they were all in their houses at dinner. _calandrino_, every minute ready to sinke under his weightie burthen, entred into his owne house, where (by great ill luck) his wife, being a comely and very honest woman, and named _monna trista_, was standing aloft on the stayres head. she being somewhat angry for his so long absence, and seeing him come in grunting and groaning, frowningly said. i thought that the divell would never let thee come home, all the whole citie have dined, and yet wee must remaine without our dinner. when _calandrino_ heard this, & perceived that he was not invisible to his wife: full of rage and wroth, hee began to raile, saying. ah thou wicked woman, where art thou? thou hast utterly undone me: but (as i live) i will pay thee soundly for it. up the staires he ascended into a small parlour, where when he hadde spred all his burthen of stones on the floore: he ran to his wife, catching her by the haire of the head, and throwing her at his feete; giving her so many spurns and cruel blowes, as shee was not able to moove either armes or legges, notwithstanding all her teares, and humble submission. now _buffalmaco_ and _bruno_, after they had spent an indifferent while, with the warders at the port in laughter; in a faire & gentle pace, they followed _calandrino_ home to his house, and being come to the doore, they heard the harsh bickering betweene him and his wife, and seeming as if they were but newly arrived, they called out alowd to him. _calandrino_ being in a sweate, stamping and raving still at his wife: looking forth of the window, entreated them to ascend up to him, which they did, counterfetting greevous displeasure against him. being come into the roome, which they saw all covered over with stones, his wife sitting in a corner, all the haire (well-neere) torne off her head, her face broken and bleeding, and all her body cruelly beaten; on the other side, _calandrino_ standing unbraced and ungirded, strugling and wallowing, like a man quite out of breath: after a little pausing, _bruno_ thus spake. why how now _calandrino_? what may the meaning of this matter be? what, art thou preparing for building, that thou hast provided such plenty of stones? how sitteth thy poore wife? how hast thou misused her? are these the behaviours of a wise or honest man? _calandrino_, utterly over-spent with travaile, and carrying such an huge burthen of stones, as also the toylesome beating of his wife, (but much more impatient and offended, for that high good fortune, which he imagined to have lost:) could not collect his spirits together, to answer them one ready word, wherefore hee sate fretting like a mad man. whereupon, _buffalmaco_ thus began to him. _calandrino_, if thou be angry with any other, yet thou shouldest not have made such a mockery of us, as thou hast done: in leaving us (like a couple of coxcombes) to the plaine of _mugnone_, whether thou leddest us with thee, to seeke a precious stone called _helitropium_. and couldst thou steale home, never bidding us so much as farewell? how can we but take it in very evill part, that thou shouldest so abuse two honest neighbours? well, assure thy selfe, this is the last time that ever thou shalt serve us so. _calandrino_ (by this time) being somewhat better come to himselfe, with an humble protestation of courtesie, returned them this answer. alas my good friends, be not you offended, the case is farre otherwise then you immagine. poore unfortunate man that i am, i found the rare precious stone that you speake of: and marke me well, if i do not tell you the truth of all. when you asked one another (the first time) what was become of me; i was hard by you: at the most, within the distance of two yards length; and perceiving that you saw mee not, (being still so neere, and alwaies before you:) i went on, smiling to my selfe, to heare you brabble and rage against me. so, proceeding on in his discourse, he recounted every accident as it hapned, both what they had saide and did unto him, concerning the severall blowes, with the two flint-stones, the one hurting him greevously in the heele, and the other paining him as extreamly in the backe, with their speeches used then, and his laughter, notwithstanding hee felt the harme of them both, yet beeing proud that he did so invisibly beguile them. nay more (quoth he) i cannot forbeare to tell you, that when i passed thorow the port, i saw you standing with the warders; yet, by vertue of that excellent stone, undiscovered of you all. beside, going along the streets, i met many of my gossips, friends, and familiar acquaintance, such as used daylie to converse with me, and drinking together in every tavern: yet not one of them spake to me, neyther used any courtesie or salutation; which (indeede) i did the more freely forgive them, because they were not able to see me. in the end of all, when i was come home into mine owne house, this divellish and accursed woman, being aloft uppon my stayres head, by much misfortune chanced to see me; in regard (as it is not unknowne to you) that women cause all things to lose their vertue. in which respect, i that could have stild my selfe the onely happy man in _florence_, am now made most miserable. and therefore did i justly beate her, so long as she was able to stand against mee, and i know no reason to the contrary, why i should not yet teare her in a thousand peeces: for i may well curse the day of our mariage, to hinder and bereave me of such an invisible blessednesse. _buffalmaco_ and _bruno_ hearing this, made shew of verie much mervailing thereat, and many times maintained what _calandrino_ had said; being well neere ready to burst with laughter; considering, how confidently he stood upon it, that he had found the wonderfull stone, and lost it by his wives speaking onely to him. but when they saw him rise in fury once more, with intent to beat her againe: then they stept betweene them; affirming, that the woman had no way offended in this case, but rather he himself: who knowing that women cause all things to lose their vertue, had not therefore expresly commanded her, not to be seene in his presence all that day, untill he had made full proofe of the stones vertue. and questionles, the consideration of a matter so availeable and important, was quite taken from him, because such an especiall happinesse, should not belong to him only; but (in part) to his friends, whom he had acquainted therewith, drew them to the plaine with him in companie, where they tooke as much paines in search of the stone, as possibly he did, or could; and yet (dishonestly) he would deceive them, and beare it away covetously, for his owne private benefit. after many other, as wise and wholesome perswasions, which he constantly credited, because they spake them, they reconciled him to his wife, and she to him: but not without some difficulty in him; who falling into wonderfull greefe and melancholy, for losse of such an admirable precious stone, was in danger to have dyed, within lesse then a month after. _the provost belonging to the cathedrall church of_ fiesola, _fell in love with a gentlewoman, being a widdow, and named_ piccarda, _who hated him as much as he loved her. he imagining, that he lay with her: by the gentlewomans bretheren, and the byshop under whom he served, was taken in bed with her mayde, an ugly, foule, deformed slut._ the fourth novell. _wherein is declared, how love oftentimes is so powerfull in aged men, and driveth them to such doating, that it redoundeth to their great disgrace and punishment._ ladie _eliza_ having concluded her novell, not without infinite commendations of the whole company: the queen turning her lookes to madame _ã�millia_, gave her such an expresse signe, as she must needs follow next after madame _eliza_, whereupon she began in this manner. vertuous ladies, i very well remember (by divers novels formerly related) that sufficient hath beene sayde, concerning priests and religious persons, and all other carrying shaven crownes, in their luxurious appetites and desires. but because no one can at any time say so much, as thereto no more may be added: beside them alreadie spoken of, i will tel you another concerning the provost of a cathedrall church, who would needes (in despight of all the world) love a gentlewoman whether she would or no: and therefore, in due chastisement both unto his age and folly, she gave him such entertainment as he justly deserved. it is not unknowne unto you all, that the cittie of _fiesola_, the mountaine whereof we may very easily hither discerne, hath bene (in times past) a very great and most ancient city: although at this day it is well-neere all ruined: yet neverthelesse, it alwaies was, and yet is a byshops see, albeit not of the wealthiest. in the same citie, and no long while since, neere unto the cathedrall church, there dwelt a gentlewoman, being a widdow, and commonlie there stiled by the name of madame _piccarda_, whose house and inheritance was but small, wherewith yet she lived very contentedly (having no wandering eye, or wanton desires) and no company but her two brethren, gentlemen of especiall honest and gracious disposition. this gentlewoman, being yet in the flourishing condition of her time, did ordinarily resort to the cathedrall church, in holie zeale, and religious devotion; where the provost of the place, became so enamored of her, as nothing (but the sight of her) yeelded him any contentment. which fond affection of his, was forwarded with such an audacious and bold carriage, as hee dared to acquaint her with his love, requiring her enterchange of affection, and the like opinion of him, as he had of her. true it is, that he was very farre entred into yeares, but yong and lustie in his own proud conceite, presuming strangely beyond his capacity, and thinking as well of his abilitie, as the youthfullest gallant in the world could doe. whereas (in verie deede) his person was utterly displeasing, his behaviour immodest and scandalous, and his usuall language, favouring of such sensualitie, as, very fewe or none cared for his company. and if any woman seemed respective of him, it was in regard of his outside and profession, and more for feare, then the least affection, and alwayes as welcome to them, as the head-ake. his fond and foolish carriage still continuing to this gentlewoman; she being wise and vertuously advised, spake thus unto him. holy sir, if you love me according as you protest, & manifest by your outward behaviour: i am the more to thanke you for it, being bound in dutie to love you likewise. but if your love have any harshe or unsavourie taste, which mine is no way able to endure, neyther dare entertaine in anie kinde whatsoever: you must and shall hold mee excused, because i am made of no such temper. you are my ghostly and spirituall father, an holy priest. moreover, yeares have made you honorably aged; all which severall weighty considerations, ought to confirme you in continency & chastity. remember withall (good sir) that i am but a child to you in years, & were i bent to any wanton appetites, you shold justly correct me by fatherly counsell, such as most beautifieth your sacred profession. beside, i am a widdow, and you are not ignorant, how requisite a thing honestie is in widdowes. wherefore, pardon mee (holy father:) for, in such manner as you make the motion: i desire you not to love mee, because i neither can or will at any time so affect you. the provoste gaining no other grace at this time, would not so give over for this first repulse, but pursuing her still with unbeseeming importunity; many private meanes he used to her by letters, tokens, and insinuating ambassages; yea, whensoever shee came to the church, he never ceased his wearisome solicitings. whereat she growing greatly offended, and perceyving no likelyhood of his desisting; became so tyred with his tedious suite, that she considered with her selfe, how she might dispatch him as he deserved, because she saw no other remedy. yet shee would not attempte anie thing in this case, without acquainting her bretheren first therewith. and having tolde them, how much shee was importuned by the provost, and also what course she meant to take (wherein they both counselled and encouraged her:) within a few daies after, shee went to church as she was wont to do; where so soone as the provost espyed her: forthwith he came to her, and according to his continued course, he fell into his amorous courting. she looking upon him with a smiling countenance, and walking aside with him out of any hearing: after he had spent many impertinent speeches, shee (venting foorth manie a vehement sighe) at length returned him this answer. reverend father, i have often heard it saide: that there is not any fort or castle, how strongly munited soever it bee; but by continuall assayling, at length (of necessity) it must and will be surprized. which comparison, i may full well allude to my selfe. for, you having so long time solicited me, one while with affable language, then againe with tokens and entisements, of such prevailing power: as have broken the verie barricado of my former deliberation, and yeelded mee uppe as your prisoner, to be commanded at your pleasure, for now i am onely devoted yours. well may you (gentle ladies) imagine, that this answere was not a little welcome to the provost; who, shrugging with conceyte of joy, presently thus replyed. i thanke you madame _piccarda_, and to tell you true, i held it almost as a miracle, that you could stand upon such long resistance, considering, it never so fortuned to mee with anie other. and i have many times saide to my selfe, that if women were made of silver, they hardly could be worth a pennie, because there can scarsely one be found of so good allay, as to endure the test and essay. but let us breake off this frivolous conference, and resolve upon a conclusion; how, when and where we may safely meete together. worthy sir, answered _piccarda_, your selfe may appoint the time whensoever you please, because i have no husband, to whom i should render any account of my absence, or presence: but i am not provided of any place. a pretty while the provoste stood musing, and at last saide. a place madame? where can be more privacie, then in your owne house? alas sir (quoth she) you know that i have two gentlemen my brethren who continually are with me, & other of their friends beside: my house also is not great, wherefore it is impossible to be there, except you could be like a dumbe man, without speaking one word, or making the very least noyse; beside, to remaine in darkenesse, as if you were blinde, and who can be able to endure all these? and yet (without these) there is no adventuring, albeit they never come into my chamber: but their lodging is so close to mine, as there cannot any word be spoken, be it never so low or in whispering manner, but they heare it very easily. madame said the provoste, for one or two nights, i can make hard shift. why sir (quoth she) the matter onely remaineth in you, for if you be silent and suffering, as already you have heard, there is no feare at all of safty. let me alone madame, replyed the provoste, i will bee governed by your directions: but, in any case, let us begin this night. with all my heart, saide shee. so appointing him how and when hee should come; hee parted from her, and shee returned home to her house. heere i am to tell you, that this gentlewoman had a servant, in the nature of an old maide, not indued with any well featured face, but instead thereof, she had the ugliest and most counterfeit countenance, as hardly could be seene a worse. she had a wrie mouth, huge great lippes, foule teeth, great and blacke, a monstrous stinking breath, her eyes bleared, and alwayes running, the complexion of her face betweene greene and yellow, as if shee had not spent the summer season in the citie, but in the parching countrey under a hedge; and beside all these excellent parts, shee was crooke backt, poult footed, and went like a lame mare in fetters. her name was _ciuta_, but in regard of her flat nose, lying as low as a beagles, shee was called _ciutazza_. now, notwithstanding all this deformity in her, yet she had a singuler opinion of her selfe, as commonly all such foule sluts have: in regard whereof, madame _piccarda_ calling her aside, thus began. _ciutazza_, if thou wilt doe for me one nights service, i shall bestow on thee a faire new smocke. when _ciutazza_ heard her speake of a new smocke, instantly she answered. madame, if you please to bestow a new smocke on me, were it to runne thorow the fire for you, or any businesse of farre greater danger, you onely have the power to command me, and i will doe it. i will not (said _piccarda_) urge thee to any dangerous action, but onely to lodge in my bed this night with a man, and give him courteous entertainement, who shall reward thee liberally for it. but have an especiall care that thou speake not one word, for feare thou shouldst be heard by my brethren, who (as thou knowest) lodge so neere by: doe this, and then demaund thy smocke of me. madame (quoth _ciutazza_) if it were to lye with sixe men, rather then one; if you say the word, it shall be done. when night was come, the provoste also came according to appointment, even when the two brethren were in their lodging, where they easily heard his entrance, as _piccarda_ (being present with them) had informed them. in went the provoste without any candle, or making the least noise to be heard, & being in _piccardaes_ chamber, went to bed: _ciutazza_ tarrying not long from him, but (as her mistresse had instructed her) she went to bed likewise, not speaking any word at all, and the provoste, imagining to have her there, whom he so highly affected, fell to imbracing and kissing _ciutazza_, who was as forward in the same manner to him, and there for a while i intend to leave them. when _piccarda_ had performed this hot piece of businesse, she referred the effecting of the remainder to her brethren, in such sort as it was compacted betweene them. faire and softly went the two brethren forth of their chamber, and going to the market place, fortune was more favourable to them then they could wish, in accomplishing the issue of their intent. for the heat being somwhat tedious, the lord bishop was walking abroad very late, with purpose to visit the brethren at the widdowes house, because he tooke great delight in their company, as being good schollers, and endued with other singular parts beside. meeting with them in the open market place, he acquainted them with his determination; whereof they were not a little joyfull, it jumping so justly with their intent. being come to the widdowes house, they passed through a small nether court, where lights stood ready to welcome him thither; and entring into a goodly hall, there was store of good wine and banquetting, which the bishop accepted in very thankefull manner: and courteous complement being overpassed, one of the brethren, thus spake. my good lord, seeing it hath pleased you to honour our poore widdowed sisters house with your presence, for which wee shall thanke you while we live: we would intreate one favour more of you, onely but to see a sight which we will shew you. the lord bishop was well contented with the motion: so the brethren conducting him by the hand, brought him into their sisters chamber, where the the provoste was in bed with _ciutazza_, both soundly sleeping, but enfolded in his armes, as wearied (belike) with their former wantonning, and whereof his age had but little need. the courtaines being close drawne about the bed, although the season was exceeding hot, they having lighted torches in their hands; drew open the curtaines, and shewed the bishop his provoste, close snugging betweene the armes of _ciutazza_. upon a sudden the provoste awaked, and seeing so great a light, as also so many people about him: shame and feare so daunted him, that hee shrunke downe into the bed, and hid his head. but the bishop being displeased at a sight so unseemely, made him to discover his head againe, to see whom he was in bed withall. now the poore provoste perceiving the gentlewomans deceite, and the proper hansome person so sweetly embracing him: it made him so confounded with shame, as he had not the power to utter one word: but having put on his cloathes by the bishops command, hee sent him (under sufficient guard) to his pallace, to suffer due chastisement for his sinne committed; and afterward he desired to know, by what meanes hee became so favoured of _ciutazza_, the whole historie whereof, the two brethren related at large to him. when the bishop had heard all the discourse, highly he commended the wisedome of the gentlewoman, and worthy assistance of her brethren, who contemning to soile their hands in the blood of a priest, rather sought to shame him as hee deserved. the bishop enjoyned him a pennance of repentance for forty dayes after, but love and disdaine made him weepe nine and forty: moreover, it was a long while after, before he durst be seene abroad. but when he came to walke the streets, the boyes would point their fingers at him, saying. behold the provoste that lay with _ciutazza_: which was such a wearisome life to him, that he became (well neere) distracted in his wits. in this manner the honest gentlewoman discharged her dutie, and rid her selfe of the provosts importunity: _ciutazza_ had a merry night of it, and a new smocke also for her labour. _three pleasant companions, plaide a merry pranke with a judge (belonging to the marquesate of_ ancona) _at_ florence, _at such time as he sate on the bench, and hearing criminall causes._ the fift novell. _giving admonition, that for the mannaging of publique affaires, no other persons are or ought to be appointed, but such as be honest, and meet to sit on the seate of authority._ no sooner had madam _ã�millia_ finished her novell, wherein, the excellent wisedome of _piccarda_, for so worthily punishing the luxurious old provoste, had generall commendations of the whole assembly: but the queene, looking on _philostratus_, said. i command you next to supply the place: whereto he made answere, that hee was both ready and willing, and then thus began. honourable ladies, the merry gentleman, so lately remembred by madame _eliza_, being named _maso del saggio_; causeth me to passe over an intended tale, which i had resolved on when it came to my turne: to report another concerning him, and two men more, his friendly companions, which although it may appeare to you somewhat unpleasing, in regard of a little grosse and unmannerly behavior: yet it will move merriment without any offence, and that is the maine reason why i relate it. it is not unknowne to you, partly by intelligence from our reverend predecessours, as also some understanding of your owne, that many time have resorted to our city of _florence_, potestates and officers, belonging to the marquesate of _anconia_; who commonly were men of lowe spirit, and their lives so wretched and penurious, as they rather deserved to be tearmed misers, then men. and in regard of this their naturall covetousnesse and misery, the judges would bring also in their company, such scribes or notaries, as being paralelde with their masters: they all seemed like swaines come from the plough, or bred up in some coblers quality, rather then schollers, or students of law. at one time (above all the rest) among other potestates and judges, there came an especiall man, as pickt out of purpose, who was named _messer niccolao da san lepidio_, who (at the first beholding) looked rather like a tinker, then any officer in authority. this hansome man (among the rest) was deputed to heare criminall causes. and, as often it happeneth, that citizens, although no businesse inviteth them to judiciall courts, yet they still resort thither, sometimes accidentally: so it fortuned, that _maso del saggio_, being one morning in search of an especiall friend, went to the court-house, and being there, observed in what manner _messer niccolao_ was seated; who looking like some strange fowle, lately come forth of a farre countrey; he began to survay him the more seriously, even from the head to the foot, as we use to say. and albeit he saw his gowne furred with miniver, as also the hood about his necke, a penne and inkehorne hanging at his girdle, and one skirt of his garment longer then the other, with more misshapen sights about him, farre unfitting for a man of so civill profession: yet he spyed one errour extraordinary, the most notable (in his opinion) that ever he had seene before. namely, a paultry paire of breeches, wickedly made, and worse worne, hanging downe so lowe as halfe his legge, even as he sate upon the bench, yet cut so sparingly of the cloath, that they gaped wide open before, as a wheele-barrow might have full entrance allowed it. this strange sight was so pleasing to him; as leaving off further search of his friend, and scorning to have such a spectacle alone by himselfe: hee went upon another inquisition; namely, for two other merry lads like himselfe, the one being called _ribi_, and the other _matteuzzo_, men of the same mirth-full disposition as he was, and therefore the fitter for his company. after he had met with them, these were his salutations: my honest boyes, if ever you did me any kindnesse, declare it more effectually now, in accompanying me to the court-house, where you shall behold such a singular spectacle, as (i am sure) you never yet saw the like. forthwith they went along altogether, and being come to the court-house, he shewed them the judges hansome paire of breeches, hanging down in such base and beastly manner; that (being as yet farre off from the bench) their hearts did ake with extreamity of laughter. but when they came neere to the seat whereon _messer niccolao_ sate, they plainely perceived, that it was very easie to be crept under, and withall, that the board whereon he set his feet, was rotten and broken, so that it was no difficult matter, to reach it, and pull it downe as a man pleased, and let him fall bare breecht to the ground. cheare up your spirits (my hearts) quoth _maso_, and if your longing be like to mine; we will have yonder breeches a good deale lower, for i see how it may be easily done. laying their heads together, plotting and contriving severall wayes, which might be the likelyest to compasse their intent: each of them had his peculiar appointment, to undertake the businesse without fayling, and it was to be performed the next morning. at the houre assigned, they met there againe, and finding the court well filled with people, the plaintiffes and defendants earnestly pleading: _matteuzzo_ (before any body could descry him) was cunningly crept under the bench, and lay close by the board whereon the judge placed his feete. then stept in _maso_ on the right hand of _messer niccolao_, and tooke fast hold on his gowne before; the like did _ribi_ on the left hand, in all respects answerable to the other. oh my lord judge (cryed _maso_ out aloud) i humbly intreat you for charities sake, before this pilfering knave escape away from hence; that i may have justice against him, for stealing my drawing-over stockeings, which he stoutly denyeth, yet mine owne eyes beheld the deed, it being now not above fifteene dayes since, when first i bought them for mine owne use. worthy lord judge (cryed _ribi_, on the other side) doe not beleeve what he saith, for he is a paltry lying fellow, and because hee knew i came hither to make my complaint for a male or cloakebag which he stole from me: hee urgeth this occasion for a paire of drawing stockeings, which he delivered me with his owne hands. if your lordship will not credit me, i can produce as witnesses, _trecco_ the shoemaker, with _monna grassa_ the souse-seller, and he that sweepes the church of _santa maria a verzaia_, who saw him when he came posting hither. _maso_ haling and tugging the judge by the sleeve, would not suffer him to heare _ribi_, but cryed out still for justice against him, as he did the like on the contrary side. during the time of this their clamourous contending, the judge being very willing to heare either party: _matteuzzo_, upon a signe received from the other, which was a word in _masoes_ pleading, laide holde on the broken boord, as also on the judges low-hanging breech, plucking at them both so strongly, that they fell downe immediately, the breeches being onely tyed but with one poynt before. he hearing the boards breaking underneath him, and such maine pulling at his breeches; strove (as he sate) to make them fast before, but the poynt being broken, and _maso_ crying in his eare on the one side, as _ribi_ did the like in the other; hee was at his wits end to defend himselfe. my lord (quoth _maso_) you may bee ashamed that you doe me not justice, why will you not heare mee, but wholly lend your eare to mine adversary? my lord (said _ribi_) never was libell preferd into this court, of such a paltry trifling matter, and therefore i must, and will have justice. by this time the judge was dismounted from the bench, and stood on the ground, with his slovenly breeches hanging about his heeles; _matteuzzo_ being cunningly stolne away, and undiscovered by anybody. _ribi_, thinking he had shamed the judge sufficiently, went away, protesting, that he would declare his cause in the hearing of a wiser judge. and _maso_ forbearing to tugge his gowne any longer, in his departing, said. fare you well sir, you are not worthy to be a magistrate, if you have no more regard of your honour and honesty, but will put off poore mens suites at your pleasure. so both went severall wayes, and soone were gone out of publike view. the worshipfull judge _messer niccolao_ stood all this while on the ground; and, in presence of all the beholders, trussed up his breeches, as if hee were new risen out of his bed: when better bethinking himselfe on the matters indifference, he called for the two men, who contended for the drawing stockings and the cloake-bag; but no one could tell what was become of them. whereupon, he rapt out a kinde of judges oath, saying: i will know whether it be law or no heere in _florence_, to make a judge sit bare breecht on the bench of justice, and in the hearing of criminall causes; whereat the chiefe potestate, and all the standers by laughed heartily. within fewe dayes after, he was informed by some of his especiall friends, that this had never happened to him, but onely to testifie, how understanding the _florentines_ are, in their ancient constitutions and customes, to embrace, love and honour, honest, discreet worthy judges and magistrates; whereas on the contrary, they as much condemne miserable knaves, fooles, and dolts, who never merit to have any better entertainment. wherefore, it would be best for him, to make no more enquiry after the parties; lest a worse inconvenience should happen to him. bruno _and_ buffalmaco, _did steale a young brawne from_ calandrino, _and for his recovery thereof, they used a kinde of pretended conjuration, with pilles made of ginger and strong malmesey. but instead of this application, they gave him two pilles of a dogges dates, or dowsets, confected in alloes, which he received each after the other; by meanes whereof they made him beleeve, that hee had robde himselfe. and for feare they should report this theft to his wife; they made him to goe buy another brawne._ the sixt novell. _wherein is declared, how easily a plaine and simple man may be made a foole, when he dealeth with crafty companions._ _philostratus_ had no sooner concluded his novell, and the whole assembly laughed heartily thereat: but the queen gave command to madame _philomena_, that shee should follow next in order; whereupon thus shee began. worthy ladies, as _philostratus_, by calling to memorie the name of _maso del saggio_, hath contented you with another merry novell concerning him: in the same manner must i intreat you, to remember once againe _calandrino_ and his subtle consorts, by a pretty tale which i meane to tell you; how, and in what manner they were revenged on him, for going to seeke the invisible stone. needlesse were any fresh relation to you, what manner of people those three men were, _calandrino, bruno,_ and _buffalmaco,_ because already you have had sufficient understanding of them. and therefore, as an induction to my discourse, i must tell you, that _calandrino_ had a small country-house, in a village some-what neere to _florence_, which came to him by the marriage of his wife. among other cattle and poultry, which he kept there in store, hee had a young boare readie fatted for brawne, whereof yearly he used to kill one for his owne provision; and alwaies in the month of december, he and his wife resorted to their village house, to have a brawne both killed and salted. it came to passe at this time concerning my tale, that the woman being somewhat crazie and sickly, by her husbands unkinde usage, whereof you heard so lately; _calandrino_ went alone to the killing of his boare, which comming to the hearing of _bruno_ and _buffalmaco_, and that the woman could by no meanes be there: to passe away the time a little in merriment, they went to a friendlie companion of theirs, an honest joviall priest, dwelling not farre off from _calandrinoes_ countrey house. the same morning as the boare was kilde, they all three went thither, and _calandrino_ seeing them in the priests companie: bad them all heartily welcome; and to acquaint them with his good husbandry, hee shewed them his house, and the boare where it hung. they perceyving it to be faire and fat, knowing also, that _calandrino_ intended to salt it for his owne store, _bruno_ saide unto him: thou art an asse _calandrino_, sell thy brawne, and let us make merrie with the money: then let thy wife know no otherwise, but that it was stolne from thee, by those theeves which continually haunt country houses, especially in such scattering villages. oh mine honest friends, answered _calandrino_, your counsell is not to be followed, neither is my wife so easie to be perswaded: this were the readiest way to make your house a hell, and she to become the master-divell: therefore talke no further, for flatly i will not doe it. albeit they laboured him very earnestly, yet all proved not to anie purpose: onely he desired them to suppe with him, but in so colde a manner, as they denyed him, and parted thence from him. as they walked on the way, _bruno_ saide to _buffalmaco_. shall we three (this night) rob him of his brawne? yea marry (quoth _buffalmaco_) how is it to be done? i have (saide _bruno_) alreadie found the meanes to effect it, if he take it not from the place where last we saw it. let us doe it then (answered _buffalmaco_) why should we not do it? sir domine heere and we, will make good cheare with it among our selves. the nimble priest was as forward as the best; and the match being fully agreed on, _bruno_ thus spake. my delicate sir domine, art and cunning must be our maine helps: for thou knowest _buffalmaco_, what a covetous wretch _calandrino_ is, glad and readie to drink alwaies on other mens expences: let us go take him with us to the tavern, where the priest (for his owne honour and reputation) shall offer to make paiment of the whole reckoning, without receiving a farthing of his, whereof he will not be a little joyfull, so shall we bring to passe the rest of the businesse, because there is no body in the house, but onely himselfe: for he is best at ease without company. as _bruno_ had propounded, so was it accordingly performed, & when _calandrino_ perceyved, that the priest would suffer none to pay, but himselfe, he dranke the more freely; and when there was no neede at all, tooke his cuppes couragiously, one after another. two or three houres of the night were spent, before they parted from the taverne, _calandrino_ going directly home to his house, and instantly to bed, without any other supper, imagining that he had made fast his doore, which (indeede) he left wide open: sleeping soundly, without suspition of any harme intended unto him. _buffalmaco_ and _bruno_ went and supt with the priest, and so soone as supper was ended, they tooke certaine engines, for their better entering into _calandrinoes_ house, and so went on to effect theyr purpose. finding the doore standing readie open, they entered in, tooke the brawne, carried it with them to the priests house, and afterward went all to bed. when _calandrino_ had well slept after his wine, he arose in the morning, and being descended downe the staires, finding the street doore wide open, he looked for the brawne, but it was gone. enquiring of the neighbours dwelling neere about him, hee could heare no tydings of his brawne, but became the wofullest man in the world, telling every one that his brawne was stolne. _bruno_ and _buffalmaco_ being risen in the morning, they went to visite _calandrino_, to heare how he tooke the losse of his brawne: and hee no sooner had a sight of them, but he called them to him; and with the teares running downe his cheekes, sayde: ah my deare friendes, i am robde of my brawne. _bruno_ stepping closely to him, sayde in his eare: it is wonderfull, that once in thy life time thou canst bee wise. how? answered _calandrino_, i speake to you in good earnest. speake so still in earnest (replied _bruno_) and cry it out so loud as thou canst, then let who list beleeve it to be true. _calandrino_ stampt and fretted exceedingly, saying: as i am a true man to god, my prince, and countrey, i tell thee truly, that my brawne is stolne. say so still i bid thee (answered _bruno_) and let all the world beleeve thee, if they list to do so, for i will not. wouldst thou, (quoth _calandrino_) have me damne my selfe to the divell? i see thou dost not credit what i say: but would i were hanged by the necke, if it be not true, that my brawne is stolne. how can it possible be, replyed _bruno_? did not i see it in thy house yesternight? wouldst thou have me beleeve, that it is flowne away? although it is not flowne away (quoth _calandrino_) yet i am certain, that it is stolne away: for which i am weary of my life, because i dare not go home to mine owne house, in regard my wife will never beleeve it; and yet if she should credite it, we are sure to have no peace for a twelvemonths space. _bruno_, seeming as if he were more then halfe sorrowfull, yet supporting still his former jesting humour, saide: now trust mee _calandrino_, if it be so; they that did it are much too blame. if it be so? answered _calandrino_, belike thou wouldst have mee blaspheme heaven, and all the saints therein: i tell thee once againe _bruno_, that this last night my brawne was stolne. be patient good _calandrino_, replyed _buffalmaco_, and if thy brawne be stolne from thee, there are means enow to get it againe. meanes enow to get it againe? said _calandrino_, i would faine heare one likely one, and let all the rest go by. i am sure _calandrino_, answered _buffalmaco_, thou art verily perswaded, that no theefe came from _india_, to steale thy brawne from thee: in which respect, it must needes then be some of thy neighbours: whom if thou couldst lovingly assemble together, i knowe an experiment to be made with bread and cheese, whereby the party that hath it, will quickly be discovered. i have heard (quoth _bruno_) of such an experiment, and helde it to be infallible; but it extendeth onely unto persons of gentilitie, whereof there are but few dwelling heere about, and in the case of stealing a brawne, it is doubtfull to invite them, neither can there be any certainty of their comming. i confesse what you say, aunswered _buffalmaco_, to be very true: but then in this matter, so nerely concerning us to be done, and for a deare friend, what is your advice? i would have pilles made of ginger, compounded with your best and strongest _malmesey_,** then let the ordinary sort of people be invited (for such onely are most to be mistrusted) and they will not faile to come, because they are utterly ignorant of our intention. besides, the pilles may as well bee hallowed and consecrated, as bread and cheese on the like occasion. indeede you say true (replyed _buffalmaco_) but what is the opinion of _calandrino_? is he willing to have this tryall made, or no? yes, by all meanes, answered _calandrino_, for gladly i would know who hath stolne my brawne, and your good words have (more then halfe) comforted me already in this case. well then (quoth _bruno_) i will take the paines to go to _florence_, to provide all things necessarie for this secret service; but i must bee furnished with money to effect it. _calandrino_ had some forty shillings then about him, which he delivered to _bruno_, who presently went to _florence_, to a frend of his an apothecarie, of whom he bought a pound of white ginger, which hee caused him to make uppe in small pilles: and two other beside of a dogges-dates or dowsets, confected all over with strong aloes, yet well moulded in sugare, as all the rest were: and because they should the more easily bee knowne from the other, they were spotted with gold, in verie formall and physicall manner. he bought moreover, a big flaggon of the best malmesey, returning backe with all these things to _calandrino_, and directing him in this order. you must put some friend in trust, to invite your neighbours (especially such as you suspect) to a breakfast in the morning: and because it is done as a feast in kindnesse, they will come to you the more willingly. this night will i and _buffalmaco_ take such order, that the pilles shall have the charge imposed on them, and then wee will bring them hither againe in the morning: and i my selfe (for your sake) will deliver them to your guests, and performe whatsoever is to bee sayde or done. on the next morning, a goodly company being assembled, under a faire elme before the church; as well young _florentynes_ (who purposely came to make themselves merry) as neighbouring husbandmen of the village: _bruno_ was to begin the service, with the pils in a faire cup, and _buffalmaco_ followed him with another cup, to deliver the wine out of the flaggon, all the company beeing set round, as in a circle; and _bruno_ with _buffalmaco_ being in the midst of them, _bruno_ thus spake. honest friends, it is fit that i should acquaint you with the occasion, why we are thus met together, and in this place: because if anie thing may seeme offensive to you; afterward you shall make no complaint of me. from _calandrino_ (our loving friend heere present) yesternight there was a new-kild fat brawne taken, but who hath done the deede, as yet he knoweth not; and because none other, but some one (or more) heere among us, must needs offend in this case: he, desiring to understand who they be, would have each man to receive one of these pilles, and afterward to drinke of this wine; assuring you all, that whosoever stole the brawne hence, cannot be able to swallow the pill: for it will be so extreme bitter in his mouth, as it will enforce him to coughe and spet extraordinarily. in which respect, before such a notorious shame be received, and in so goodly an assembly, as now are heere present: it were much better for him or them that have the brawne, to confesse it in private to this honest priest, and i will abstaine from urging anie such publike proofe. every one there present answered, that they were well contented both to eate and drinke, and let the shame fall where it deserved; whereupon, _bruno_ appointing them how they should sit, and placing _calandrino_ as one among them: he began his counterfeite exorcisme, giving each man a pill, and _buffalmaco_ a cup of wine after it. but when he came to _calandrino_, hee tooke one of them, which was made of the dogges dates or dowsets, and delivering it into his hand, presently hee put it into his mouth and chewed it. so soone as his tongue tasted the bitter aloes, he began to coughe and spet extreamly, as being utterly unable, to endure the bitternesse and noysome smell. the other men that had receyved the pils, beganne to gaze one upon another, to see whose behaviour should discover him; and _bruno_ having not (as yet) delivered pils to them all, proceeded on still in his businesse, as seeming not to heare any coughing, till one behinde him, saide. what meaneth _calandrino_ by this spetting and coughing? _bruno_ sodainely turning him about, and seeing _calandrino_ to cough and spet in such sort, saide to the rest. be not too rash (honest friends) in judging of any man, some other matter (then the pille) may procure this coughing, wherefore he shall receive another, the better to cleare your beleefe concerning him. he having put the second prepared pill into his mouth, while _bruno_ went to serve the rest of the guests: if the first was exceeding bitter to his taste, this other made it a great deale worse, for teares streamed forth of his eyes as bigge as cherry-stones, and champing and chewing the pill, as hoping it would overcome his coughing; he coughed and spette the more violently, and in grosser manner then he did before, nor did they give him any wine to helpe it. _buffalmaco, bruno,_ and the whole company, perceiving how he continued still his coughing and spetting; saide all with one voyce, that _calandrino_ was the theefe to himselfe: and gave him manie grosse speeches beside, all departing home into their houses, very much displeased and angry with him. after they were gone, none remained with him but the priest, _bruno_ and _buffalmaco_, who thus spake to _calandrino_. i did ever thinke, that thou wast the theefe thy selfe, yet thou imputedst thy robbery to some other, for feare we should once drinke freely of thy purse, as thou hast done many times of ours. _calandrino_, who had not yet ended his coughing and spetting, sware many bitter oathes, that his brawne was stolne from him. talke so long as thou wilt, quoth _buffalmaco_, thy knavery is both knowne and seene, and well thou mayst be ashamed of thy selfe. _calandrino_ hearing this, grew desperately angry; and to incense him more, _bruno_ thus pursued the matter. hear me _calandrino_, for i speake to thee in honest earnest, there was a man in the company, who did eate and drinke heere among thy neighbours, and plainly told me, that thou keptst a young lad heere to do thee service, feeding him with such victuals as thou couldst spare, by him thou didst send away thy brawne, to one that bought it of thee for foure crownes, onely to cousen thy poore wife and us. canst thou not yet learne to leave thy mocking and scorning? thou hast forgotte, how thou broughtst us to the plaine of _mugnone_, to seeke for black invisible stones: which having found, thou concealedst them to thy selfe, stealing home invisibly before us, and making us follow like fooles after thee. now likewise, by horrible lying oathes, and perjured protestations, thou wouldst make us to beleeve, that the brawne (which thou hast cunningly sold for ready money) was stolne from thee out of thy house, when thou art onely the theefe to thy selfe, as by that excellent rule of art (which never faileth) hath plainly, to thy shame, appeared. wee being so well acquainted with thy delusions, and knowing them perfectly; now do plainly tell thee, that we mean not to be foold any more. nor is it unknowne to thee, what paines wee have taken, in making this singular peece of proofe. wherefore we inflict this punishment on thee, that thou shalt bestow on this honest priest and us, two couple of capons, and a flaggon of wine, or else we will discover this knavery of thine to thy wife. _calandrino_ perceiving, that all his protestations could winne no credit with them, who had now the law remaining in their owne hands, and purposed to deale with him as they pleased: apparently saw, that sighing and sorrow did nothing availe him. moreover, to fall into his wives tempestuous stormes of chiding, would bee worse to him then racking or torturing: he gladly therefore gave them money, to buy the two couple of capons and wine, being heartily contented likewise, that hee was so well delivered from them. so the merry priest, _bruno_, and _buffalmaco_, having taken good order for salting the brawne; closely carried it with them to _florence_, leaving _calandrino_ to complaine of his losse, and well requited, for mocking them with the invisible stones. _a young gentleman being a scholler, fell in love with a ladie, named_ helena, _she being a widdow, and addicted in affection to another gentleman. one whole night in cold winter, she caused the scholler to expect her comming, in an extreame frost and snow. in revenge whereof, by his imagined art and skill, he made her to stand naked on the top of a tower, the space of a whole day, and in the hot moneth of july, to be sun-burnt and bitten with waspes and flies._ the seventh novell. _serving as an admonition to all ladies and gentlewomen, not to mock or scorne gentlemen-schollers, when they make meanes of love to them; except they intend to seeke their owne shame, by disgracing them._ greatly did the ladies commend madame _philomenaes_ novell, laughing heartily at poore _calandrino_, yet grieving withall, that he should be so knavishly cheated, not onely of his brawne, but two couple of capons, and a flaggon of wine beside. but the whole discourse being ended; the queene commanded madame _pampinea_, to follow next with her novell, and presently she thus began. it hapneth oftentimes, (bright beauties) that mockery falleth onto him, that intended the same unto another: and therefore i am of opinion, that there is very little wisedom declared on him or her, who taketh delight in mocking any person. i must needs confesse, that we have smiled at many mockeries and deceits, related in those excellent novels, which we have already heard; without any due revenge returned, but onely in this last of silly _calandrino_. wherefore, it is now my determination, to urge a kind of compassionate apprehension, upon a very just retribution, happening to a gentlewoman of our citie, because her scorne fell deservedly upon her selfe, remaining mocked, and to the perill of her life. let me then assure you, that your diligent attention may redound to your benefit, because if you keepe your selves (henceforward) from being scorned by others: you shall expresse the greater wisedome, and be the better warned by their mishaps. as yet there are not many yeares over-past, since there dwelt in _florence_, a yong lady, descended of noble parentage, very beautifull, of sprightly courage, and sufficiently abounding in the goods of fortune, she being named madame _helena_. her delight was to live in the estate of widdow-hood, desiring to match her selfe no more in marriage, because she bare affection to a gallant young gentleman, whom she had made her private election of, and with whom (having excluded all other amorous cares and cogitations) by meanes of her waiting-woman, she had divers meetings, and kinde conferences. it chanced at the verie same time, another young gentleman of our citie, called _reniero_, having long studied in the schooles at _paris_, returned home to _florence_, not to make sale of his learning and experience, as many doe: but to understand the reason of things, as also the causes and effects of them, which is mervailously fitting for any gentleman. being greatly honoured and esteemed of everyone, as well for his courteous carriage towards all in generall, as for his knowledge and excellent parts: he lived more like a familiar citizen, then in the nature of a courtly gentleman, albeit he was choisely respected in either estate. but, as oftentimes it commeth to passe, that such as are endued with the best judgement and understanding in naturall occasions, are soonest caught and intangled in the snares of love: so fel it out with our scholler _reniero_, who being invited to a solemne feast, in company of other his especiall friends; this lady _helena_, attyred in her blacke garments (as widdowes commonly use to wear) was likewise there a guest. his eye observing her beauty and gracious demeanour, she seemed in his judgement, to be a woman so compleate and perfect, as he had never seene her equall before: & therefore, he accounted the man more then fortunate, that was worthy to embrace her in his armes. continuing this amorous observation of her from time to time, and knowing withall, that rare and excellent things are not easily obtained, but by painefull study, labour, and endeavour: hee resolved with himselfe constantly, to put in practise all his best parts of industry, onely to honour and please her, and attaining to her contentation, it would be the means to winne her love, and compasse thereby his hearts desire. the yong lady, who fixed not her eyes on inferiour subjects (but esteemed her selfe above ordinary reach or capacity) could moove them artificially, as curious women well know how to doe, looking on every side about her, yet not in a gadding or grosse manner; for she was not ignorant in such darting glaunces, as proceeded from an enflamed affection, which appearing plainely in _reniero_; with a pretty smile, shee said to her selfe. i am not come hither this day in vaine; for, if my judgement faile me not, i thinke i have caught a woodcocke by the bill. and lending him a cunning looke or two, queintly caried with the corner of her eye; she gave him a kinde of perswading apprehension, that her heart was the guide to her eye. and in this artificiall** schoole-tricke of hers, shee carryed therewith another consideration, to wit, that the more other eyes fedde themselves on her perfections, and were (well-neere) lost in them beyond recovery: so much the greater reason had he to account his fortune beyond comparison, that was the sole master of her heart, and had her love at his command. our witty scholler having set aside his philosophicall considerations, strove how he might best understand her carriage toward him, and beleeving that she beheld him with pleasing regards; hee learned to know the house where shee dwelt, passing daily by the doore divers times, under colour of some more serious occasions: wherein the lady very proudly gloried, in regard of the reasons before alleadged, and seemed to affoord him lookes of good liking. being led thus with a hopefull perswasion, hee founde the meanes to gaine acquaintance with her waiting-woman, revealing to her his intire affection, desiring her to worke for him in such sort with her lady, that his service might be gracious in her acceptance. the gentlewoman made him a very willing promise, and immediately did his errand to her lady; who heard her with no small pride and squemishnesse, and breaking forth into a scornefull laughter, thus she spake. _ancilla_ (for so she was named) dost thou not observe, how this scholler is come to lose all the wit heere, which he has studyed so long for in the university of _paris_? let us make him our onely table argument, and seeing his folly soareth so high, we will feed him with such a dyet as hee deserveth. yet when thou speakest next with him, tell him, that i affect him more then he can doe me: but it becommeth me to be carefull of mine honour, and to walke with an untainted brow, as other ladies and gentlewomen doe: which he is not to mislike, if he be so wise as he maketh shew of, but rather will the more commend me. alas good lady lack-wit, little did she understand (faire assembly) how dangerous a case it is to deale with schollers. at his next meeting with the waiting woman, shee delivered the message, as her lady had command her, whereof poore _reniero_ was so joyfull: that hee pursued his love-suite the more earnestly, and began to write letters, send gifts, and tokens, all which were still received, yet without any other answere to give hope, but onely in generall, and thus shee dallied with him a long while. in the end, she discovered this matter to her secret chosen friend, who fell suddenly sicke of the head-ake, onely through meere conceit of jealousie: which she perceiving, and grieving to be suspected without any cause, especially by him whom shee esteemed above all other; shee intended to rid him quickely of that idle disease. and being more and more solicited by the scholler, she sent him word by her maide _ancilla_, that (as yet) she could find no convenient opportunity, to yeeld him such assurance, as hee should not any way be distrustfull of her love. but the feast of christmas was now neere at hand, which afforded leisures much more hopefull, then any other formerly passed. and therefore, the next night after the first feasting day, if he pleased to walke in the open court of her house: she would soone send for him, into a place much better beseeming, and where they might freely converse together. now was our scholler the onely jocond man of the world, and failed not the time assigned him, but went unto the ladies house, where _ancilla_ was ready to give him entertainment, conducting him into the base court, where she lockt him up fast, untill her lady should send for him. this night shee had privately sent for her friend also, and sitting merrily at supper with him, told him, what welcome she had given the scholler, and how she further meant to use him, saying. now sir, consider with yourselfe, what hot affection i beare to him, of whom you became so fondly jealous. the which words were very welcome to him, and made him extraordinarily joyfull; desiring to see them as effectually performed, as they appeared to him by her protestations. heere you are to understand (gracious ladies) that according to the season of the yeare, a great snow had falne the day before, so as the whole court was covered therewith, and being an extreame frost upon it, our scholler could not boast of any warme walking, when the teeth quivered in his head with cold, as a dog could not be more discourteously used: yet hope of enjoying loves recompence at length, made him to support all this injury with admirable patience. within a while after, madame _helena_ said to her friend. walke with me (deare heart) into my chamber, and there at a secret little window, i shall shew thee what he doth, that drove thee to such a suspition of me, and we shall heare beside, what answere he will give my maide _ancilla_, whom i will send to comfort him in his coldnesse. when she had so said, they went to the appointed chamber window, where they could easily see him, but he not them: and then they heard _ancilla_ also, calling to him forth of another windowe, saying. signior _reniero_, my lady is the wofullest woman in the world, because (as yet) she cannot come to you, in regard that one of her brethren came this evening to visite her, and held her with much longer discourse then she expected: whereby she was constrained to invite him to sup with her, and yet he is not gone; but shortly i hope hee will, and then expect her comming presently; till when, she entreateth your gentle sufferance. poore _reniero_, our over-credulous scholler, whose vehement affection to madame _helena_, so hood-winkt the sight of his understanding, as he could not be distrustfull of any guilt; returned this answere to _ancilla_. say to your lady that i am bound in duty, to attend the good houre of her leisure, without so much as the very least prejudicate conceite in me: neverthelesse, entreat her, to let it bee so soone as she possibly may, because here is miserable walking, and it beginneth againe to snow extreamely. _ancilla_ making fast the casement, went presently to bed; when _helena_ spake thus to her amorous friend. what saist thou now? doest thou thinke that i loved him, as thou wast afraid of? if i did, he should never walke thus in the frost and snow. so, away went they likewise from their close gazing window, and spent wanton dalliances together, laughing, and deriding (with many bitter taunts and jests) the lamentable condition of poore _reniero_. about the court walked hee numberlesse times, finding such exercises as he could best devise, to compasse warmth in any manner: no seate or shelter had he any where, either to ease himselfe by sitting downe a while, or keepe him from the snow, falling continually on him, which made him bestow many curses on the ladies brother, for his so long tarrying with her, as beleeving him verily to be in the house, else she would (long before) have admitted his entrance, but therein his hope was meerely deceived. it grew now to be about the houre of midnight, and _helena_ had delighted her selfe with her friend extraordinarily, till at last she spake to him. what is thine opinion of my amourous scholler? which dost thou imagine to be the greatest, either his sense and judgement, or the affection i beare to him? is not this cold sufferance of this, able to quench the violent heate of his loves extremitie, and having so much snow broth to helpe it? beleeve me (sweet lady) quoth her friend, as hee is a man, and a learned scholler, i pitty that he should bee thus ungently dealt withall: but as he is my rivall and loves enemy, i cannot allow him the least compassion, resting the more confidently assured of your love to me, which i will alwayes esteeme most precious. when they had spent a long while in this or the like conference, with infinite sweet kisses and embraces intermixed; then she began againe in this manner. deare love (quoth she) cast thy cloake about thee, as i intend to doe with my night mantle, and let us step to the little window once more, to see whether the flaming fire, which burned in the schollers brest (as daily avouched to me in his love letters) be as yet extinct or no. so going to the window againe, and looking downe into the court; there they saw the scholler dancing in the snow, to the cold tune of his teeths quivering and chattering, and clapping his armes about his body, which was no pleasing melody to him. how thinkest thou now sweet heart (saide shee) cannot i make a man daunce without the sound of a taber, or of a bagpipe? yes beleeve me lady (quoth he) i plaine perceive you can, and would be very lothe, that you should exercise your cunning on me. nay, said shee, we will yet delight our selves a little more; let us softly descend downe the stayres, even so farre as to the court doore; thou shalt not speake a word, but i will talke to him, and heare some part of his quivering language, which cannot choose but bee passing pleasing for us to heare. out of the chamber went they, and descended downe the stayres to the court doore; where, without opening it, she laide her mouth to a small cranny, and in a low soft kinde of voyce, called him by his name: which the scholler hearing, was exceeding joyfull, as beleeving verily, that the houre of his deliverance was come, and entrance now should be admitted him. upon the hearing of her voyce, hee stept close to the doore, saying. for charities sake, good lady, let me come in, because i am almost dead with cold; whereto thus she answered in mocking manner. i make no doubt (my deare friend _reniero_) but the night is indifferent colde, and yet somewhat the warmer by the snowes falling: and i have heard that such weather as this, is tenne-times more extreame at _paris_, then heere in our warmer countrey. and trust me, i am exceeding sorrowfull, that i may not (as yet) open the door, because mine unhappy brother, who came (unexpected) yester-night to suppe with mee, is not yet gone, as within a short while (i hope) he will, and then shall i gladly set open the doore to you, for i made an excuse to steale a little from him, onely to cheare you with this small kind of comfort, that his so long tarrying might be the lesse offensive to you. alas sweet madame, answered quaking and quivering _reniero_, bee then so favourable to me, as to free me from forth this open court, where there is no shelter or helpe for me, the snow falling still so exceedingly, as a man might easily be more then halfe buried in it: let me be but within your doore, and there i will wait your own good leisure. alas deare _reniero_ (answered _helena_) i dare not doe it, because the doore maketh such a noyse in the opening, as it will be too easily heard by my brother: but i will goe and use such meanes, as shortly hee shall get him gone, and then i dare boldly give you entrance. doe so good madame, replyed _reniero_, and let there be a faire fire made ready, that when i am within, i may the sooner warme my selfe; for i am so strangely benummed with colde, as well neere i am past all sence of feeling. can it be possible (quoth _helena_) that you should be so benummed with colde? then i plainely perceive, that men can lye in their love letters, which i can shew under your own hand, how you fryed in flames, and all for my love, and so have you written to me in every letter. poore credulous women are often thus deluded, in beleeving what men write and speake out of passion: but i will returne backe to my brother, and make no doubt of dispatch, because i would gladly have your company. the amourous friend to _helena_, who stood by all this while, laughing at the schollers hard usage, returned up againe with her to her chamber, where they could not take a jote of rest, for flouting and scorning the betrayed scholler. as for him poore man, hee was become like the swanne, coldly chattering his teeth together, in a strange new kinde of harmony to him. and perceiving himselfe to be meerely mocked, he attempted to get open the doore, or how he might passe forth at any other place: but being no way able to compasse it, he walked up and downe like an angry lyon, cursing the hard quality of the time, the discourtesie of the lady, the over-tedious length of the night; but (most of all) his owne folly and simplicity, in being so basely abused and gulde. now began the heat of his former affection to _helena_, altered into as violent a detestation of her; yea, extremity of hatred in the highest degree; beating his braines, and ransacking every corner of invention, by what meanes he might best be revenged on her, which now he more earnestly desired to effect, then to enjoy the benefit of her love, or to be embraced betweene her armes. after that the sad and discomfortable night had spent it selfe, & the break of day was beginning to appeare; _ancilla_ the waiting-woman, according as she was instructed by her lady, went downe and opened the court doore, and seeming exceedingly to compassionate the schollers unfortunate night of sufferance, saide unto him. alas courteous gentleman, in an unblessed houre came my ladyes brother hither yester-night, inflicting too much trouble upon us, and a grievous time of affliction to you. but i am not ignorant, that you being vertuous, and a judicious scholler, have an invincible spirit of pacience, and sufficient understanding withall; that what this night could not affoord, another may make a sound amends for. this i can and dare sufficiently assure you, that nothing could be more displeasing to my lady, neither can she well be quieted in her mind: untill she have made a double and treble requitall, for such a strange unexpected inconvenience, whereof she had not the very least suspition. _reniero_ swelling with discontentment, yet wisely clouding it from open apprehension, and knowing well enough, that such golden speeches and promises, did alwaies favour of what intemperate spleene would more lavishly have vented foorth, and therefore in a modest dissembling manner; without the least shew of any anger, thus he answered. in good sadnesse _ancilla_, i have endured the most miserablest night of colde, frost and snow, that ever any poore gentleman suffered; but i know well enough, your lady was not in any fault thereof, neither meriteth to be blamed, for in her owne person (as being truely compassionate of my distresse) she came so farre as the doore of this court, to excuse her selfe, and comfort mee. but as you saide, and very well too, what hath failed this night, another hereafter may more fortunately performe: in hope whereof, commend my love and duteous service to her, and (what else remaineth mine) to your gentle selfe. so our halfe frozen scholler, scarcely able to walke upon his legges, returned home, (so well as hee could) to his owne lodging; where, his spirits being grievously out of order, and his eyes staring gastly through lacke of sleepe: he lay downe on his bed, and after a little rest, he found himselfe in much worse condition then before, as meerely taken lame in his armes and his legges. whereupon he was inforced to send for phisitions, to be advised by their councell, in such an extremity of cold received. immediately, they made provision for his healthes remedie (albeit his nerves and sinewes could very hardly extend themselves) yet in regard he was yong, & summer swiftly drawing on; they had the better hope of affecting his safty, out of so great and dangerous a cold. but after he was become almost well and lusty againe, hee used to be seldome seene abroad for an indifferent while; concealing his intended revenge secret to himselfe, yet appearing more affectionate to madame _helena_, then formerly he had beene. now, it came to passe (within no long while after) that fortune being favourable to our injured scholler, prepared a new accident, whereby he might fully effect his harts desire. for the lusty yong gallant, who was madame _helenaes_ deare darling and delight, and (for whose sake) she dealt so inhumanely with poore _reniero_: became weary of her amourous service, and was falne in liking of another lady, scorning and disdaining his former mistresse; whereat shee grew exceedingly displeased, and began to languish in sighes and teares. but _ancilla_ her waiting-woman, compassionating the perilous condition of her lady, and knowing no likely meanes whereby to conquer this oppressing melancholly, which shee suffered for the losse of her hearts chosen friend: at length she began to consider, that the scholler still walked daily by the doore, as formerly hee was wont to doe, and (by him) there might some good be done. a fond and foolish opinion overswayed her, that the scholler was extraordinarily skilfull in the art of nigromancy, and could thereby so over-rule the heart of her lost friend, as hee should bee compelled to love her againe, in as effectuall manner as before; herewith immediately she acquainted her lady, who being as rashly credulous, as her maide was opinionative (never considring, that if the scholler had any experience in negromancy, hee would thereby have procured his owne successe) gave releefe to her surmise, in very joviall and comfortable manner, and entreated her in all kindnes, to know of him, whether he could worke such a businesse, or no, and (upon his undertaking to effect it) shee would give absolute assurance, that (in recompence thereof) he should unfainedly obtaine his hearts desire. _ancilla_ was quicke and expeditious, in delivering this message to discontented _reniero_, whose soule being ready to mount out of his body, onely by conceit of joy; chearefully thus he said within himselfe. gracious fortune! how highly am i obliged to thee for this so great a favour? now thou hast blest me with a happy time, to be justly revenged on so wicked a woman, who sought the utter ruine of my life, in recompence of the unfaigned affection i bare her. returne to thy lady (quoth he) and saluting her first on my behalfe, bid her to abandon all care in this businesse; for, if her amourous friend were in india, i would make him come (in meere despight of his heart) and crave mercy of her for his base transgression. but concerning the meanes how, and in what manner it is to bee done, especially on her owne behalfe: i will impart it to her so soone as she pleaseth: faile not to tell her so constantly from me, with all my utmost paines at her service. _ancilla_ came jocondly home with her answere, and a conclusion was set downe for their meeting together at _santa lucia del prato_, which accordingly was performed, in very solemne conference between them. her fond affection had such power over her, that shee had forgot, into what peril she brought his life, by such an unnatural night-walke: but disclosed all her other intention to him, how loth she was to lose so deare a friend, and desiring him to exercise his utmost height of skil, with large promises of her manifold favours to him, whereto our scholler thus replyed. very true it is madam, that among other studies at _paris_, i learned the art of negromancy, the depth whereof i am as skilful in, as anie other scholler whatsoever. but, because it is greatly displeasing unto god, i made a vow never to use it, either for my selfe, or anie other. neverthelesse, the love i beare you is of such power, as i know not well how to denie, whatsoever you please to command me: in which respect, if in doing you my very best service, i were sure to bee seized on by all the divels: i will not faile to accomplish your desire, you onely having the power to command me. but let me tell you madame, it is a matter not so easie to be performed, as you perhaps may rashly imagine, especially, when a woman would repeale a man to love her, or a man a woman: because, it is not to be done, but by the person whom it properly concerneth. and therefore it behoveth, that such would have this businesse effected, must be of a constant minde, without the least scruple of feare: because it is to be accomplished in the darke night season, in which difficulties i doe not know, how you are able to warrant your selfe, or whether you have such courage of spirit, as (with boldnes) to adventure. madame _helena_, more hot in pursuite of her amorous contentment, then any way governed by temperate discretion, presently thus answered. sir, love hath set such a keene edge on my unconquerable affection, as there is not any daunger so difficult, but i dare resolutely undertake it, for the recovery of him, who hath so shamefully refused my kindnesse: wherefore (if you please) shew mee, wherein i must be so constant and dreadlesse. the scholler, who had (more then halfe) caught a right ninny-hammer by the beake; thus replyed. madame, of necessity i must make an image of tin, in the name of him whom you desire to recall. which when i have sent you, the moone being then in her full, and your selfe stript starke naked: immediately after your first sleepe, seaven times you must bathe your selfe with it in a swift running river. afterward, naked as you are, you must climbe up upon some tree, or else upon an uninhabited house top, where standing dreadlesse of any perill, and turning your face to the north, with the image in your hand, seaven times you must speake such wordes, as i will deliver to you in writing. after you have so often spoken them, two goodly ladies (the very fairest that ever you beheld) will appeare unto you, very graciously saluting you, and demanding what you would have them to performe for you. safely you may speake unto them, and orderly tel them what you desire: but be very carefull, that you name not one man insted of another. when you have uttered your mind, they will depart from you, and then you may descend againe, to the place where you did leave your garments, which having putte on, then returne to your house. and undoubtedly, before the midst of the next night following, your friend will come in teares to you, and humbly crave your pardon on his knees; beeing never able afterward to be false to you, or leave your love for any other whatsoever. the lady hearing these words, gave very setled beleefe to them, imagining unfainedly, that shee had (more then halfe) recovered her friend already, and held him embraced betweene her armes: in which jocond perswasion, the chearfull** blood mounted up into hir cheekes, and thus she replyed. never make you any doubt sir, but that i can sufficiently performe whatsoever you have said, and am provided of the onely place in the world, where such a weighty businesse is to be effected. for i have a farme or dairy house, neere adjoyning to the vale of _arno_, & closely bordering upon the same river. it beeing now the moneth of july, the most convenientest time of all the yeare to bathe in; i can bee the easier induced thereunto. moreover, there is hard by the rivers side a small tower or turret uninhabited; whereinto few people do sildome enter, but onely heardsmen or flocke-keepers, who ascend uppe (by the helpe of a wodden ladder) to a tarrasse on the top of the saide tower, to looke all about for their beasts, when they are wandred astray: it standing in a solitary place, and out of the common way or resort. there dare i boldly adventure to mount up, and with the invincible courage of a wronged lady (not fearing to looke death himself in the face) do al that you have prescribed, yea, and much more, to recover my deare lost lover againe, whom i value equal with my owne life. _reniero_, who perfectly knew both the dairy farme, and the old smal turret, not a little joyfull, to heare how forward shee was to shame her selfe, answered in this manner. madame, i was never in those parts of the country, albeit they are so neere to our city, & therefore i must needs be ignorant, not onely of your farme, but the turret also. but if they stand in such convenient manner as you have described, all the world could not yeelde the like elsewhere, so apt and sutable to your purpose: wherefore, with such expedition as possibly i can use, i will make the image, and send it you, as also the charme, verie fairely written. but let me entreate you, that when you have obtayned your hearts desire, and are able to judge truely of my love and service: not to be unmindfull of me, but (at your best leysure) to performe what you have with such protestations promised; which shee gave him her hand and faith to do, without any impeach or hindrance: and so parting, she returned home to her house. our over-joyed scholler, applauding his happy starres, for furthering him with so faire a way to his revenge; immagining that it was already halfe executed, made the image in due forme, & wrote an old fable, in sted of a charme; both which he sent to the lady, so soone as he thought the time to be fitting: and this admonition withall, that the moone being entering into the full, without any longer delay, she might venter on the businesse the next night following, and remaine assured to repossesse her friend. afterward for the better pleasing of himselfe, he went secretly attended, onely by his servant, to the house of a trusty frend of his, who dwelt somwhat neere to the turret, there to expect the issue of this lady-like enterprize. and madam _helena_ accompanied with none but _ancilla_, walked on to her dairy farme, where the night ensuing, pretending to take her rest sooner then formerly she used to doe, she commanded _ancilla_ to go to bed, referring her selfe to her best liking. after she had slept her first sleepe (according to the schollers direction) departing softly out of her chamber, she went on towards the ancient tower, standing hard by the river of _arno_, looking every way heedfully about hir, least she should be spied by any person. but perceiving hir selfe to be so secure as she could desire; putting off all her garments, she hid them in a small brake of bushes: afterward, holding the image in hir hand, seven times she bathd hir body in the river, and then returned back with it to the tower. the scholler, who at the nights closing up of day, had hid himselfe among the willowes & other trees, which grew very thick about the tower, saw both hir going and returning from the river, and as she passed thus naked by him, he plainly perceyved, that the nights obscurity could not cloud the delicate whitenes of hir body, but made the starres themselves to gaze amorously on her, even as if they were proud to behold her bathing, and (like so many twinkling tapers) shewed hir in emulation of another _diana_. now, what conflicts this sight caused in the mind of our scholler, one while, quenching his hatefull spleen towards hir, al coveting to imbrace a piece of such perfection: another while, thinking it a purchase fit for one of _cupids_ soldiers, to seize and surprize hir uppon so faire an advantage, none being neere to yeild her rescue: in the fiery triall of such temptations, i am not able to judge, or to say, what resistance flesh and blood could make, being opposed with such a sweet enemy. but he well considering what she was, the greatnes of his injury, as also how, and for whom: he forgot all wanton allurements of love, scorning to entertaine a thought of compassion, continuing constant in his resolution, to let her suffer, as he himselfe had done. so, _helena_ being mounted up on the turret, and turning her face towards the north; she repeated those idle frivolous words (composed in the nature of a charme) which shee had received from the scholler. afterward, by soft and stealing steps, hee went into the old tower, and tooke away the ladder, whereby she ascended to the tarras, staying and listening, how shee proceeded in her amorous exorcisme. seven times she rehearsed the charme to the image, looking still when the two ladies would appeare in their likenesse, and so long she held on her imprecations (feeling greater cold, then willinglie she would have done) that breake of day began to shew it selfe, and halfe despairing of the ladies comming, according as the scholler had promised, she said to her selfe: i much misdoubt, that _reniero_ hath quitted me with such another peece of night-service, as it was my lucke to bestow on him: but if he have done it in that respect, hee was but ill advised in his revenge, because the night wants now three parts of the length, as then it had: and the cold which he suffered, was far superior in quality to mine, albeit it is more sharp now in the morning, then all the time of night it hath bin. and, because day-light should not discover her on the tarrasse, she went to make her descent downe againe: but finding the ladder to be taken away, & thinking how her publike shame was now inevitable, her heart dismayed, and shee fell downe in a swoune on the tarras: yet recovering her senses afterward, her greefe and sorrow** exceeded all capacity of utterance. for, now she became fully perswaded, that this proceeded from the schollers malice, repenting for her unkinde usage towards him, but much more condemning her selfe, for reposing any trust in him, who stood bound (by good reason) to be her enemy. continuing long in this extreame affliction, and surveighing all likely meanes about her, whereby she might descend from the tarras, whereof she was wholly disappointed: she began to sighe and weepe exceedingly, and in this heavy perplexity of spirit, thus shee complained to her selfe. miserable and unfortunate _helena_, what will be saide by thy bretheren, kindred, neighbours, and generallie throughout all _florence_, when they shall know, that thou wast founde heere on this turret, starke naked? thine honourable carriage, and honesty of life, heeretofore free from a thought of suspition, shall now be branded with detestation; and if thou wouldst cloud this mishappe of thine, by such lies and excuses, as are not rare amongst women: yet _reniero_ that wicked scholler, who knoweth all thy privy compacting, will stand as a thousand witnesses against thee, and shame thee before the whole city, so both thine honor and loved friend are lost for ever. having thus consulted with her selfe, many desperate motions entred her minde, to throw her selfe headlong from off the tarras; till better thoughts wone possession of her soule. and the sunne being risen, shee went to every corner of the tarras, to espye any lad come abroad with his beasts, by whom she might send for her waiting-woman. about this instant, the scholler who lay sleeping (all this while) under a bush, suddenly awaking; saw her looke over the wall, and she likewise espyed him; whereupon hee said unto her. good morrow madame _helena_, what? are the ladies come yet or no? _helena_ hearing his scorning question, and grieving that hee should so delude her; in teares and lamentations, she intreated him to come neere the tower, because she desired to speake with him. which courtesie he did not deny her, and she lying groveling upon her brest on the tarras, to hide her body that no part thereof might be seene, but her head; weeping, she spake thus to him. _reniero_, upon my credit, if i gave thee an ill nights rest, thou hast well revenged that wrong on me; for, although wee are now in the moneth of _july_, i have beene plagued with extremity of colde (in regard of my nakednesse) even almost frozen to death: beside my continuall teares and lamenting, that folly perswaded me to beleeve thy protestations, wherein i account it well-neere miraculous, that mine eyes should be capable of any sight. and therefore i pray thee, not in respect of any love which thou canst pretend to beare me; but for regard of thine owne selfe, being a gentleman and a scholler, that this punishment which thou hast already inflicted upon me, may suffise for my former injuries towards thee, and to hold thy selfe revenged fully, as also permit my garments to be brought me, that i may descend from hence, without taking that from me, which afterward (although thou wouldst) thou canst never restore me, i meane mine honour. and consider with thy selfe, that albeit thou didst not injoy my company that unhappy night, yet thou hast power to command me at any time whensoever, with making many diversities of amends, for one nights offence only committed. content thy selfe then good _reniero_, and as thou art an honest gentleman, say thou art sufficiently revenged on me, in making me dearely confesse mine owne errour. never exercise thy malice upon a poore weake woman, for the eagle disdaineth to pray on the yeelding dove: and therefore in meere pitty, and for manhoods sake, be my release from open shame and reproch. the scholler, whose envious spleene was swolne very great, in remembring such a malicious cruelty exercised on him, beholding her to weepe and make such lamentations; found a fierce conflict in his thoughts, betweene content and pitty. it did not a little joy and content him, that the revenge which hee so earnestly desired to compasse, was now by him so effectually inflicted. and yet (in meere humanity) pitty provoked him to commisserate the ladies distressed condition: but clemency being over-weake to withstand his rigor, thus he replied. madame _helena_, if my entreaties (which, to speake truly, i never knew how to steepe in tears, nor wrap up my words in sugar candie, so cuningly as you women know how to do) could have prevailed, that miserable night, when i was well-neere frozen to death with cold, and meerly buried with snow in your court, not having anie place of rescue or shelter; your complaints would now the more easily over-rule me. but if your honor in estimation, bee now more precious to you then heretofore, and it seemeth so offensive to stand there naked: convert your perswasions & prayers to him, in whose armes you were that night imbraced, both of your triumphing in my misery, when poor i, trotted about your court, with the teeth quivering in my head, and beating mine armes about my body, finding no compassion in him, or you. let him bring thee thy garments, let him come helpe thee down with the ladder, and let him have the care of thine honour, on whom thou hast bene so prodigall heretofore in bestowing it, and now hast unwomanly throwne thy selfe in perill, onely for the maintenance of thine immodest desires. why dost thou not call on him to come helpe thee? to whom doeth it more belong, then to him? for thou art his, and he thine, why then shold any other but he help thee in this distresse? call him (foole as thou art) and try, if the love he beareth thee, and thy best understanding joyned with his, can deliver thee out of my sottish detaining thee. i have not forgot, that when you both made a pastime of my misery, thou didst demand of him, which seemed greatest in his opinion, either my sottish simplicity, or the love thou barest him. i am not now so liberall or courteous, to desire that of thee, which thou wouldst not grant, if i did request it: no, no, reserve those night favours for thy amorous friend, if thou dost escape hence alive to see him againe. as for my selfe, i leave thee freely to his use and service: because i have sufficiently payde for a womans falshood, & wise men take such warning, that they scorne to bee twice deceived, & by one woman. proceed on still in thy flattering perswasions, terming me to be a gentleman and a scholler, thereby to win such favor from me, that i should think thy villany toward me, to be already sufficiently punished. no, trecherous _helena_, thy blandishments cannot now hoodwink the eies of my understanding, as when thou didst out-reach me with thy disloyall promises and protestations. and let me now tell thee plainely, that all the while i continued in the universitie of _paris_, i never attained unto so perfect an understanding of my selfe, as in that one miserable night thou diddest enstruct mee. but admit, that i were enclined unto a mercifull and compassionate minde, yet thou art none of them, on whome milde and gracious mercy should any way declare her effects. for, the end of pennance among savage beasts, such as thou art, and likewise of due vengeance, ought to be death: whereas among men, it should suffice according to thine owne saying. wherefore, in regard that i am neither an eagle, nor thou a dove, but rather a most venomous serpent: i purpose with my utmost hatred, and as an ancient enemy to all such as thou art, to make my revenge famous on thee. i am not ignorant, that whatsoever i have already done unto thee, cannot properly be termed revenge, but rather chastisement; because revenge ought alwayes to exceede the offence, which (as yet) i am farre enough from. for, if i did intend to revenge my wrongs, and remembred thy monstrous cruelty to me: thy life, if i tooke it from thee, and an hundred more such as thy selfe, were farre insufficient, because in killing thee, i should kill but a vile inhumane beast, yea, one that deserved not the name of a woman. and, to speake truely, art thou any more, or better (setting aside thy borrowed haire, and painted beauty, which in few yeares will leave thee wrinkled and deformed) then the basest beggarly chamber-stuffe that can bee? yet thou soughtest the death of a gentleman and scholler as (in scorne) not long since, thou didst terme me: whose life may hereafter be more beneficiall unto the world, then millions of such as thou art, to live in the like multiplicity of ages. therefore, if this anguish be sensible to thee, learne what it is to mocke men of apprehension, and (amongst them especially) such as are schollers: to prevent thy falling hereafter into the like extremity, if it be thy good lucke to escape out of this. it appeareth to me, that thou art verie desirous to come downe hither on the ground; the best counsell that i can give thee, is to leape downe headlong, that by breaking thy necke (if thy fortune be so faire) thy life and lothsome qualities ending together, i may sit and smile at thy deserved destruction. i have no other comfort to give thee, but only to boast my happinesse, in teaching thee the way to ascend that tower, and in thy descending downe (even by what means thy wit can best devise) make a mockery of me, and say thou hast learned more, then all my schollership could instruct thee. all the while as _reniero_ uttered these speeches, the miserable lady sighed and wept very grievously, the time running on, and the sunne amending higher and higher; but when she heard him silent, thus she answered. unkinde and cruell man, if that wretched night was so greevous to thee, and mine offence appeared so great, as neither my youth, beautie, teares, and humble intercessions, are able to derive any mercy from thee; yet let the last consideration moove thee to some remorse: namely, that i reposed new confidence in thee (when i had little or no reason at all to trust thee) and discovered the integritie of my soule unto thee, whereby thou didst compasse the meanes, to punish me thus deservedly for my sinne. for, if i had not reposed confidence in thee, thou couldst not (in this manner) have wrought revenge on me, which although thou didst earnestly covet, yet my rash credulitie was thy onely helpe. asswage then thine anger, and graciously pardon me, wherein if thou wilt be so mercifull to me, and free me from this fatall tower: i do heere faithfully promise thee, to forsake my most false and disloyall friend, electing thee as my lord and constant love for ever. moreover, although thou condemnest my beauty greatly, esteeming it as a trifle, momentary, and of slender continuance; yet, such as it is (being comparable with any other womans whatsoever) i am not so ignorant, that were there no other reason to induce liking thereof: yet men in the vigour of their youth (as i am sure you think yourselfe not aged) do hold it for an especiall delight, ordained by nature for them to admire and honour. and notwithstanding all thy cruelty extended to mee, yet i cannot be perswaded, that thou art so flinty or iron-hearted, as to desire my miserable death, by casting my selfe headlong downe (like a desperate madde woman) before thy face so to destroy that beauty, which (if thy letters lyed not) was once so highly pleasing in thine eyes. take pitty then on mee for charities sake, because the sunne beginneth to heate extreamely: and as over-much colde (that unhappy night) was mine offence, so let not over-violent warmth be now my utter ruine and death. the scholler, who (onely to delight himselfe) maintained this long discoursing with her, returned her this answere. madame, you did not repose such confidence in me, for any good will or affection in you towards me, but in hope of recovering him whom you had lost; wherein you merit not a jot of favour, but rather the more sharpe and severe infliction. and whereas you inferre, that your over-rash credulity, gave the onely meanes to my revenge: alas! therein you deceive your selfe; for i have a thousand crochets working continually in my brain, whereby to entrap a wiser creature then a woman, yet veiled all under the cunning cloake of love, but sauced with the bitter wormewood of hate. so that, had not this hapned as now it doth, of necessity you must have falne into another: but, as it hath pleased my happy stars to favour mee therein, none could proove more to your eternall scandall and disgrace, then this of your owne devising, which i made choise of, not in regard of any ease to you, but onely to content my selfe. but if all other devises els had failed, my pen was and is my prevayling champion, where-with i would have written such and so many strange matters, concerning you in your very dearest reputation; that you should have curst the houre of your conception, & wisht your birth had bin abortive. the powers of the pen are too many & mighty, whereof such weake wits as have made no experience, are the lesse able to use any relation. i sweare to you lady, by my best hopes, that this revenge which (perhappes) you esteeme great and dishonourable, is no way compareable to the wounding lines of a penne, which can carracter downe so infinite infamies (yet none but guilty and true taxations) as will make your owne hands immediate instruments, to teare the eyes from forth your head, and so bequeath your after dayes unto perpetuall darkenesse. now, concerning your lost lover, for whose sake you suffer this unexpected pennance; although your choise hath proved but bad, yet still continue your affection to him: in regard that i have another ladie and mistresse, of higher and greater desert then you, and to whome i will continue for ever constant. and whereas you thinke, the warme beames of the sunne, will be too hot and scorching for your nice bodie to endure: remember the extreame cold which you caused mee to feele, and if you can intermixe some part of that cold with the present heat, i dare assure you, the sun (in his highest heate) will be far more temperate for your feeling. the disconsolate lady perceiving, that the schollers wordes favoured of no mercy, but rather as coveting her desperate ending; with the teares streaming downe her cheekes, thus she replied. wel sir, seeing there is no matter of worth in me, whereby to derive any compassion from you: yet for that ladies sake, whom you have elected worthy to enjoy your love, and so farre excelleth mee in wisedome; vouchsafe to pardon mee, and suffer my garments to be brought me, wherewith to cover my nakednesse, and so to descend downe from this tower, if it may stand with your gentle nature to admit it. now beganne _reniero_ to laughe very heartily, and perceiving how swiftly the day ran on in his course, he saide unto her. beleeve me madame _helena_, you have so conjured me by mine endeered ladie and mistresse, that i am no longer able to deny you; wherefore, tell me where your garments are, and i will bring them to you, that you may come downe from the turret. she beleeving his promise, tolde him where she had hid them, and _reniero_ departing from the tower, commanded his servant, not to stirre thence: but to abide still so neere it, as none might get entrance there till his returning. which charge was no sooner given to his man, but hee went to the house of a neere neighbouring friend, where he dined well, and afterward laid him downe to sleepe. in the meane while, madame _helena_ remaining still on the tower, began to comfort her selfe with a little vaine hope, yet sighing and weeping incessantly, seating her selfe so well as shee could, where any small shelter might yeelde the least shade, in expectation of the schollers returning: one while weeping, then againe hoping, but most of all despairing, by his so long tarrying away with her garments; so that beeing over-wearied with anguish and long watching, she fell into a little slumbering. but the sunne was so extreamly hot, the houre of noone being already past, that it meerly parched her delicate body, and burnt her bare head so violently: as not onely it seared all the flesh it touched; but also cleft & chinkt it strangely, beside blisters and other painfull scorchings in the flesh which hindred her sleeping, to help her self (by all possible means) waking. and the turret being covered with lead, gave the greater addition to her torment; for, as she removed from one place to another, it yeelded no mitigation to the burning heate, but parched and wrinkled the flesh extraordinarily, even as when a piece of parchment is throwne into the fire, and recovered out againe, can never be extended to his former forme. moreover, she was so grievously payned with the head-ake, as it seemed to split in a thousand pieces, whereat there needed no great marvaile, the lead of the turret being so exceedingly hot, that it affoorded not the least defence against it, or any repose to qualifie the torment: but drove her still from one place to another, in hope of ease, but none was there to be found. nor was there any winde at all stirring, whereby to asswage the sunnes violent scalding, or keepe away huge swarmes of waspes, hornets, and terrible byting flyes, which vexed her extreamely, feeding on those parts of her body, that were rifte and chinkt, like crannies in a mortered wall, and pained her like so many points of pricking needles, labouring still with her hands to beate them away, but yet they fastned on one place or other, and afflicted her in grievous manner, causing her to curse her owne life, hir amorous friend, but (most of all) the scholler, that promised to bring her garments, and as yet returned not. now began she to gaze upon every side about her, to espy some labouring husbandmen in the fields, to whom she might call or cry out for helpe, not fearing to discover her desperate condition: but fortune therein also was adverse to her, because the heats extreamity, had driven all the village out of the fields, causing them to feede their cattle about theyr owne houses, or in remote and shadie valleyes: so that shee could see no other creatures to comfort her, but swannes swimming in the river of _arno_, and wishing her selfe there a thousand times with them, for to coole the extreamity of her thirst, which so much the more encreased, onely by the sight thereof, and utterly disabled of having any. she saw beside in many places about her, goodly woods, fayre coole shades, and country houses here and there dispersed; which added the greater violence to hir affliction, that her desires (in all these) could no way be accomplished. what shall i say more concerning this disastrous lady? the parching beames of the sunne above her, the scalding heat of the lead beneath her, the hornets and flyes everie way stinging her, had made such an alteration of her beautifull bodie: that, as it checkt and controlled the precedent nights darkenesse, it was now so metamorphosed with rednesse, yea, and blood issuing forth in infinite places, as she seemed (almost) loathsome to looke on, continuing still in this agonie of torment, quite voyde of all hope, and rather expecting death, then any other comfort. _reniero_, when some three houres of the afternoone were overpast, awaked from sleeping: and remembring madame _helena_, he went to see in what estate she was; as also to send his servant unto dinner, because he had fasted all that day. she perceyving his arrivall, being altogether weake, faint, and wonderously over-wearied, she crept on her knees to a corner of the turret, and calling to him, spake in this manner. _reniero_, thy revenge exceedeth al manhoode and respect: for, if thou wast almost frozen in my court, thou hast roasted me all day long on this tower, yea, meerly broyled my poore naked bodie, beside starving mee thorough want of food and drinke. be now then so mercifull (for manhoods sake) as to come uppe hither, and inflict that on me, which mine owne hands are not strong enough to do, i meane the ending of my loathed and wearisome life, for i desire it beyond all comfort else, and i shall honour thee in the performance of it. if thou deny me this gracious favour; at least send me uppe a glasse of water, onely to moisten my mouth, which my teares (being all meerly dried up) are not able to doe, so extreame is the violence of the sunnes burning heate. well perceived the scholler, by the weaknesse of her voyce, and scorching of her body by the suns parching beames, that shee was brought now to great extremity: which sight, as also her humble intercession, began to touch him with some compassion, nevertheles, thus he replied. wicked woman, my hands shall be no means of thy death, but make use of thine owne, if thou be so desirous to have it: and as much water shalt thou get of me to asswage thy thirst, as thou gavest me fire to comfort my freezing, when thou wast in the luxurious heat of thy immodest desires, and i wel-neere frozen to death with extremity of cold. pray that the evening may raine downe rose-water on thee, because that in the river of _arno_ is not good enough for thee: for as little pitty doe i take on thee now, as thou didst extend compassion to me then. miserable woman that i am, answered _helena_; why did the heavens bestow beautie on mee, which others have admired and honoured, and yet (by thee) is utterly despised? more cruell art thou then any savage beast; thus to vexe and torment mee in such mercilesse manner. what greater extreamity couldst thou inflict on me, if i had bin the destruction of all thy kindred, and lefte no one man living of thy race? i am verily perswaded, that more cruelty cannot be used against a traitor, who was the subversion of a whole cittie, then this tyranny of thine, roasting me thus in the beames of the sun, and suffering my body to be devoured with flies, without so small a mercie; as to give mee a little coole water, which murtherers are permitted to have, being condemned by justice, and led to execution: yea wine also, if they request it. but, seeing thou art so constant in thy pernitious resolve, as neither thine owne good nature, nor this lamentable sufferance in me, are able to alter thee: i will prepare my self for death patiently, to the end, that heaven may be mercifull to my soul, and reward thee justly, according to thy cruelty. which words being ended, she withdrew her selfe towards the middest of the tarras, despairing of escaping (with life) from the heates violence; and not once onely, but infinite times beside (among her other grievous extreamities) she was ready to dye with drought, bemoaning incessantly her dolorous condition. by this time the day was well neere spent, and night beganne to hasten on apace: when the scholler (immagining that he afflicted her sufficiently) tooke her garments, and wrapping them up in his mans cloake, went thence to the ladies house, where he found _ancilla_ the waiting-woman sitting at the doore, sad and disconsolate for her ladies long absence, to whom thus he spake. how now _ancilla_? where is thy lady and mistris? alas sir (quoth she) i know not. i thought this morning to have found her in her bed, as usually i was wont to do, and where i left her yesternight at our parting: but there she was not, nor in any place else of my knowledge, neyther can i imagine what is become of her, which is to me no meane discomfort. but can you (sir) say any thing of her? _ancilla_, said he, i would thou hadst bin in her company, and at the same place where now she is, that some punishment for thy fault might have falne uppon thee, as already it hath done on her. but beleeve it assuredly, that thou shalt not freely escape from my fingers, till i have justly paide thee for thy paines, to teach thee to abuse any gentleman, as thou didst me. having thus spoken, hee called to his servant, saying. give her the garments, and bid her go looke her lady, if she will. the servingman fulfilled his masters command, and _ancilla_ having receyved her ladies cloaths, knowing them perfectly, and remembring (withall) what had bin said: she waxed very doubtfull, least they had slaine her, hardly refraining from exclaiming on them, but that greefe and heavie weeping overcame her; so that uppon the schollers departing, she ranne in all hast with the garments towardes the tower. upon this fatall and unfortunate day to madame _helena_, it chanced, that a clowne or countrey peazant belonging to her farme or dairy house, having two of his young heyfers wandred astray, and he labouring in diligent search to finde them: within a while after the schollers departure, came to seeke them in woods about the tower, and, notwithstanding all his crying and calling for his beasts, yet he heard the ladies greevous moanes and lamentations. wherefore, he cryed out so lowd as he could, saying: who is it that mourneth so aloft on the tower? full well she knew the voyce of her peazant, and therefore called unto him, and sayd in this manner. go (quoth she) i pray thee for my waiting-woman _ancilla_, and bid her make some meanes to come up hither to me. the clowne knowing his lady, sayde. how now madame? who hath carried you up there so high? your woman _ancilla_ hath sought for you all this day, yet no one could ever have immagined you to bee there. so looking about him, he espyed the two sides of the ladder, which the scholler had pulled in sunder; as also the steppes, which he had scattered thereabout; placing them in due order againe as they should bee, and binding them fast with withies and willowes. by this time _ancilla_ was come thither, who so soone as shee was entred into the tower, could not refrain from teares & complaints, beating her hands each against other, and crying out. madam, madam, my deare lady and mistresse! alas, where are you? so soone as she heard the tongue of _ancilla_, she replyed (so well as she could) saying: ah my sweet woman, i am heere aloft uppon the tarras; weepe not, neyther make any noyse, but quickely bring me some of my garments. when shee heard her answer in such comfortable manner, she mounted up the ladder, which the peazant had made very firme and strong, holding it fast for her safer ascending; by which meanes she went upon the tarras. beholding her ladie in so strange a condition, resembling no humane body, but rather the trunke of a tree halfe burned, lying flat on her face, naked, scorched and strangely deformed: shee beganne to teare the lockes of her owne hayre, raving and raging in as pittifull manner, as if her ladie had beene quite dead. which storming tempest, madame _helena_ soone pacified, entreating her to use silence, and helpe to put on her garments. having understood by her, that no one knew of her being there, but such as brought her cloathes, and the poore peazant, attending there still to do her any service: shee became the better comforted, entreating them by all meanes, that it might bee concealed from any further discovery, which was on eyther side, most faithfullie protested. the poore clowne holpe to beare downe his lady uppon his backe, because the ladder stood not conveniently enough for her descending, neither were her limbes plyable for her owne use, by reason of their rifts and smarting. _ancilla_ following after, and being more respective of her lady, then her owne security in descending; missing the step in the midst of the ladder, fell downe to the ground, and quite brake her legge in the fall, the paine whereof was so greevous to her, that she cried and roared extraordinarily, even like a lyon in the desert. when the clowne had set his lady safe on a faire green banke, he returned to see what the waiting woman ayled, and finding her leg to be quite broken: he caried her also to the same banke, & there seated her by her lady: who perceiving what a mischance had hapned, and she, from whom she expected her onely best helpe, to bee now in far greater necessity her selfe: shee lamented exceedingly, complaining on fortunes cruel malice toward her, in thus heaping one misery upon another, and never ceasing to torment her, especially now in the conclusion of all, and when shee thought all future perils to be past. now was the sun upon his setting, when the poore honest country-man, because darke night should not overtake them, conducted the lady home to his owne house: and gaining the assistance of his two brethren and wife, setting the waiting-woman in a chaire, thither they brought her in like manner. and questionles, there wanted no diligence and comfortable language, to pacifie the ladyes continuall lamentations. the good wife, led the lady into hir own poore lodging, where (such cates as they had to feede on) lovingly she set before her: conveying her afterward into her owne bed, and taking such good order, that _ancilla_ was carried in the night time to _florence_, to prevent all further ensuing danger, by reason of her legs breaking. madame _helena_, to colour this misfortune of her owne: as also the great mishap of her woman: forged an artificiall and cunning tale, to give some formall apparance of hir being in the tower, perswading the poore simple country people, that in a straunge accident of thunder and lightning, and by the illusions of wicked spirits, all this adventure hapned to her. then physitians were sent for; who, not without much anguish and affliction to the ladie (by reason of her fleshes flaying off, with the medicines and emplaysters applyed to the body) was glad to suffer whatsoever they did, beside falling into a very dangerous feaver; out of which she was not recovered in a long while after, but continued in daily dispayre of her life; beside other accidents hapning in her time of physicke, utterly unavoydable in such extreamities: and hardly had _ancilla_ her legge cured. by this unexpected pennance imposed on madame _helena_, she utterly forgot her amorous friend, and (from thence forward) carefully kept her selfe from fond loves allurements, and such scornfull behaviour, wherein she was most disorderly faulty. and _reniero_ the scholler, understanding that _ancilla_ had broken her leg, which he reputed as a punishment sufficient for her, held himselfe satisfyed, because neither the mistresse nor her maide, could now make any great boast, of his nights hard entertainment, and so concealed all matters else. thus a wanton-headed lady, could finde no other subject to worke her mocking folly on, but a learned scholler, of whom shee made no more respect, then any other ordinary man. never remembring, that such men are expert (i cannot say all, but the greater part of them) to helpe the frenzie of foolish ladies, that must injoy their loose desires, by negromancy, and the divelles meanes. let it therefore (faire ladies) be my loving admonition to you, to detest all unwomanly mocking and scorning, but more especiallie to schollers. _two neere dwelling neighbours, the one beeing named_ spinelloccio tavena, _and the other_ zeppa di mino, _frequenting each others company daily together;_ spinelloccio _cuckolded his friend and neighbour. which happening to the knowledge of_ zeppa, _he prevailed so well with the wife of_ spinelloccio, _that he being lockt up in a chest, he revenged his wrong at that instant, so that neither of them complained of his misfortune._ the eight novell. _wherein is approved, that he which offereth shame and disgrace to his neighbour; may receive the like injury (if not in worse manner) by the same man._ greevous, and full of compassion, appeared the hard fortunes of madame _helena_ to be, having much discontented, and (well-neere) wearied all the ladies in hearing them recounted. but because they were very justly inflicted upon her, and according as (in equity) shee had deserved, they were the more moderate in their commisseration: howbeit, they reputed the scholler not onely over-obstinate, but also too strict, rigorous and severe. wherefore, when madame _pampinea_ had finished hir novell, the queene gave command to madame _fiammetta_, that she should follow next with her discourse; whereto shee shewing obedience, thus beganne. because it appeareth in my judgement (faire ladyes) that the schollers cruelty hath much displeased you, making you more melancholly then this time requireth: i holde it therefore very convenient, that your contristed spirits should be chearfully revived, with matter more pleasing and delightfull. and therefore, i mean to report a novell of a certaine man, who tooke an injury done him, in much milder manner, and revenged his wrong more moderately, then the furious incensed scholler did. whereby you may comprehend, that it is sufficient for any man, and so he ought to esteeme it, to serve another with the same sawce, which the offending party caused him first to taste of: without coveting any stricter revenge, then agreeth with the quality of the injury received. know then (gracious assembly) that, as i have heretofore heard, there lived not long since in _sienna_, two young men, of honest parentage and equall condition, neither of the best, nor yet the meanest calling in the city: the one being named _spinelloccio tavena_, and the other tearmed _zeppa di mino_, their houses neighbouring together in the streete _camollia_. seldome the one walked abroade without the others company, and their houses allowed equall welcome to them both; so that by outward demonstrations, & inward mutuall affection, as far as humane capacity had power to extend, they lived and loved like two brethren, they both beeing wealthy, and married unto two beautifull women. it came to passe, that _spinelloccio_, by often resorting to the house of _zeppa_, as well in his absence, as when he abode at home; beganne to glance amorous looks on _zeppaes_ wife, and pursued his unneighbourly purpose in such sort: that hee being the stronger perswader, and she (belike) too credulous in beleeving, or else over-feeble in resisting; from private imparlance, they fell to action; and continued their close fight a long while together, unseene and without suspition, no doubt to their equall joy and contentment. but, whether as a just punishment, for breaking so loving a league of friendship and neighbour-hood, or rather a fatall infliction, evermore attending on the closest cuckoldry, their felicity still continuing in this kinde: it fortuned on a day, _zeppa_ abiding within doors, contrary to the knowledge of his wife, _spinelloccio_ came to enquire for him, and she answering (as she verily supposed) that he was gon abroad: uppe they went both together into the hall, and nobodie being there to hinder what they intended, they fell to their wonted recreation without any feare, kissing and embracing as lovers use to do. _zeppa_ seeing all this, spake not one word, neither made any noise at all; but kept himselfe closely hidden, to observe the yssue of this amorous conflict. to be briefe, he saw _spinelloccio_ goe with his wife into the chamber, and make the doore fast after them, whereat he could have beene angry, which he held to be no part of true wisedome. for he knew well enough, that to make an out crie in this case, or otherwise to reveale this kinde of injury, it could no way make it lesse, but rather give a greater addition of shame and scandall: he thought this no course for him to take; wiser considerations entred his braine, to have this wrong fully revenged, yet with such a discreete and orderly carriage, as no neighbours knowledge should by any meanes apprehend it, or the least signe of discontent in himselfe blabbe it, because they were two daungerous evils. many notable courses wheeled about his conceit, every one promising fairely, and ministring meanes of formall apparance, yet one (above the rest) wonne his absolute allowance, which he intended to prosecute as best he might. in which resolution, he kept still very close, so long as _spinelloccio_ was with his wife; but hee being gone, he went into the chamber, where he found his wife, amending the forme of her head attyre, which _spinelloccio_ had put into a disordred fashion. wife (quoth he) what art thou doing? why? do you not see husband? answered she. yes that i do wife, replied _zeppa_, and something else happened to my sight, which i could wish that i had not seene. rougher language growing betweene them, of his avouching, and her as stout denying, with defending her cause over-weakely, against the manifest proofes both of eye and eare; at last she fell on her knees before him, weeping incessantly, and no excuses now availing, she confest her long acquaintance with _spinelloccio_, and most humbly entreated him to forgive her. uppon the which penitent confession and submission, _zeppa_ thus answered. wife, if inward contrition be answerable to thy outward seeming sorrow, then i make no doubt, but faithfully thou dost acknowledge thine owne evill dooing: for which, if thou expectest pardon of me; determine then to fulfill effectually, such a busines as i must enjoyne, and thou performe. i command thee to tell _spinelloccio_, that to morrow morning, about nine of the clocke, we being both abroad walking, he must finde some apt occasion to leave my company, and then come hither to visit thee. when he is here, sodainly will i returne home; and upon thy hearing of my entraunce: to save his owne credite, and thee from detection, thou shalt require him to enter this chest, untill such time as i am gone forth againe; which he doing, for both your safeties, so soon as he is in the chest, take the key and locke him up fast. when thou hast effected this, then shall i acquaint thee with the rest remaining, which also must be done by thee, without dread of the least harme to him or thee, because there is no malicious meaning in me, but such as (i am perswaded) thou canst not justly mislike. the wife, to make some satisfaction for her offence committed, promised that she would performe it, and so she did. on the morrow morning, the houre of nine being come, when _zeppa_ and _spinelloccio_ were walking abroad together, _spinelloccio_ remembring his promise unto his mistresse, and the clocke telling him the appointed houre, hee saide to _zeppa_. i am to dine this day with an especiall friend of mine, who i would be loath should tarry for my comming; and therefore holde my departure excused. how now? answered _zeppa_, the time for dinner is yet farre enough off, wherefore then should we part so soone? yea but _zeppa_, replied _spinelloccio_, wee have weighty matters to confer on before dinner, which will require three houres space at the least, and therefore it behoveth me to respect due time. _spinelloccio_ being departed from zeppa (who followed faire and softly after him) being come to the house, and kindly welcommed by the wife: they were no sooner gone up the staires, and entering in at the chamber doore; but the woman heard her husband cough, and also his comming up the staires. alas deare _spinelloccio_ (quoth she) what shall we do? my husband is comming uppe, and we shall be both taken tardie, step into this chest, lye downe there and stirre not, till i have sent him forth againe, which shall be within a very short while. _spinelloccio_ was not a little joyfull for her good advice; downe in the chest lay he, and she lockt him in: by which time _zeppa_ was entred the chamber. where are you wife? said he, (speaking so loud, as hee in the chest might heare him) what, is it time to go to dinner? it will be anon sir, answered she, as yet it is overearly; but seeing you are come, the more hast shall be made, and every thing will be ready quickly. _zeppa_, sitting downe upon the chest, wherein _spinelloccio_ lay not a little affrighted, speaking still aloud, as formerly he did: come hither wife (quoth he) how shall we do for some good companie to dine with us? mine honest kinde neighbour _spinelloccio_ is not at home, because he dineth forth to day with a deare friend of his, by which meanes, his wife is left at home alone: give her a call out at our window, and desire her to come dine with us: for we two can make no merry musicke, except some more come to fill up the consort. his wife being very timorous, yet diligent to doe whatsoever he commanded, so prevailed with the wife of _spinelloccio_: that she came to them quickely, and so much the rather, because her husband dined abroad. shee being come up into the chamber, _zeppa_ gave her most kinde entertainment, taking her gently by the hand, and winking on his wife, that she should betake her selfe to the kitchin, to see dinner speedily prepared, while he sat conversing with his neighbour in the chamber. his wife being gone, he shut the doore after her, which the new-come neighbour perceyving, she sayde. our blessed lady defend me. _zeppa_, what is your meaning in this? have you caused me to come hither to this intent? is this the love you beare to _spinelloccio_, and your professed loyalty in friendshippe? _zeppa_, seating her downe on the chest, wherein her husband was inclosed, entreating her patience, thus began. kinde and loving neighbour, before you adventure too farre in anger, vouchsafe to heare what i shall tell you. i have loved, and still doe love, _spinelloccio_ as my brother, but yesterday (albeit he knoweth it not) i found, the honest trust i reposed in him, deserved no other, or better recompence, but even to be bold with my wife, in the selfesame manner as i am, and as hee ought to do with none but you. now, in regard of the love which i beare him, i intend to be no otherwise revenged on him, but in the same kinde as the offence was committed. he hath bin more then familiar with my wife, i must borrow the selfe-same courtesie of you, which in equity you cannot deny mee, weighing the wrong you have sustained by my wife. our injuries are alike, in your husband to me, and in my wife to you: let then their punishment and ours be alike also, as they, so we; for in this case there can be no juster revenge. the woman hearing this, and perceiving the manifolde confirmations thereof, protested (on solemne oath) by _zeppa_; hir beliefe grew setled, and thus she answered. my loving neighbour** _zeppa_, seeing this kinde of revenge is (in meere justice) imposed on mee, and ordained as a due scourge, as well to the breach of friendship and neighbour-hood, as abuse of his true and loyall wife: i am the more willing to consent: alwaies provided, that it be no imbarrement of love betweene your wife and mee, albeit i have good reason to alledge, that she began the quarrell first: and what i do is but to right my wrong, as any other woman of spirit would do: afterwards, we may the more easily pardon one another. for breach of peace (answered _zeppa_) between my wife and you, take my honest word for your warrant. moreover, in requitall of this favour to mee, i will bestowe a deare and precious jewell on you, excelling all the rest which you have beside. in delivering these words, he sweetly kissed and embraced her, as she sat on the chest wherein her husband lay: now, what they did else beside, in recompence of the wrong received, i leave to your imagination, as rather deserving silence, then immodest blabbing. _spinelloccio_, being all this while in the chest, hearing easily all the words which _zeppa_ had uttered, the answer of his wife, as also what musicke they made over his head: you may guesse in what a case he was, his heart being ready to split with rage, and, but that hee stood in feare of _zeppa_, he would have railde and exclaimed on his wife, as thus hee lay shut up in the chest. but entering into better consideration, that so great an injury was first begun by himselfe, & _zeppa_ did no more, then in reason and equity he might well do (having evermore carried himselfe like a kinde neighbour and frend towards him, without the least offer of distaste) he faithfully resolved, to be a firmer friend to _zeppa_ then formerly hee had bin, if it might be embraced and accepted on the other side. delights and pleasures, be they never so long in contenting and continuance, yet they come to a period and conclusion at last: so _zeppa_, having ended his amorous combate, and over the head of his perfidious friend, thought himselfe sufficiently revenged. but now, in consideration of a further promise made on the bargaine; _spinelloccioes_ wife challengeth the jewell, then which kind of recompence, nothing can be more welcome to women. heereupon, _zeppa_ calling for his owne wife, commanded her to open the chest; which shee did, and he merrily smiling, saide. well wife, you have given mee a cake insted of bread, and you shall lose nothing for your labour. so _spinelloccio_ comming forth of the chest, it requireth a better witte then mine, to tell you, which of them stood most confounded with shame, either _spinelloccio_ seeing _zeppa_, and knowing well enough what he had done: or the woman beholding her husband, who easily heard all their familiar conference, and the action thereupon so deservedly performed. see neighbour, is not this your dearest jewell? having kept it awhile in my wives custody; according to my promise, here i deliver it you. _spinelloccio_ being glad of his deliverance out of the chest, albeit not a little ashamed of himselfe; without using many impertinent words, saide. _zeppa_, our wrongs are equally requited on each other, and therefore i allow thy former speeches to my wife, that thou wast my friend, as i am the like to thee, and so i pray thee let us still continue. for nothing else is now to bee divided betweene us, seeing we have shared alike in our wives, which none knowing but our selves, let it be as closely kept to our selves. _zeppa_ was wel pleased with the motion, and so all foure dined lovingly together, without any variance or discontentment. and thence forward, each of the women had two husbands, as either husband enjoyed two wives, without further contention or debate. _maestro_ simone, _an ydle-headed doctor of physicke, was throwne by_ bruno _and_ buffalmaco, _into a common leystall of filth: the physitian fondly beleeving, that (in the night time) he should bee made one of a new created company, who usually went to see wonders, at_ corsica; _and there in the leystall they left him._ the ninth novell. _wherein is approved, that titles of honour, learning, and dignity, are not alwayes bestowne on the wisest men._ after that the ladies had a while considered, on the communication betweene the two wives of _sienna_, and the falshood in friendship of their husbands: the queene, who was the last to recount her novell, without offering injurie to _dioneus_, began to speake thus. the reward for a precedent wrong committed, which _zeppa_ retorted upon _spinelloccio_, was answerable to his desert, and no more then equity required, in which respect, i am of opinion, that such men ought not to be over-sharpely reproved, as do injurie to him, who seeketh for it, and justly should have it, althogh madam _pampinea_ (not long since) avouched the contrary. now, it evidently appeareth, that _spinelloccio_ well deserved what was done to him, and i purpose to speake of another, who needs would seeke after his owne disgrace. the rather to confirme my former speeches, that they which beguile such wilfull foolish men; are not to bee blamed, but rather commended. and he unto whom the shame was done, was a physitian, which came from _bologna_ to _florence_; and returned thither againe like unto a beast, notoriously baffulled and disgraced. it is a matter well knowne to us, and (almost) observed day by day, that divers of our citizens, when they returne from their studying at _bologna_: one becommeth an advocate, another a physitian, and a third a notarie, with long & large gowns, some of scarlet, and hoods furred with minever, beside divers other great apparances, succeeding effectually daily in their severall kinds. among whom, there returned (not long since) thence, one master _simon da villa_, more rich in possessions left him by his parents, then anie knowledge thereto obtained: yet cloathed in scarlet, with his miniver hood, and styled a doctor of physicke, which title hee onely bestowed on himselfe, and tooke a goodly house for his dwelling, in the street which wee commonly call _la via del cocomero_. this master doctor _simon_, being thus newly come thither, among other notable qualities in him, had one more especial then any of the rest, namely, to know the names and conditions of such persons, as daily passed by his doore, and what professions they were of, whereby any likelyhood might be gathered of needing his helpe, and being his patients, observing them all with very vigilant care. but, among all the rest by him thus warily noted, he most observed two painters, of whom we have heeretofore twice discoursed, _bruno_ and _buffalmaco_, who walked continually together, and were his neere dwelling neighbours. the matter which most of al he noted in them, was; that they lived merrily, and with much lesse care, then any else in the cittie beside, and verily they did so in deede. wherefore, he demanded of divers persons, who had good understanding of them both, of what estate and condition they were. and hearing by every one, that they were but poore men & painters: he greatly mervailed, how it could be possible for them, that they should live so jocondly, and in such poverty. it was related to him further beside, that they were men of a quicke and ingenious apprehension, whereby hee politikely imagined, that theyr poore condition could not so well maintaine them; without some courses else, albeit not publiquely knowne unto men, yet redounding to their great commoditie and profite. in which regard, he grew exceeding desirous, by what meanes he might become** acquainted, and grow into familiarity with them both, or any of them, at the least; wherein (at the length) he prevailed, and _bruno_ proved to be the man. now _bruno_ plainly perceiving (within a short while of this new begun acquaintance) that the physitian was a logger-head, and meerely no better then a _gregorian_ animall: he beganne to have much good pastime with him, by telling him strange and incredible tales, such as none but a coxcombe would give credit too; yet they delighted doctor dunce extraordinarily, and _brunoes_ familiarity was so highly pleasing to him, that he was a daily guest at dinner and supper with him, and hee was not meanly proud of enjoying his company. one day, as they sate in familiar conference together, he told _bruno_ that he wondred not a little at him and _buffalmaco_, they being both so poore people, yet lived far more jovially then lords, and therefore desired to understand, by what secret meanes they compassed such mirthfull maintenance. _bruno_, hearing the doctors demaund, & perceiving that it favoured more of the foole, then any the very least taste of wisedome: smiled unto himselfe, and determined to returne him such an answere, as might be fitting for his folly, whereupon, thus he replied. beleeve me master doctor, i would not impart to many people, what private helpes we have for our maintenance: but yet i dare boldly acquaint you therewith, in regard you are one of our most intimate friends, and of such secrecie, as (i know) you will not reveale it to any. true it is, that mine honest neighbour and my selfe, do leade our lives in such merry manner as you see, and better then all the world is aware of, for i cannot imagine you to bee so ignorant, but are certainly perswaded: that if we had no better means, then our poore manuall trade and profession; we might sit at home with bread and water, and be nothing so lively spirited as wee are. yet sir, i would not have you to conceive, that wee do eyther rob or steale, or use any other unlawfull courses: onely we travayle to _corsica_, from whence we bring (without the least prejudice to anie other) all things we stand in need of, or whatsoever wee can desire. thus do we maintaine our selves well and honestly, and live in this mirthfull disposition. master doctor hearing this discourse, and beleeving it constantly, without any further instruction or intelligence: became possessed with verie much admiration, and had the most earnest desire in the world, to know what this travailing to _corsica_ might meane: entreating _bruno_ with very great instances, to tell him what it was, and made many protestations never to disclose it to anie one. how now master doctor? answered _bruno_, what a strange motion do you make to mee? it is too great a secret, which you desire to know, yea, a matter of mine owne ruine, and an utter expulsion out of this worlde, with condemnation into the mouth of _lucifer da san gallo_, if any man whatsoever should know it from me, wherefore i pray you to urge it no more. o my deer and honest neighbour _bruno_ (quoth the doctor) assure thy selfe upon my soul, that whatsoever thou revealest to me, shall be under seale from all, but onely our selves. fie, fie master doctor, answered _bruno_, you are too pressing and importunate. so sitting smiling to himselfe, shaking his head, and beating his breast, as if hee were in some straunge distraction of minde, stamping with his feete, and beating his fiste oftentimes on the table, at last he started uppe, and spake in this manner. ah master doctor, the love i beare to your capricious and rarely circumcised experience, and likewise the confidence i repose in your scrutinous taciturnitie, are both of such mighty and prevailing power; as i cannot conceale any thing from you, which you covet to know. and therefore, if you will sweare unto me by the crosse of _monteson_, that never (as you have already faithfully promised) you will disclose a secret so admirable; i will relate it unto you, and not otherwise. the doctor sware, and sware againe, and then _bruno_ thus began. know then my learned and judicious doctor, that it is not long time since, when there lived in this citie of ours, a man very excellent in the art of nigromancie, who named himselfe _michale scoto_, because he was a scottishman borne, of many woorthy gentlemen (very few of them being now living) hee was much honoured and respected. when he grew desirous to depart from hence, upon their earnest motion and entreaty; he left here two of his schollers behinde him, men of absolute skill and experience: giving them especial charge and command, to do all possible services they could devise, for those gentlemen who had so highly honoured him. the two famous schollers, were very helpefull to those gentlemen, in divers of their amorous occasions, and verie many other matters besides. not long after, they finding the citie, and behaviour of the people sufficiently pleasing to them; they resolved on their continuance heere, entering into a league of love and friendshippe with divers, never regarding, whether they were gentlemen, or no, or distinguishing the poore from the rich: but only in being conforme to their complexions, sociable and fit for friendship. they created a kinde society, consisting of about five and twenty men, who should meete together twice in a moneth, & in a place reputed convenient for them: where being so assembled, every man uttered his minde to those two schollers, in such cases as they most desired, to have wherewith they were all satisfied the self-same night. it came so to passe, that _buffalmaco_ and i, grew into acquaintance with those two worthy schollers, and our private familiarity together proved so prosperous, that we were admitted into the same society, and so have ever since continued. now sir, i am to tell you matter deserving admiration, & which (in very good judgements) would seeme to exceed all beleefe. for, at every time when we were assembled together: you are not able to imagine, what sumptuous hangings of tapistrie, did adorne the hall where we sate at meate, the tables covered in such royall manner, waited on by numberlesse noble and goodly attendants, both women and men, serving readily, at each mans command of the company. the basins, ewers, pots, flaggons, & all the vessels else which stood before, and for the service of our diet, being composed onely of gold and silver, and out of no worse did we both eate and drinke: the viands being very rare and dainty, abounding in plenty and variety, according to the appetite of everie person, as nothing could be wished for, but it was instantly obtained. in good sadnesse sir, i am not able to remember and tell you (within the compasse of a thousand yeares) what, and how manie severall kindes of musicall instruments, were continually played on before us; what multiplicity of waxe lights burned in all partes of the roomes; neither the excessive store of rich drugs, marchpanes, comfites, and rare banquetting stuffe, consumed there at one feasting, wherein there wanted no bounty of the best and purest wines. nor do i (master doctor) repute you so weakly witted, as to think, that in the time of our being thus assembled there, any of us al were cloathed in such simple and meane garments, as ordinarily are worne in the streets on mens bodies, or any so silly as the verie best you have: no sir, not any one man among us, but appeared by his apparrell, equall to the greatest emperour on the earth, his robe most sumptuously imbroidered with precious stones, pearles, and carbuncles, as all the world affoordeth not the like. but above all the rest, the delights and pleasures there, are beyond my capacity to expresse, or (indeede) any comparison: as namely, store of goodly and beautifull women, brought thither from all parts of the world; alwayes provided, if men bee desirous of their company: but for your easier comprehension, i will make some briefe relation of them to you, according as i heard them there named. there is the great lady of _barbanicchia_; the queene of _baschia_; the wife to the great _soldane_, the empresse of _osbeccho_; the _ciancianfera_ of _norniera_; the _bemistante_ of _berlinzona_;** and the _scalpedra_ of _narsia_. but why do i breake my braine, in numbering up so many to you? all the queenes of the world are there, even so farre as to the _schinchimurra_ of _prester john_, that hath a horne in the midst of her posteriores, albeit not visible to every eye. now i am further to tell you, that after we have tasted a cup of precious wine, fed on a few delicate comfits, and danced a dance or two to the rare musicke: every one taketh a lady by the hand, of whom he pleaseth to make his election, and she conducteth him to her chamber, in very grave and gracious manner. concerning the chambers there, each of them resembleth a paradise to looke on, they are so faire and goodly; and no lesse odorifferous in smell, then the sweetest perfumes in your apothecaries shoppes, or the rare compounds of spices, when they are beaten in an open morter. and as for the beds, they are infinitely richer, then the verie costliest belonging to the duke of _venice_: yet (in such) each man is appointed to take his rest, the musicke of rare cymbals lasting all night long, much better to be by you considered, then in my rude eloquence expressed. but of all those rich and sumptuous beds (if pride of mine owne opinion do not deceive me) them two provided for _buffalmaco_ and me, had hardly any equall: he having the queene of _france_ as his lady and mistresse, and i, the renowned queene of _england_, the onely two choise beauties of the whole world, and wee appeared so pleasing in their eyes, as they would have refused the greatest monarkes on the earth, rather then to bee rejected by us. now therefore, you may easily consider with your selfe, what great reason we have to live more merrily, then any other men can doe: in regard we enjoy the gracious favour of two such royall queenes, receyving also from them (whensoever wee please to commaund them) a thousand or two thousand florines at the least, which are both truly and duly sent us. enjoying thus the benefit of this high happinesse, we that are companions of this society, do tearme it in our vulgar language, _the pyrats voyage to corsica_. because, as rovers or pyrats robbe and take away the goodes of such as they meete withall, even so do we: only there remaineth this difference betweene us, that they never restore what they have taken: which we do immediately afterward, whether it be required or no. and thus master doctor, as to my most endeered friend, i have now revealed the meaning of sayling to _corsica_, after the manner of our private pyracie, and how important the close retention of the voiage is, you are best able your selfe to judge: in which regarde, remember your oathes and faithfull promises, or else i am undone forever. our worthy wise doctor, whose best skill scarsely extended so farre, as to cure the itch in children; gave such sound beleefe to the relation of _bruno_, as any man could doe, to the most certaine truth of life or death: having his desire immeasurably enflamed, to bee made a member of this straunge societie, which hee more coveted, then any thing in the world beside, accounting it a felicity farre beyond all other. whereupon he answered _bruno_, that it was no great matter of mervaile, if he lived so merrily as he did, having such a singular supply, to avoide all necessities whatsoever: and very hardly could he refraine from immediate request, to be accepted into the company. but yet he thought fit to deferre it further, untill he had made _bruno_ more beholding to him, by friendly entertainments and other courtesies, when he might (with better hope) be bold to move the motion. well may you conceive, that nothing more hammerd in the doctors head, then this rare voyage to _corsica_, and _bruno_ was his daily guest at dinner and supper, with such extraordinary apparances of kindnesse and courtesie, as if the physitian could not live, except he had the company of _bruno_. who seeing himselfe to bee so lovingly respected, and hating ingratitude, for favours so abundantly heaped on him: hee painted the whole story of lent about his hall, and an _agnus dei_ fairely gilt, on the portall of his chamber, as also a goodly urinall on his street doore, to the end, that such as had neede of his counsell, might know where so judicious a doctour dwelt. in a gallery likewise by his garden, he painted the furious battaile betweene the rats and cats, which did (not a little) delight master doctor. moreover, at such times as bruno had not supt with our physitian, he would bee sure to tell him on the morrow, that the night passed, he had bin with the company which he did wot of. and there (quoth he) the queene of _england_ having somewhat offended mee, i commanded, that the _gomedra_, belonging to the _grand cham_ of _tartaria_, should be brought me, and instantly shee was. what may be the meaning of _gomedra_ be? saide the doctor, i understand not those difficult names. i beleeve you sir, answered _bruno_, nor do i need to marvaile thereat: and yet i have heard _porcograsso_ speake, and also _vannacenna_, and both unexperienced in our language. you would say (replyed the doctour) _hippocrates_ and _avicenna_, who were two admirable physitians. it may be so (said _bruno_) & as hardly do i understand your names, as you mine: but _gomedra_, in the _grand chams_ language, signifies empresse in ours. but had you once seene her sir, she would make you forget all physicall observations, your arguments, receits and medicines, onely to be in her heavenly presence, which words he used (perceiving his forward longing) to enflame him the more. not long after, as the doctor was holding the candle to _bruno_, at the perfecting the bloody battayle of the cattes and rattes, because he could never bee wearied in his companie, and therefore was the more willing, to undergoe the office of the candle-holder: he resolved to acquaint him with his minde, and being all alone by themselves, thus he began. _bruno_, as heaven knoweth, there is not this day any creature living, for whom i would gladly do more, then for thee, and the very least word of thy mouth, hath power to commaund mee to goe bare-footed, even from hence so farre as to _peretola_, and account my labour well employed for thy sake: wherefore, never wonder at my continuall kindnesse towards thee, using thee as my domesticke companion, and embracing thee as my bosome friend, and therefore i am the bolder in mooving one request unto thee. as thou well knowest, it is no long while since, when thou diddest acquaint me with the behaviour of the _corsicane_ roving company, to be one in so rare and excellent a society, such hath bin my earnest longing ever since, as day nor night have i enjoyed anie rest, but should thinke my felicity beyond all compare, if i could be entertained in fellowship among you. nor is this desire of mine but upon great occasion, as thou thy selfe shalt perceive, if i prove accepted into your societie, and let me then be made a mocking stocke for ever, if i cause not to come thither, one of the most delicate young women, that ever anie eye beheld, and which i my selfe saw (not above a yeare since) at _cacavinciglia_, on whom i bestowed my intirest affection, and (by the best urinall that ever i gazed on) would have given her tenne faire _bologninaes_, to yeeld the matter i moved to her, which yet i could not (by any meanes) compasse. therefore, with all the flowing faculties of my soule i entreate thee, and all the very uttermost of my all indeede; to instruct me in those wayes and meanes, whereby i may hope to be a member of you. which if thou dooest accomplish for me, and i may finde it effectually performed: i shall not onely be thy true and loyall friend for ever, but will honour thee beside, beyond all men living. i know thee to bee a man of judgement, deepely informed in all well-grounded experience: thou seest what a propper, portly, and comely man i am, how fitly my legges are answerable to my body, my lookes amiable, lovely, and of rosie colour; beside i am a doctor of physicke, of which profession (being only most expedient) i thinke you have not one in your society. i have many commendable qualities in me, as, playing on divers instruments, exquisite in singing, and composing rare ditties, whereof i will instantly sing thee one. and so he began to sing. _bruno_ was swolne so bigge with desire of laughter, that hee had scarsely any power to refraine from it: neverthelesse, he made the best meanes he could devise: and the song being ended, the physition saide. how now _bruno_? what is thine opinion of my singing? beleeve me sir, replyed _bruno_, the vialles of _sagginali_, will loose their very best tunes, in contending against you, so mirilifficially are the sweet accents of your voice heard. i tell thee truly _bruno_ (answered master doctor) thou couldst not by any possibility have beleeved it, if thou hadst not heard it. in good sadness sir (said _bruno_) you speake most truly. i could (quoth the doctor) sing thee infinite more beside, but at this time i must forbeare them. let mee then further informe thee _bruno_, that beside the compleat perfections thou seest in me, my father was a gentleman, althogh he dwelt in a poore country village, and by my mothers side, i am derived from them of _vallecchio_. moreover, as i have formerly shewn thee, i have a goodly library of bookes, yea, and so faire and costly garments, as few physitians in _florence_ have the like. i protest to thee upon my faith, i have one gowne, which cost me (in readie money) almost an hundred poundes in _bagattinoes_, and it is not yet above ten yeares old. wherefore let me prevaile with thee, good _bruno_, to worke so with the rest of thy friends, that i may bee one of your singular society; and, by the honest trust thou reposest in mee, bee boldly sick whensoever thou wilt, my paines and physicke shall be freely thine, without the payment of one single peny. _bruno_ hearing his importunate words, and knowing him (as all men else did beside) to be a man of more words then wit, saide. master doctor, snuffe the candle i pray you, and lend me a little more light with it hitherward, until i have finished the tailes of these rats, and then i will answer you. when the rats tailes were fully finished, _bruno_ declaring by outward behaviour, that he greatly distasted the matter mooved, thus answered. worthy master doctor, the courtesies you have already extended towards me, and the bountifull favours promised beside, i know to be exceeding great, and farre beyond the compasse of any merit in me. but concerning your request, albeit in respect of your admired braine and wisedome, it is of little or no moment at all; yet it appeareth over-mighty to mee, and there is not any man now living in the world, that hath the like authoritie over me, and can more commaund me, then you (with one poore syllable) easily may doe: as well in regarde of my love and dutie, as also your singular and sententious speeches, able not onelie to make me breake a sound and setled resolution, but (almost) to move mountaines out of their places, and the more i am in your learned company, so much the faster am i lincked unto you, in immooveable affection, so farre am i in love with your admirable qualities. and had i no other reason, to affect you in such endeared manner, as i doe; yet because you are enamoured of so rare a beauty, as you have already related to me, it onely were a motive sufficient to compell me. but indeed i must needs tel you, that i have not so much power in this case, as you (perhaps) do imagine, which barreth me from such forward readines, as otherwise needed not to be urged. neverthelesse, having so solemnly ingaged your faith to me, and no way misdoubting your faithfull secrecy, i shall instruct you in some meanes to be observed; and it appeareth plainly to me, that being furnished with such plenty of bookes, as you are, and other rich endowments, as you have before rehersed, you cannot but attaine to the full period of your longing desire. speake boldly thy minde _bruno_, answered the doctour: for, i perceive thou hast no perfect knowledge of me as yet, neither what an especiall gift i have of secrecy. _messer gasparino da salicete_, when he was judge and potestat over the people of _forlini_, made choise of mee (among infinite of his dearest friends) to acquaint with a secret of no meane moment. and such a faithfull secretary he found me, as i was the onely man, that knew his mariage with _bergamino_; why then should any distrust be made of me? if it be so as you say sir (answered _bruno_) your credit is the sounder, and i dare the better adventure on your fidelity: the meanes then which you are to worke by, i shall now direct you in. we have alwayes in this noble society of ours, a captaine, and two counsellors, which are changed at every six months end. and now at christmas next (so neere drawing on) _buffalmaco_ shall be elected captaine, and my selfe one of the counsellers, for so it is already agreed on, and orderly set downe. now, he that is captain, may doe much more then any other can, and appoint matters as himselfe pleaseth. wherefore i thinke it very expedient, that so soone as possibly you may, you procure acquaintance with _buffalmaco_, entreating him with all respective courtesie. hee is a man, who when he perceyveth you to be so wonderfully wise and discreete, he will be immediatly in love with you: so, when you have your best senses about you, and your richest wearing garments on (alwayes remembred, that your acquaintance first be fully confirmed) then never feare to urge your request, for he can have no power at all to denie you; because i have already spoken of you to him, and find him to stand affected unto you verie intirely: thus when you have begunne the businesse, leave me to deale with him in the rest. now trust me kinde friend _bruno_, replyed the physitian, i like your advice exceeding well. for, if hee be a man, that taketh delight to converse with men of skill and judgement, and you have made the way for his knowing me: he will then thirst, and long to follow after mee, to understand the incredible eloquence flowing from me, and the rare composition of my musicall ditties, out of which he may learne no meane wisedome. when the matter was thus agreed on betweene them, _bruno_ departed thence, & acquainted _buffalmaco_ with everie circumstance: which made him thinke everie day a yeare, untill he might joyne in the fooling of mayster doctour, according to his owne fancie. who beeing also as desirous on the other side, to make one in the _corsicane_ voyage; could take no manner of rest either by day or night, till he was linked in friendship with _buffalmaco_, which very quickely after hee compassed. for now there wanted no costly dinners and suppers, with al delicates could be devised, for the entertainement of _buffalmaco_ and _bruno_; who, like guests very easie to be invited, where rich wines and good cheare are never wanting, needed little sending for, because his house was as familiar to them, as their owne. in the end, when the physitian espyed an opportunitie apt for the purpose, he made the same request to _buffalmaco_, as formerly hee had done to _bruno_. whereat _buffalmaco_, sodainly starting, and looking frowningly on _bruno_, as if he were extraordinarily incensed against him: clapping his hand furiously on the table, he sayde. i sweare by the great god of _pasignano_, that i can hardly refrayne from giving thee such a blow on the face, as should make thy nose to fall at thy heeles: vile traitor as thou art: for none beside thy selfe, could discover so rare and excellent a secret unto this famous physitian. the doctour, with verie plausible and pleasing tearmes, excused the matter verie artificially; protesting, that another had revealed it unto him: and after many wise circumstantiall allegations, at length hee prevailed so farre, that _buffalmaco_ was pacified; who afterwardes turning in kinde manner, thus hee beganne. master doctour, you have lived both at _bologna_, and heere in these partes with us, having (no doubt) sufficiently understoode, what it is to carry a close mouth, i meane the true charracter of taciturnitie. questionlesse, you never learned the a. b. c. as now foolish ideots do, blabbing their lessons all about the towne, which is much better apprehended by rumination; and surely (if i be not much deceyved) your nativity happened on a sonday morning, sol being at that time, lord of the ascendent, joyned with _mercurie_ in a fierie triplicitie. by such conference as i have had with _bruno_, i conceyved (as he himselfe also did) that you were verie singular in physicke onely: but it seemeth, your studies reached a higher straine, for you have learned, and know verie skilfullie, how to steale mens hearts from them, yea, to bereave them of their verie soules, which i perceyve that you can farre better doe, then any man else living to my knowledge, only by your wise, witty, judicious, and more then meere _mercurian_ eloquence, such as i never heard before. the physitian interrupting him bashfully, turned himselfe unto _bruno_, saying. did not i tell thee this before? observe what a notable thing it is, to speake well, and to frequent the company of the wise. a thousand other, meerely blockes and dullardes by nature, could never so soone comprehend all the particularities of my knowledge, as this honest and apprehensive man hath done. thou didst not search into it halfe so soone, nor (indeed) did i expresse a quarter of my ingenuity to thee, as (since his comming) hath prodigally flowne from me. well do i remember thy words, that _buffalmaco_ delighted to be among men of wisedome: and have i not now fitted him unto his owne desire? how thinkest thou _bruno_? the best (quoth _bruno_) that any man living in the world could do. ah worthy _buffalmaco_, answered the physitian: what wouldst thou then have sayde, if thou hadst seene me at _bologna_, where there was neyther great nor small, doctor nor scholler, but thought themselves happy by being in my company? if i ought any debts, i discharged them with my very wittie words; and whensoever i spake, i could set them al on a hearty laughter, so much pleasure they tooke in hearing mee. and when i departed thence, no men in the world could bee more sorrowfull then they, as desiring nothing more then my remayning among them, which they expressed so apparantly, that they made humble suite and intercession to me, to bee cheefe reader of the physicke-lecture, to all the schollers studying our profession. but i could not be so perswaded, because my minde was wholly addicted hither, to enjoy those goods, landes, and inheritances, belonging lineally to them of our house, and accordingly i did performe it. how now _buffalmaco_ (quoth _bruno_) what is thine opinion now? thou wouldst not beleeve me when i told thee, that there is not a doctor in all these parts, more skilfull in distinguishing the urine of an asse, from any other, then this most expert and singular man: and i dare boldly maintaine it, that his fellow is not to bee found, from hence to the very gates of _paris_. go then, and doe the uttermost endeavour that thou canst, to grant the request which he hath made. beleeve me _buffalmaco_, saide the doctor, _bruno_ hath spoken nothing but truth, for i am scarsely knowne heere in this city, where (for the most part) they are all grosse-witted people, rather then any jot judicious; but i would thou hadst seene me among the doctors, in manner as i was wont to be. introth sire, replyed _buffalmaco_, you are my much more learned then ever i imagined, in which respect, speaking unto you as it becommeth me, to a man so excellent in wit and understanding: i dare assure you that (without any faile) i will procure you to be one of our company. after this promise thus made, the good cheare, favors and kindnesses done by the doctor to them, was beyond the compasse of all relation: whereof they made no more then a meere mockery, flouting him to his face, and yet his wisedome could not discerne it. moreover, they promised, that they would give him to wife, the faire countesse _di civillari_, who was the onely goodliest creature to be found in the whole _culattario_ of humane generation. the doctor demanded, what countesse that was? oh sir, answered _buffalmaco_, she is a great lady, one worthy to have issue by; and few houses are there in the world, where she hath not some jurisdiction and command: so that not meane people onely, but even the greatest lords, at the sound of her trumpets, do very gladlie pay her tribute. and i dare boldly affirme, that whensoever shee walketh to any place, shee yeeldeth a hot and sensible favour, albeit she keepeth most of all close. yet once every night, shee duely observeth it (as a custome) to passe from her owne house, to bathe her feete in the river of _arno_, and take a little of the sweeter ayre: albeit her continuall residencie, is within the kingdome of _laterino_. she seldome walketh abroad, but goeth with her attending officers about her, who (for more demonstration of her greatnesse) do carry the rod and plummet of lead. store of her lords and barons are every where to be seene; as the _tamagaino della porta, don meta di sirropa; manico di scopa; signior squacchera,_ and others beside, who are (as i suppose) oftentimes your daily visitants, when of necessity they must be remembred. all our care and courtesie shall extend so farre (if we doe not faile in our enterprize) to leave you in the armes of so majestick a ladie, quite forgetting hir of _cacavinciglia_. the physitian, who was borne and brought up at _bologna_, and therefore understoode not these _florentine_ tearmes: became fully contented to enjoy the ladie; and, within some few dayes following, the painters brought him tydings, that they had prepared the way for his entertainment into the societie of rovers. the day being come, when the supposed assembly was to be made the night following: the physitian invited them both to dinner; when he demanding, what provision he shold make for his entrance into their company, _buffalmaco_ returned him this answer, whereto he gave very heedfull attention. master doctor, you must be first of all, strongly armed with resolution and confidence: for if you be not, you may not only receyve hindrance, but also do us great harme beside: and now you shall heare, in what manner, and how you are to be bold and constant. you must procure the meanes, this instant night, when all the people are in their soundest sleepe, to stand upon one of those high exalted tombs or monuments, which are in the churchyard of _santa maria novella_, with the very fairest gowne you have about you, because you may appeare in the more honorable condition, before the assembly seated together, and likewise to make good our speeches already delivered of you, concerning your qualitie & profession: that the countesse, perceyving you to bee a woorthie gentlemen, may have you first honoured with the bathe, and afterward knighted at her owne cost and charge. but you must continue still upon the tombe (dreadlesse of nightly apparitions & visions) untill such time as we send for you. and for your better information in every particulare; a beast, blacke and horned, but of no great stature, will come to fetch you: perhaps he will use some gastly noises, straunge leapes, and loftie trickes, onely to terrifie and affright you: but when he perceiveth that he cannot daunt you, hee will gently come neere you, which when he hath done, you may descend from off the tombe; and, without naming or thinking on god, or any of his saintes, mount boldly on his backe, for he will stand ready to receive you. being so seated, crosse your armes over your brest, without presuming to touch or handle the beast, for he will carry you thence softly, and so bring you along to the company. but if in all this time of your travaile, you call on heaven, any saint, or bee possessed with the least thought of feare: i must plainely tell you, that either hee will cast you dangerously, or throw you into some noysom place. and therefore, if you know your selfe, not to be of a constant courage, and sprightly bold, to undertake such an adventure as this: never presume any further, because you may doe us a great deale of injurie, without any gaine or benefite to your selfe, but rather such wrong, as we would be very sorry should happen unto so deere a friend. alas honest _buffalmaco_, answered the physitian, thou art not halfe acquainted with me as yet: because i walke with gloves upon my hands, and in a long gowne, thou perhappes doest imagine mee a faint-hearted fellow. if thou didst know, what i have heeretofore done at _bologna_ in the night time, when i and my consorts went to visite pretty wenches, thou wouldst wonder at my couragious attempts. as i am a gentleman, one night, we met with a young _bona roba_, a paltry greene-sicknesse baggage, scarsely above a cubite in height, & because she refused to go with us willingly, i gave her a kicke on the bum, and spurnde her more then a crosse-bowe shoote in distance from me, and made her walke with us whether she would, or no. another time i remember, when having no other company but my boy, i went thorow the churchyard of the fryars minors, after the sounding of _ave maria_: a woman hadde beene buried there the very same day, and yet i was not a jotte affraid. wherefore, never be distrustfull of mee, but resolvedly builde upon my courage. and in regard of my more honourable entertainment, i will then weare my scarlet gowne and hood, wherein i receyved my graduation; and then do both of you observe, what a rejoycing will be among the whole company, at the entertaining of such as a man as i am, enough to create me captaine immediatly. you shall perceive also how the case will go, after i have beene there but a while, in regard that the countesse (having as yet never seene me) is so deepely enamored of mee: she cannot choose but bestow the bathe and knight-hood on me, which shee shall have the more honour of, in regard i am well able to maintaine it, therefore referre all the rest to mee, and never misdoubt your injurie or mine. spoken like a gallant, replyed _buffalmaco_, and i feare not now, but we shall winne credite by your company. but be carefull i pray you, that you make not a mockery of us, and come not at all, or fayle to be there, when the beast shall be sent for you; i speake it the rather, because it is cold weather, and you gentlemen physitians can hardly endure it. you are carefull of mee (quoth the doctor) and i thanke you for it, but i applaud my faire starres, i am none of your nice or easie-frozen fellowes, because cold weather is very familiar to me. i dare assure you, when i arise in the night time for that naturall office whereto all men are subject, i weare no warmer defence, then my thin wastcoat over my shirt, and finde it sufficient for the coldest weather at any time. when _bruno_ and _buffalmaco_ had taken their leave, the physitian, so soone as night drew neere, used many apt excuses to his wife, stealing forth his scarlet gowne and hood unseene of any, wherewith being clothed: at the time appointed, he got upon one of the marble tombes, staying there (quaking with cold) awaiting when the beast should come. _buffalmaco_, being a lusty tall man of person, had got an ugly masking suite, such as are made use of in tragedies and playes, the out-side being of black shagged haire, wherewith being cloathed, he seemed like a strange deformed beare, and a divels vizard over his face, with two gastly horrible hornes, and thus disguised, _bruno_ following him, they went to behold the issue of the businesse, so farre as the new market place, closely adjoining to _santa maria novella_. having espyed master doctor uppon the tombe, _buffalmaco_ in his misshapen habite, began to bound, leape, and carriere, snuffling and blowing in mad and raging manner: which when the physitian saw, his haire stood on end, he quaked and trembled, as being more fearfull then a woman, wishing himselfe at home againe in his house, rather then to behold a sight so dreadfull. but because he was come forth, and had such an earnest desire, to see the wonders related to him; he made himselfe so coragious as possibly he could, and bare all out in formall manner. after that _buffalmaco_ had (an indifferent while) plaide his horse-trickes, ramping and stamping somewhat strangely: seeming as become of much milder temper, he went neere to the tomb whereon the physitian stood, and there appeared to stay contentedly. master doctor, trembling and quaking still extreamely, was so farre dismayed, as he knew not what was best to be done, either to mount on the beasts backe, or not to mount at all. in the end, thinking no harme could happen to him, if he were once mounted, with the second feare, hee expelled the former, and descending downe softly from the tombs, mounted on the beast, saying out alowde: god, saint dominicke, and my good angell helpe to defend mee. seating himselfe so well as he could, but trembling still exceedingly; he crossed his armes over his stomacke, according to the lesson given him. then did _buffalmaco_ shape his course in milde manner, toward _santa maria della scala_, and groping to finde his way in the darke, went on so farre as the sisters of _ripole_, commonly called the _virgin sanctuary_. not farre off from thence, were divers trenches & ditches, wherein such men as are imployed in necessary night-services, used to empty the countesse _di civillari_, and afterward imployed it for manuring husbandmens grounds. _buffalmaco_, being come neere one of them, he stayed to breath himselfe awhile, and then catching fast hold on one of the doctours feete, raysed him somewhat higher on his back, for the easier discharging of his burthen, and so pitched him (with his head forwardes) into the lay-stall. then began he to make a dreadfull kinde of noise, stamping and trampling with his feete, passing backe againe to _santa maria della scala_, and to _prato d'ognissanti_, where hee met with _bruno_, who was constrained to forsake him, because he could not refraine from lowde laughter, then both together went backe once more, to see how the physitian would behave himselfe, being so sweetely embrued. master doctor, seeing himselfe to bee in such an abhominable stinking place, laboured with all his utmost endeavour, to get himself released thence: but the more he contended and strove for getting forth, he plunged himselfe the further in, being most pitifully myred from head to foot, sighing and sorrowing extraordinarily, because much of the foule water entred in at his mouth. in the end, being forced to leave his hood behinde him, scrambling both with his hands and feet, he got landing out of his stinking labyrinth, & having no other means, home he returned to his own house, where knocking at the doore, he was at length admitted entrance. the doore being scarse made fast againe after his letting in, _buffalmaco_ and _bruno_ were there arrived, listning how m. doctor should bee welcomd home by his angry wife: who scolding and railing at him with wonderfull impatience, gave him most hard and bitter speeches, terming him the vilest man living. where have you bin sir? quoth she. are you becom** a night-walker after other women? and could no worse garments serve your turne, but your doctors gown of scarlet? am i to suffer this behaviour? or am not i sufficient to content you, but you must be longing after change? i would thou hadst bin stifled in that foule filth, where thy fouler life did justly cast thee. behold goodly master doctor of the leystall, who being maried to an honest woman must yet go abroad in the night time, insatiatly lusting after whores and harlots. with these and the like intemperate speeches, she ceased not to afflict and torment him, till the night was almost spent, and the doctor brought into a sweeter savour. the next morning, _bruno_ and _buffalmaco_, having colourd their bodyes with a strange kinde of painting, resembling blisters, swellings, and bruises, as if they had bin extreamly beaten; came to the physitians house, finding him to be newly up, al the house yet smelling of his foule savour (although it had bin very well perfumed) and being admitted to him in the garden, hee welcommed them with the mornings salutations. but _bruno_ and _buffalmaco_ (being otherwise provided for him) delivering stearne and angry lookes, stamping and chafing, _bruno_ thus replyed. never speake so faire and flattering to us, for we are moved beyond all compasse of patience. all misfortunes in the worlde fall upon you, and an evill death may you dye, like the most false and perfidious traitor living on the earth. we must beate our braines, and move all our most endeared friends, onely for your honor and advancement: while wee were well neere starved to death in the cold like dogs, and, by your breach of promise, have bin this night so extreamly beaten, as if (like asses) we should have beene driven to _rome_. but that which is most greevous of all, is danger of excluding out of the society, where wee tooke good order for your admittance, and for your most honourable entertainment. if you will not credit us, behold our bodies, and let your owne eyes be witnesses, in what cruell manner we have bin beaten. so taking him aside under the gallery, where they might not be discovered by over-much light, they opened their bosomes, shewed him their painted bodies, and sodainly closed them up againe. the physitian laboured to excuse himselfe, declaring his misfortunes at large, and into what a filthy place he was throwne. it maketh no matter (answered _buffalmaco_) i would you had bin throwen from off the bridge into _arno_, where you might have beene recommended to the divell, and all his saints. did not i tell you so much before. in good sadnesse (quoth the doctor) i neyther commended my selfe to god, nor any of his saints. how? sayde _buffalmaco_, i am sure you will maintaine an untrueth, you used a kinde of recommendation: for our messenger told us, that you talked of god, s. _dominicke_, and your good angell, whom you desired to assist you, being so affrighted with feare, that you trembled like a leafe upon a tree, not knowing indeede where you were. thus have you unfaithfully dealt with us, as never any man shall doe the like againe, in seeking honour, and losing it through your own negligence. master doctor humbly entreated pardon, and that they would not revile him any more, labouring to appease them by the best words he could use, as fearing least they should publish this great disgrace of him. and whereas (before) he gave them gracious welcomes; now he redoubled them with farre greater courtesies, feasting them daily at his own table, and evermore delighting in their company. thus (as you have heard) two poore painters of _florence_, taught master doctor better wit, then all the learned at _bologna_. _a cicilian courtezane, named madame_ biancafiore, _by her craftie wit and policie, deceived a young merchant, called_ salabetto, _of all the money he had taken for his wares at_ palermo. _afterward, he making shew of comming hither againe, with farre richer merchandises then hee brought before: made the meanes to borrow a great summe of money of her, leaving her so base a pawne, as well requited her for her former cozenage._ the tenth novell. _whereby appeareth, that such as meet with cunning harlots, and suffer themselves to be deceived by them: must sharpen their wits, to make them requitall in the selfesame kinde._ needlesse it were to question, whether the novell related by the queene, in divers passages thereof, mooved the ladies to hearty laughter, and likewise to compassionate sighes and teares; as pittying madame _helena_ in her hard misfortune, and yet applauding the scholler for his just revenge. but the discourse being ended, _dioneus_, who knew it was his office to be the last speaker every day, after silence was commanded, he began in this manner. worthy ladies, it is a matter very manifest, that deceits do appeare so much the more pleasing, when (by the selfe-same meanes) the subtle deceyver is artificially deceived. in which respect, though you all have reported very singular deceits: yet i meane to tel you one, that may prove as pleasing to you, as any of your owne. and so much the rather, because the woman deceived, was a great and cunning mistris in beguiling others; equalling (if not excelling) any of your former beguilers. it hath bene observed heretofore, and (happily) at this very day it is as frequent, that in all cities and townes upon the sea-coasts, having ports for the benefit and venting merchandises; merchants use to bring their wealthy laden vessels thither. and when they unlade any ship of great fraught, there are prepared store-houses, which in many places are called _magazines_ or _doganaes_, at the charge of the communalty, or lord of the towne or city, for the use whereof, they receive yearly gain and benefit. into those warehouses, they deliver (under writing, and to the owners of them in especiall charge) all their goods and merchandises, of what price or valew soever they are. such as be the owners of these magazines, when the wares are thus stored uppe in them, doe safely locke them up there with their keyes, having first registred downe truly all the goods, in the register belonging to the custome-house, that the merchant may have a just account rendred him, and the rights payed to the custome-house, according to the register, and as they are either in part, or in all made sale of. brokers are continually there attending, being informed in the quality of the merchandises stored, and likewise to what merchants they appertaine: by meanes of these men, and according as the goods come to their hands, they devise to have them exchaunged, trucked, vented, and such other kinds of dispatches, answerable to the mens minds, and worth of the commodities. as in many other kingdomes and countries, so was this custome observed at _palermo_ in _sicily_, where likewise then were, and (no doubt) now a-dayes are, store of women, faire and comely of person, but yet vowed enemies to honesty. neverthelesse, by such as know them not, they are held and reputed to be blamelesse women, and by yeilding their bodyes unto generall use, are the occasion of infinite misfortunes to men. for so soone as they espy a merchant-stranger there arrived, they win information from the booke belonging to the magazin, what wares are therein stored, of what valew they bee, and who is the owner of them. afterwards, by amorous actions, and affable speeches, they allure yong merchants to take knowledge of them, to bee familiar in their company, till from some they get most part of their wealth, from others all. nay, divers have gone so farre, as to make port-sale of ship, goods, and person, so cunningly they have bene shaven by these barbers, and yet without any razor. it came to passe, and no long time since, that a young _florentine_ of ours, named _niccolo da cignano_, but more usually called _salabetto_, imployed as factor for his maister, arrived at _palermo_; his ship stored with many woollen cloathes, a remainder of such as had bin sold at the mart of _salerno_, amounting in valew to above five hundred florines of gold. when he had given in his packet to the custome-house, and made them up safe in his ware-house; without making shew of desiring any speedy dispatch, he delighted to view all parts of the city, as mens minds are continuallie addicted to novelties. he being a very faire and affable yong man, easie to kindle affection in a very modest eie: it fortuned, that a courtezane, one of our before remembred shavers, who termed hir selfe madame _biancafiore_, having heard somewhat concerning his affairs, beganne to dart amorous glances at him. which the indiscreete youth perceyving, and thinking her to be some great lady: began also to grow halfe perswaded, that his comely person was pleasing to her, and therefore he would carrie this good fortune of his somewhat cautelously. without imparting his mind unto any one, he would daily passe too and fro before her doore; which she observing, and having indifferently wounded him with her wanton piercing lookes: she began to use the first tricke of her trade, by pretending her enflamed affection towards him, which made her pine and consume away in care, except he might be moved to pitty her. whereupon, she sent one of her _pandoraes_ unto him, perfectly instructed in the art of a _maquerella_, who (after many cunning counterfetted sighes, and teares, which she had alwayes ready at command) told him; that his comely person and compleate perfections, had so wounded the very soule of her mistresse, as she could enjoy no rest in any place, either by day or night. in regard whereof, she desired (above all things else) to meete with him privately in a bathe: with which wordes, she straightway tooke a ring forth of her pursse, and in most humble manner, delivered it unto him, as a token from her mistresse. _salabetto_ having heard this message, was the onely joyfull man that could be: and having receyved the ring, looking on it advisedly; first kissed it, and then put it upon his finger. then in answer to the messenger, he sayd: that if her mistresse _biancafiore_ affected him, she sustained no losse thereby, in regard he loved her as fervently, and was ready to be commanded by her, at any time whensoever she pleased. she having delivered this message to her mistresse, was presently returned backe againe to him, to let him understand, in which of the bathes she meant to meet him, on the next morrow in the evening. this being counsell for himselfe onely to keepe, he imparted it not to any friend whatsoever; but when the houre for their meeting was come, he went unto the place where he was appointed, a bathe (belike) best agreeing with such businesse. not long had he taried there, but two women slaves came laden to him, the one bearing a mattresse of fine fustian on hir head, and the other a great basket filled with many things. having spred the mattresse in a faire chamber on a couch-bed, they covered it with delicate white linnen sheets, all about embroidred with faire fringes of gold, then laid they on costly quilts of rich silkes, artificially wrought with gold and silver knots, having pearles and precious stones interwoven among them, and two such rich pillowes, as sildome before had the like bin seene. _salabetto_ putting off his garments, entred the bath prepared for him, where the two slaves washed his body very neatly. soone after came _biancafiore_ hirselfe, attended on by two other women slaves, and seeing _salabetto_ in the bathe; making him a lowly reverence, breathing forth infinite dissembled sighes, and teares trickling downe her cheekes, kissing and embracing him, thus she spake. i know not what man else in the worlde, beside thy selfe, could have the power to bring me hither: the fire flew from thy faire eies (o thou incompareable lovely _tuscane_) that melted my soule, and makes me onely live at thy command. then hurling off her light wearing garment (because she came prepared for the purpose) shee stept into the bathe to him, and, not permitting the slaves a-while to come neere, none but her selfe must now lave his body, with muske compounded sope and gilly-floures. afterward, the slaves washed both him and her, bringing two goodly sheetes, softe and white, yeelding such a delicate smell of roses, even as if they had bene made of rose-leaves. in the one, they folded _salabetto_, and her in the other, and so conveyed them on their shoulders unto the prepared bed-couch, where because they should not sweate any longer, they tooke the sheets from about them, and laid them gently in the bed. then they opened the basket, wherein were divers goodly silver bottles, some filled with rosewaters, others with flowers of orenges, and waters distilled of gelsomine, muske, and amber-greece, wherewith (againe) the slaves bathed their bodyes in the bed, & afterward presented them with variety of comfites, as also very precious wines, serving them in stead of a little collation. _salabetto_ supposed himself to be in paradise: for this appeared to be no earthly joy, bestowing a thousand gladsome gazes on her, who (questionlesse) was a most beautifull creature, and the tarrying of the slaves, seemed millions of yeares to him, that hee might more freely embrace his _biancafiore_. leaving a waxe taper lighted in the chamber, the slaves departed, and then shee sweetly embracing _salabetto_, bestowed those further favours on him, which hee came for, and she was not squeamish in the affoording; whereof he was exceedingly joyfull, because he imagined, that they proceeded from the integrity of her affection towards him. when she thought it convenient time to depart thence, the slaves returned; they cloathed themselves, and had a banquet standing ready prepared for them; where-with they cheared their wearyed spirits, after they had first washed in odorifferous waters. at parting: _salabetto_ (quoth she) whensoever thy leysures shall best serve thee, i will repute it as my cheefest happinesse, that thou wilt accept a supper and lodging in my house, which let it be this instant night, if thou canst. he being absolutely caught, both by hir beauty and flattering behaviour: beleeved faithfully, that he was as intirely beloved of her, as the heart is of the body: whereuppon hee thus answered. madame, whatsoever pleaseth you, must needes be much more acceptable unto mee: and therefore, not onely may command my service this night, but likewise the whole employment of my life, to be onely yours in my very best studies and endeavours. no sooner did she heare this answer, but she returned home to her owne house, which she decked in most sumptuous manner, and also made ready a costly supper, expecting the arrivall of _salabetto_: who when the darke night was indifferently well entred, went thither, and was welcommed with wonderfull kindnesse, wanting no costly wines and delicates all the supper while. being afterward conducted into a goodly chamber, he smelt there admirable sweete senting savours, such as might well beseeme a princes pallace. he beheld a most costly bed, and very rich furniture round about the roome: which when he had duly considered to himself, he was constantly perswaded, that she was a lady of infinit wealth. and although he had heard divers flying reports concerning her life, yet hee would not credite any thing amisse of her, for albeit she might (perhappes) beguile some other; yet shee affected him (he thought) in better manner, and no such misfortune could happen to him. having spent all the night with her in wanton dalliances, & being risen in the morning; to enflame his affection more and more towards her, and to prevent any ill opinion he might conceyve of her, she bestowed a rich and costly girdle on him, as also a pursse most curiously wrought, saying to him. my sweet _salabetto_, with these testimonies of my true affection to thee, i give thee faithfully to understand, that as my person is onely subjected thine; so this house and all the riches in it, remaineth absolutely at thy disposition, or whatsoever hereafter shall happen within the compasse of my power. he being not a little proud of this her bountifull offer (having never bestowed any gift on her, because by no meanes shee would admit it) after many sweet kisses and embraces; departed thence, to the place where the merchants usually frequented: resorting to her (from time to time) as occasion served, and paying not one single peny for all his wanton pleasure, by which cunning baytes (at length) she caught him. it came to passe, that having made sale of all his clothes, whereby hee had great gaines, and the moneyes justly payed him at the times appointed: _biancafiore_ got intelligence thereof; yet not by him, but from one of the brokers. _salabetto_ comming one night to sup with her, she embraced and kissed him as she was wont to doe, and seemed so wonderfully addicted in love to him, even as if shee would have dyed with delight in his armes. instantly, shee would needs bestow two goodly gilt standing cuppes on him, which _salabetto_ by no meanes would receive, because she had formerly bin very bountifull to him, to above the value of an hundred crowns, and yet she would not take of him so much as a mite. at length, pressing still more tokens of her love and bounty on him, which he as courteously denied, as she kindly offered: one of her women-slaves (as shee had before cunningly appointed) sodainely calling her, forthwith she departed out of her chamber. and when she had continued a pretty while absent, she returned againe weeping; and throwing her selfe downe upon her pallet, breathed forth such sighes and wofull lamentations, as no woman could possibly doe the like. _salabetto_ amazedly wondering thereat, tooke her in his armes, and weeping also with her, said. alas my deare love, what sodain accident hath befalne you, to urge this lamentable alteration? if you love me, hide it not from me. after he had often entreated her in this manner, casting her armes about his necke, and sighing as if her heart would breake, thus she replyed. ah _salabetto_, the onely jewell of my joy on earth, i knowe not what to do, or say, for (even now) i received letters from _messina_, wherein my brother writes to me, that although it cost the sale of all my goods, or whatsoever else i have beside, i must (within eight dayes space) not faile to send him a thousand florins of gold, or else he must have his head smitten off, and i know not by what meanes to procure them so soone. for, if the limitation of fifteene dayes might serve the turne; i could borrow them in a place, where i can command a farre greater summe, or else i would sell** some part of our lands. but beeing no way able to furnish him so soone, i would i had died before i heard these dismall tydings. and in the uttering of these words, she graced them with such cunning dissembled sorrow, as if she had meant truly indeed. _salabetto_, in whom the fury of his amorous flames, had consumed a great part of his necessary understanding; beleeving these counterfetted tears and complaints of hers, to proceed from an honest meaning soule; rashly and foolishly thus replied. deare _biancafiore_, i cannot furnish you with a thousand golden florines, but am able to lend you five hundred, if i were sure of their repayment at fifteene dayes, wherein you are highly beholding to fortune, that i have made sale of all my cloathes; which if they had lyen still on my hand, my power could not stretch to lend you five florines. alas deare heart (quoth she) would you be in such want of money, and hide it from her that loves you so loyally? why did you not make your need knowne to me? although i am not furnished of a thousand florines; yet i have alwaies ready three or foure hundred by me, to do any kinde office for my friend. in thus wronging me, you have robd me of all boldnes, to presume upon your offer made me. _salabetto_, far faster inveigled by these words then before, said. let not my folly (bright _biancafiore_) cause you to refuse my friendly offer, in such a case of extreme necessity: i have them ready prepared for you, and am heartily sorry, that my power cannot furnish you with the whole summe. then catching him fast in her armes, thus she answered. now i plainly perceive, my dearest _salabetto_, that the love thou bearest me is true and perfect; when, without expectation of being requested, thou art readie to succour me in such an urgent neede, & with so faire a summe of florines. sufficiently was i thine owne before, but now am much more ingaged by so high deserving; with this particular acknowledgement for ever, that my brothers head was redeemed by thy goodnesse onely. heaven beareth me record, how unwilling i am to be beholding in this kind, considring that you are a merchant, & merchants furnish al their affairs with ready monis: but seeing necessity constraineth me, and i make no doubt of repaiment at the time appointed: i shall the more boldly accept your kindnes, with this absolute promise beside, that i will rather sell all the houses i have, then breake my honest word with you. counterfeit teares still drayning downe her cheeks, and _salabetto_ kindly comforting her; he continued there with hir all that night, to expresse himselfe her most liberall servant. and, without expecting any more requesting, the next morning he brought her the five hundred florines, which she received with a laughing heart, but outward dissembled weeping eies; _salabetto_ never demanding any other security, but onely her single promise. _biancafiore_, having thus received the five hundred florines, the indiction of the almanacke began to alter: and whereas (before) _salabetto_ could come see her whensoever he pleased, many occasions now happened, whereby he came seven times for once, and yet his entrance was scarsely admitted, neither was his entertainment so affable, or his cheare so bountifull, as in his former accesses thither. moreover, when the time for repaiment was come, yea a moneth or two over-past, and he demanded to have his money; hee could have nothing but words for paiment. now he began to consider on the craft and cunning of this wicked woman, as also his owne shallow understanding, knowing he could make no proofe of his debt, but what her selfe listed to say, having neither witnes, specialty, bill or bond to shew: which made his folly so shamefull to him, that he durst not complaine to any person, because he had received some advertisements before, whereto he wold by no means listen, and now should have no other amends, but publike infamie, scorne and disgrace, which made him almost weary of his life, and much to bemoane his owne unhappinesse. he received also divers letters from his master, to make returne of the 500. florines over by way of banke, according as he had used to do: but nowe could performe no such matter. hereupon, because his error should not be discovered, he departed in a small vessell thence, not making for _pisa_, as he should have done, but directly for _naples_ hee shaped his course. at that instant lodged there, _don pietro della canigiano_, treasurer of the empresse of _constantinople_, a man of great wisedome and understanding, as also very ingenious and politike, he being an especiall favourer of _salabetto_ and all his friendes, which made him presume the more boldly (being urged thereto by meere necessity, the best corrector of wandering wits) to acquaint him with his lamentable misfortune, in every particular as it had hapned, requesting his aid and advice, how he might best weare out the rest of his dayes, because hee never meant to visit _florence_ any more. _canigiano_ being much displeased at the repetition of his follie, sharply reproved him, saying. thou hast done leudly, in carying thy selfe so loosely, and spending thy masters goods so carelesly, which though i cannot truly tearme spent, but rather art meerely cousened and cheated of them, yet thou seest at what a deere rate thou hast purchased pleasure, which yet is not utterly helplesse, but may by one meanes or other be recovered. and being a man of woonderfull apprehension, advised him instantly what was to bee done, furnishing him also with a summe of money, wherewith to adventure a second losse, in hope of recovering the first againe: he caused divers packes to be well bound up, with the merchants markes orderly made on them, and bought about twenty buttes or barrelles, all filled (as it were) with oyle, and these pretended commodities being shipt, _salabetto_ returned with them to _palermo_. where having given in his packets to the custome-house, and entred them all under his owne name, as being both owner and factor: all his wares were lockt up in his _magazine_,** with open publication, that he would not vent any of them, before other merchandises (which he daily expected) were there also arrived. _biancafiore_ having heard thereof, and understanding withall, that he had brought merchandises now with him, amounting to above two thousand florins, staying also in expectation of other commodities, valewing better then three thousand more, she beganne to consider with her selfe, that she had not yet gotten money enough from him, and therefore would cast a figure for a farre bigger booty. which that she might the more fairely effect, without so much as an imagination of the least mistrust: she would repay him backe his five hundred florines, to winne from him a larger portion of two or three thousand at the least, and having thus setled her determination, she sent to have him come speake with her. _salabetto_, having bene soundly bitten before, and therefore the better warranted from the like ranckling teeth; willingly went to her, not shewing any signe of former discontent: & she, seeming as if she knew nothing of the wealth he brought with him; gracing him in as loving manner as ever she had done, thus she spake. i am sure _salabetto_, you are angry with mee, because i restored not your florines at my promised day. _salabetto_ smiling, presently answered. beleeve me lady (quoth he) it did a little distast me, even as i could have bin offended with him, that should plucke out my heart to bestow it on you, if it would yeelde you any contentment. but to let you know unfainedly, how much i am incensed with anger against you: such and so great is the affection i beare you, that i have solde the better part of my whole estate, converting the same into wealthy merchandises, which i have alreadie brought hither with mee, and valewing above two thousand florines, all which are stored up in in my _magazine_. there must they remaine, till another ship come forth of the western parts, wherein i have a much greater adventure, amounting unto more then three thousand florines. and my purpose is, to make my aboade heere in this city, which hath won the sole possession of my heart, onely in regard of my _biancafiore_, to whom i am so intirely devoted, as both my selfe, and whatsoever else is mine (now or hereafter) is dedicated onely to her service; whereto thus she replyed. now trust me _salabetto_, whatsoever redoundeth to thy good and benefite, is the cheefest comfort of my soule, in regard i prize thy love dearer then mine owne life, and am most joyfull of thy returne hither againe; but much more of thy still abiding heere, because i intend to live onely with thee, so soone as i have taken order for some businesse of import. in the meane while, let me entreate thee to hold me excused, because before thy departure hence, thou camest sometimes to see me, without thy entrance admitted; and other-whiles againe, found not such friendly entertainement, as formerly had bene affoorded. but indeede, and above all the rest, in not re-paying thy money according to my promise. but consider good _salabetto_, in what great trouble and affliction of minde i then was, both in regard of my brothers danger, and other important occurrences beside, which molestations do much distract the senses, and hinder kinde courtesies, which otherwise would bee extended liberally. last of all consider also, how difficult a thing it is for a woman, so sodainly to raise the summe of a thousand golden florines, when one friend promiseth, and performeth not; another protesteth, yet hath no such meaning; a third sweareth, and yet proveth a false lyar: so that by being thus ungently used, a breach is made betweene the best friends** living. from hence it proceeded, and no other defect else, that i made not due returne of your five hundred florins. no sooner were you departed hence, but i had them readie, and as many more, and could i have knowne whither to send them, they had bene with you long time since, which because i could not (by any meanes) compasse, i kept them still for you in continuall readinesse, as hoping of your comming hither againe. so causing a purse to be brought, wherein the same florines were, which hee had delivered her; she gave it into his hand, and prayed him to count them over, whether there were so many, or no. never was _salabettoes_ heart halfe so joyfull before; and having counted them, found them to be his owne five hundred florines: then, putting them up into his pocket, he saide. comfort of my life, full well i know that whatsoever you have saide, is most certaine; but let us talke no more of falshood in friendship, or casuall accidents happening unexpected: you have dealt with mee like a most loyall mistresse, and heere i protest unfainedly to you, that as well in respect of this kinde courtesie, as also the constancy of mine affection to you, you cannot request hereafter a far greater summe of me, to supply any necessarie occasion of yours; but (if my power can performe it) you shall assuredly finde it certaine: make proofe thereof whensoever you please, after my other goods are landed, and i have established my estate here in your city. having in this manner renewed his wonted amity with her, and with words farre enough off from all further meaning: _salabetto_ began againe to frequent her company, she expressing all former familiarity, and shewing her selfe as lavishly bountifull to him, in all respects as before she had done, nay, many times in more magnificent manner. but he intending to punish her notorious trechery towards him, when she left him as an open scorne to the world, wounded with disgrace, and quite out of credit with all his friends: she having (on a day) solemnly invited him, to suppe and lodge in her house all night; he went, both with sad and melancholly lookes, seeming as overcome with extreamity of sorrow. _biancafiore_ mervayling at this strange alteration in him, sweetly kissing and embracing him: would needs know the reason of his passionate affliction, & he permitting her to urge the question oftentimes together, without returning any direct answere; to quit her in her kind, and with coine of her owne stampe, after a few dissembled sighes, he began in this manner. ah my dearest love, i am utterly undone, because the shippe containing the rest of mine expected merchandises, is taken by the pyrates of _monago_, and put to the ransome of tenne thousand florines of gold, and my part particularly, is to pay one thousand. at this instant i am utterly destitute of money, because the five hundred florines which i received of you, i sent hence the next daie day following to _naples_, to buy more cloathes, which likewise are to be sent hither. and if i should now make sale of the merchandizes in my magazine (the time of generall utterance being not yet come) i shall not make a pennyworth for a penny. and my misfortune is the greater, because i am not so well knowne heere in your city, as to find some succour in such an important distresse; wherefore i know not what to do or say. moreover, if the money be not speedily sent, our goods will be carried into _monago_, and then they are past all redemption utterly. _biancafiore_ appearing greatly discontented, as one verily perswaded, that this pretended losse was rather hers, then his, because she aymed at the mainest part of all his wealth: began to consider with her selfe, which was the likeliest course to be taken, for saving the goods from carriage to _monago_: whereupon thus she replied. heaven knoweth (my dearest _salabetto_) how thy love maketh me sorrowfull for this misfortune, and it greeveth me to see thee any way distressed: for if i had mony lying by mee (as many times i have) thou shouldst finde succour from my selfe onely, but indeede i am not able to helpe thee. true it is, there is a friend of mine, who did lend me five hundred florines in my need, to make uppe the other summe which i borrowed of thee: but he demandeth extreme interest, because he will not abate any thing of thirty in the hundred, and if you should bee forced to use him, you must give him some good security. now for my part, the most of my goods here i will pawne for thee: but what pledge can you deliver in to make up the rest? wel did _salabetto_ conceive, the occasion why she urged this motion, and was so diligent in doing him such a pleasure: for it appeared evidently to him, that herselfe was to lend the mony, whereof he was not a little joyfull, seeming very thankfull to hir. then he told her, that being driven to such extremity, how unreasonable soever the usury was, yet he would gladly pay for it. and for her friends further security, hee would pawne him all the goods in his _magazine_, entering them downe in the name of the party, who lent the money. onely he desired to keepe the keyes of the ware-house, as well to shew his merchandises, when any merchant should bee so desirous: as also to preserve them from ill using, transporting or changing, before his redemption of them. she found no fault with his honest offer, but sayde, hee shewed himselfe a well-meaning man, and the next morning shee sent for a broker, in whom she reposed especiall trust; and after they had privately consulted together, shee delivered him a thousand golden florines, which were caried by him presently to _salabetto_, and the bond made in the brokers name, of all the goods remaining in _salabettoes_ ware-house, with composition and absolute agreement, for the prefixed time of the monies repaiment. no sooner was this tricke fully accomplished, but _salabetto_ seeming as if he went to redeeme his taken goods: set saile for _naples_ towards _pietro della canigiano_, with fifteene hundred florines of gold: from whence also he sent contentment to his master at _florence_ (who imployd him as his factor at _palermo_) beside his owne packes of cloathes. he made repayment likewise to _canigiano_, for the monies which furnished him in this last voyage, and any other to whom hee was indebted. so there he stayed awhile with _canigiano_, whose counsell thus holpe him to out-reach the _sicillian_ courtezane: and meaning to deale in merchandise no more, afterward he returned to _florence_ and there lived in good reputation. now as concerning _biancafiore_, when she saw that _salabetto_ returned not againe to _palermo_, she beganne to grow somewhat abashed, as halfe suspecting that which followed. after she had tarried for him above two moneths space, and perceived hee came not, nor any tydings heard of him: shee caused the broker to breake open the magazine, casting forth the buttes or barrels, which shee beleeved to bee full of good oyles. but they were all filled with sea-water, each of them having a small quantity of oyle floating on the toppe, onely to serve when a tryall should bee made. and then unbinding the packes, made up in formall and merchantable manner: there was nothing else in them, but logges and stumpes of trees; wrapt handsomely in hurdles of hempe and tow; onely two had cloathes in them. so that (to bee briefe) the whole did not value two hundred crownes: which when she saw, and observed how cunningly she was deceived: a long while after shee sorrowed, for repaying backe the five hundred florines, and folly in lending a thousand more, using it as a proverbe alwaies after to hir selfe: _that whosoever dealt with a tuscane, had neede to have found sight and judgement._ so remaining contented (whither she would or no) with her losse: she plainly perceyved, that although she lived by cheating others, yet now at the length she had mette with her match. * * * * * so soone as _dioneus_ had ended his novell, madame _lauretta_ also knew, that the conclusion of her regiment was come; whereupon, when the counsell of _canigiano_ had past with generall commendation, and the wit of _salabetto_ no lesse applauded, for fitting it with such an effectuall prosecution; shee tooke the crowne of laurell from her owne head, and set it upon madame _ã�milliaes_, speaking graciously in this manner. madam, i am not able to say, how pleasant a queene we shall have of you, but sure i am, that we shall enjoy a faire one: let matters therefore be so honourably carried; that your government may be answerable to your beautifull perfections; which words were no sooner delivered, but she sate downe in her mounted seate. madame _ã�millia_ being somewhat bashfull, not so much of hir being created queene, as to heare her selfe thus publikely praysed, with that which women do most of all desire: her face then appearing, like the opening of the damaske rose, in the goodlyest morning. but after she had a while dejected her lookes, and the vermillion blush was vanished away: having taken order with the master of the houshold, for all needefull occasions befitting the assembly, thus she began. gracious ladies, wee behold it daily, that those oxen which have laboured in the yoake most part of the day, for their more convenient feeding, are let forth at liberty, and permitted to wander abroad in the woods. we see moreover, that gardens and orchards, being planted with variety of the fairest fruit trees, are equalled in beauty by woods and forrests, in the plentifull enjoying of as goodly spreading branches. in consideration whereof, remembring how many dayes wee have already spent (under the severitie of lawes imposed) shaping all our discourses to a forme of observation: i am of opinion, that it will not onely well become us, but also prove beneficiall for us, to live no longer under such restraint, and like enthralled people, desirous of liberty, wee should no more be subjected to the yoke, but recover our former strength in walking freely. wherefore, concerning our pastime purposed for to morrow, i am not minded to use any restriction, or tye you unto any particular ordination: but rather do liberally graunt, that every one shall devise and speake of arguments agreeing with your owne dispositions. besides, i am verily perswaded, that variety of matter uttered so freely, will be much more delightfull, then restraint to one kinde of purpose onely. which being thus granted by me, whosoever shall succeede me in the government may (as being of more power and preheminence) restraine all backe againe to the accustomed lawes. and having thus spoken, she dispensed with their any longer attendance, untill it should be supper time. every one commended the queenes appointment, allowing it to rellish of good wit and judgement; and being all risen, fell to such exercises as they pleased. the ladies made nosegaies and chaplets of flowers, the men played on their instruments, singing divers sweete ditties to them, and thus were busied untill supper time. which beeing come, and they supping about the beautifull fountains: after supper, they fell to singing and dauncing. in the end, the queene, to imitate the order of her predecessors, commanded _pamphilus_, that notwithstanding all the excellent songs formerly sung: he should now sing one, whereunto dutifully obeying, thus he began. the song. the chorus sung by all. _love, i found such felicitie, and joy, in thy captivitie: as i before did never prove, and thought me happy, being in love._ _comfort abounding in my hart, joy and delight in soule and spright i did possesse in every part; o soveraigne love by thee. thy sacred fires, fed my desires, and still aspires, thy happy thrall to bee. love, i found such felicity, &c._ _my song wants power to relate, the sweets of minde which i did finde in that most blissefull state, o soveraigne love by thee. no sad despaire, or killing care could me prepare; still thou didst comfort me. love, i found such felicity, &c._ _i hate all such as do complaine, blaspheming thee with cruelty, and sleights of coy disdaine. o soveraigne love, to mee thou hast bene kinde: if others finde. thee worse inclinde, yet i will honour thee._ _love, i found such felicitie, and joy in thy captivitie: as i before did never prove, but thought me happie, being in love._ thus the song of _pamphilus_ ended, whereto all the rest (as a chorus) answered with their voyces, yet every one particularly (according as they felt their love-sicke passions) made a curious construction thereof, perhaps more then they needed, yet not divining what _pamphilus_ intended. and although they were transported with variety of imaginations; yet none of them could arrive** at his true meaning indeed. wherefore the queene, perceiving the song to be fully ended, and the ladies, as also the young gentlemen, willing to go take their rest: she commaunded them severally to their chambers. _the end of the eight day._ the ninth day. _whereon, under the government of madame_ ã�millia, _the argument of each severall discourse, is not limitted to any one peculiar subject: but every one remaineth at liberty, to speak of whatsoever themselves best pleaseth._ the induction. faire _aurora_, from whose bright and chearefull lookes, the duskie darke night flyeth as an utter enemy, had already reached so high as the eight heaven, converting it all into an azure colour, and the pretty flowrets beganne to spred open their leaves: when madame _ã�millia_, beeing risen, caused all her female attendants, and the yong gentlemen likewise, to be summoned for their personall appearance. who being all come, the queen leading the way, and they following her majesticke pace, walked into a little wood, not farre off distant from the palace. no sooner were they there arrived, but they beheld store of wilde beasts, as hindes, hares, goats, and such like; so safely secured from the pursuite of huntsmen (by reason of the violent pestilence then reigning) that they stood gazing boldly at them, as dreadlesse of any danger, or as if they were become tame and domesticke. approaching neerer them, first to one, then unto another, as if they purposed to play gently with them, they then beganne to skippe and runne, making them such pastime with their pretty tripping, that they conceyved great delight in beholding of them. but when they beheld the sunne to exalt itselfe, it was thought convenient to return back again, shrouding themselves under the trees spreading armes, their hands full of sweete flowers and odorifferous hearbes, which they had gathered in their walking. so that such as chanced to meete them, could say nothing else: but that death knew not by what meanes to conquer them, or els they had set down an absolute determination, to kill him with their joviall disposition. in this manner, singing, dancing, or prettily pratling, at length they arrived at the palace, where they found all things readily prepared, and their servants duly attending for them. after they hadde reposed themselves awhile, they would not (as yet) sit downe at the table, untill they had sung halfe a dozen of canzonets, some more pleasant then another, both the women and men together. then they fell to washing hands, and the maister of the houshold caused them to sit downe, according as the queene had appointed, and dinner was most sumptuously served in before them. afterward, when the tables were with-drawne, they all tooke handes to dance a roundelay; which being done, they plaied on their instruments a while; and then, such as so pleased, tooke their rest. but when the accustomed houre was come, they all repaired to the place of discoursing, where the queen, looking on madam _philomena_, gave her the honor of beginning the first novell for that day: whereto shee dutifully condiscending, began as followeth. _madam_ francesca, _a widdow of_ pistoya, _being affected by two_ florentine _gentlemen, the one named_ rinuccio palermini, _and the other_ alessandro chiarmontesi, _and she bearing no good will to eyther of them; ingeniously freed her selfe from both their importunate suites. one of them she caused to lye as dead in a grave, and the other to fetch him from thence: so neither of them accomplishing what they were enjoyned, fayled of obtaining his hoped expectation._ the first novell. _approving, that chaste and honest women, ought rather to deny importunate suiters, by subtile and ingenious meanes, then fall into the danger of scandall and slander._ madame, it can no way discontent mee (seeing it is your most gracious pleasure) that i should have the honour, to breake the first staffe of freedome in this faire company (according to the injunction of your majesty) for liberty of our own best liking arguments: wherein i dismay not (if i can speake well enough) but to please you all as well, as any other that is to follow me. nor am i so oblivious (worthy ladies) but full well i remember, that many times hath bene related in our passed demonstrations, how mighty and variable the powers of love are: and yet i cannot be perswaded, that they have all bene so sufficiently spoken of, but something may bee further added, and the bottome of them never dived into, although we should sit arguing a whole yeare together. and because it hath beene alreadie approved, that lovers have bene led into divers accidents, not onely inevitable dangers of death, but also have entred into the verie houses of the dead, thence to convey their amorous friends: i purpose to acquaint you with a novell, beside them which have bene discoursed; whereby you may not onely comprehend the power of love, but also the wisedome used by an honest gentlewoman, to rid her selfe of two importunate suiters, who loved her against her owne liking, yet neither of them knowing the others affection. in the city of _pistoya_, there dwelt sometime a beautifull gentlewoman, being a widdow, whom two of our _florentines_ (the one named _rinuccio palermini_, and the other _alessandro chiarmontesi_), having withdrawne themselves to _pistoya_ desperately affected, the one ignorant of the others intention, but each carrying his case closely, as hoping to be possessed of her. this gentlewoman, named madame _francesca de lazzari_, being often solicited by their messages, and troublesomely pestered with their importunities: at last (lesse advisedly then she intended) shee granted admittance to heare either of them speake. which she repenting, and coveting to be rid of them both, a matter not easie to be done: she wittily devised the onely meanes, namely, to move such a motion to them, as neither would willingly undertake, yet within the compasse of possibility; but they failing in the performance, shee might have the more honest occasion, to bee free from all further molestation by them, and her politike intention was thus projected. on the same day, when she devised this peece of service, a man was buried in _pistoya_, and in the church-yard belonging unto the gray friars, who being descended of good and worthie parentage: yet himselfe was very infamous, and reputed to be the vilest man living, not onely there in _pistoya_, but throughout the whole world beside. moreover, while he lived, he had such a strange misshapen body, and his face so ugly deformed, that such as knew him not, would stand gastly affrighted at the first sight of him. in regarde whereof, shee considered with her selfe, that the foule deformitie of this loathed fellow, would greatly avayle in her determination, and consulting with her chamber-maid, thus she spake. thou knowest (my most true and faithfull servant) what trouble and affliction of minde i suffer dayly, by the messages and letters of the two _florentines, rinuccio_ and _alessandro,_ how hatefull their importunity is to me, as being utterly unwilling to hear them speake, or yeeld to any thing which they desire. wherefore, to free my selfe from them both together, i have devised (in regard of their great and liberall offers) to make triall of them in such a matter, as i am assured they will never performe. it is not unknowne to thee, that in the church-yard of the gray friars, and this instant morning, _scannadio_ (for so was the ugly fellow named) was buried; of whom, when he was living, as also now being dead, both men, women, and children, doe yet stand in feare, so gastly and dreadfull alwayes was his personall appearance to them. wherefore, first of all go thou to _alessandro_, and say to him thus. my mistris _francesca_ hath sent me to you, to tell you, that now the time is come, wherein you may deserve to enjoy her love, and gaine the possession of her person, if you will accomplish such a motion as she maketh to you. for some especiall occasion, wherewith hereafter you shall bee better acquainted, a neere kinsman of hers, must needs have the body of _scannadio_ (who was buried this morning) brought to her house. and she, being as much affraid of him now he is dead, as when he was living, by no meanes would have his body brought thither. in which respect, as a token of your unfeigned love to her, and the latest service you shall ever do for her: shee earnestly entreateth you, that this night, in the very deadest time thereof, you would go to the grave, where _scannadio_ lyeth yet uncovered with earth untill to morrow, and attyring your selfe in his garments, even as if you were the man himselfe, so to remaine there untill her kinsman doe come. then, without speaking any one word, let him take you foorth of the grave, & bring you thence (insted of _scannadio_) to hir house: where she will give you gentle welcome, and disappoint her kinsman in his hope, by making you lord of her, and all that is hers, as afterward shall plainly appeare. if he say he will do it, it is as much as i desire: but if hee trifle and make deniall, then boldly tell him, that he must refraine all places wheresoever i am, and forbeare to send me any more letters, or messages. having done so, then repaire to _rinuccio palermini_, and say. my mistresse _francesca_ is ready to make acceptance of your love; provided, that you will do one thing for her sake. namely, this ensuing night, in the midst & stillest season thereof, to go to the grave where _scannadio_ was this morning buried, & (without making any noise) or speaking one word, whatsoever you shall heare or see: to take him forth of the grave, and bring him home to her house, where you shall know the reason of this strange businesse, and enjoy her freely as your owne for ever. but if he refuse to do it, then i commaund him, never hereafter to see me, or move further suite unto mee, by any meanes whatsoever. the chamber-maide went to them both, and delivered the severall messages from her mistresse, according as she had given her in charge; whereunto each of them answered, that they woulde (for her sake) not onely descend into a grave, but also into hell, if it were her pleasure. she returning with this answer unto her mistresse, _francesca_ remained in expectation, what the issue of these fond attemptes in them, would sort unto. when night was come, and the middle houre thereof already past, _alessandro chiarmontesi_, having put off all other garments to his doublet and hose, departed secretly from his lodging, walking towards the church-yard, where _scannadio_ lay in his grave: but by the way as he went, hee became surprized with divers dreadfull conceites and imaginations, and questioned with himselfe thus. what a beast am i? what a businesse have i undertaken? and whither am i going? what do i know, but that the kinsman unto this woman, perhappes understanding mine affection to her, and crediting some such matter, as is nothing so; hath laide this politicke traine for me, that he may murther me in the grave? which (if it should so happen) my life is lost, and yet the occasion never knowne whereby it was done. or what know i, whether some secret enemy of mine (affecting her in like manner, as i do) have devised this stratagem (out of malice) against mee, to draw my life in danger, and further his owne good fortune? then, contrary motions, overswaying these suspitions, he questioned his thoughts in another nature. let me (quoth he) admit the case, that none of these surmises are intended, but her kinsman (by and in this manner devised) must bring me into her house: i am not therefore perswaded, that he or they do covet, to have the body of _scannadio_, either to carry it thither, or present it to her, but rather do aime at some other end. may not i conjecture, that my close murthering is purposed, and this way acted, as on him that (in his life time) had offended them? the maid hath straitly charged me, that whatsoever is said or done unto me, i am not to speake a word. what if they pul out mine eies, teare out my teeth, cut off my hands, or do me any other mischiefe: where am i then? shall all these extremities barre me of speaking? on the other side, if i speake, then i shall be knowne, and so much the sooner (perhaps) be abused. but admit that i sustaine no injurie at all, as being guilty of no transgression: yet (perchance) i shall not be carried to her house, but to some other baser place, and afterward she shall reprove me, that i did not accomplish what shee commanded, and so all my labour is utterly lost. perplexed with these various contradicting opinions, he was willing divers times to turne home backe againe: yet such was the violence of his love, and the power thereof prevailing against all sinister arguments; as he went to the grave, and removing the boordes covering it, whereinto he entred; and having despoiled _scannadio_ of his garments, cloathed himselfe with them, & so laid him down, having first covered the grave againe. not long had hee tarryed there, but he began to bethinke him, what manner of man _scannadio_ was, and what strange reports had bene noised of him, not onely for ransicking dead mens graves in the night season, but many other abhominable villanies committed by him, which so fearfully assaulted him; that his haire stoode on end, every member of him quaked, and every minute he imagined _scannadio_ rising, with intent to strangle him in the grave. but his fervent affection overcoming all these idle feares, and lying stone still, as if he had beene the dead man indeede; he remained to see the end of his hope. on the contrary side, after midnight was past, _rinuccio palermini_ departed from his lodging, to do what hee was enjoyned by his hearts mistresse, and as hee went along, divers considerations also ran in his minde, concerning occasions possible to happen. as, falling into the hands of justice, with the body of _scannadio_ upon his backe, and being condemned for sacriledge, in robbing graves of the dead; either to be burned, or otherwise so punished, as might make him hatefull to his best friends, and meerely a shame to himselfe. many other the like conceits molested him, sufficient to alter his former determination: but affection was much more prevayling in him, and made him use this consultation. how now _rinuccio_? wilt thou dare to deny the first request, being mooved to thee by a gentlewoman, whom thou dearly lovest, and is the onely meanes, whereby to gaine assurance of her gracious favour? undoubtedly, were i sure to die in the attempt, yet i will accomplish my promise. and so he went on with courage to the grave. _alessandro_ hearing his arrivall, and also the removall of the bords, although he was exceedingly affraid; yet he lay quietly still, and stirred not, and _rinuccio_ beeing in the grave, tooke _alessandro_ by the feete, haling him forth, and (mounting him uppon his backe) went on thus loden, towards the house of madam _francesca_. as he passed along the streets, unseene or unmet by any, _alessandro_ suffered many shrewd rushings and punches, by turnings at the streets corners, and jolting against bulkes, poasts, and stalles, which _rinuccio_ could not avoyd, in regard the night was so wonderfully darke, as hee could not see which way he went. being come somewhat neere to the gentlewomans house, and she standing readie in the window with her maide, to see when _rinuccio_ should arrive there with _alessandro_, provided also of an apt excuse, to send them thence like a couple of coxcombes; it fortuned, that the watchmen, attending there in the same streete, for the apprehension of a banished man, stolne into the city contrarie to order; hearing the trampling of _rinuccioes_ feete, directed their course as they heard the noise, having their lanthorne and light closely covered, to see who it should be, and what he intended, and beating their weapons against the ground, demanded, who goes there? _rinuccio_ knowing their voyces, and that now was no time for any long deliberation: let fall _alessandro_, and ran away as fast as his legs could carry him. _alessandro_ being risen againe (although he was cloathed in _scannadioes_ garments, which were long and too bigge for him) fledde away also as _rinuccio_ did. all which madame _francesca_ easily discerned by helpe of the watchmens lanthorne, and how _rinuccio_ carried _alessandro_ on his backe, beeing attired in the garments of _scannadio_: whereat she mervailed not a little, as also the great boldnesse of them both. but in the midst of her mervailing, she laughed very heartily, when she saw the one let the other fall, and both to runne away so manfully. which accident pleasing her beyond all comparison, and applauding her good fortune, to bee so happily delivered from their daily molestation: she betooke herselfe to hir chamber with the maide, avouching solemnly to her, that (questionlesse) they both affected her dearely, having undertaken such a straunge imposition, and verie neere brought it to a finall conclusion. _rinuccio_, being sadly discontented, and curssing his hard fortune, would not yet returne home to his lodging: but, when the watch was gone forth of that streete, came backe to the place where he let fall _alessandro_, purposing to accomplish the rest of his enterprize. but not finding the body, and remaining fully perswaded, that the watchmen were possessed thereof; hee went away, greeving extreamly. and _alessandro_, not knowing now what should become of him: confounded with the like griefe and sorrow, that all his hope was thus utterly overthrowne, retired thence unto his owne house, not knowing who was the porter which carried him. the next morning, the grave of _scannadio_ being found open, & the body not in it, because _alessandro_ had thrown it into a deep ditch neere adjoyning: all the people of _pistoya_ were possessed with sundry opinions, some of the more foolish sort verily beleeving, that the divell had caried away the dead body. neverthelesse, each of the lovers, severally made knowne to madam _francesca_, what he had done, and how disappointed, either excusing himselfe, that though her command had not bin fully accomplished, yet to continue her favour towards him. but she, like a wise and discreet gentlewoman, seeming not to credit either the one or other: discharged her selfe honestly of them both, with a cutting answere, that shee would never (afterward) expect any other service from them, because they had fayled in their first injunction. _madame_ usimbalda, _lady abbesse of a monastery of nuns in_ lombardie, _arising hastily in the night time without a candle, to take one of her daughter nunnes in bed with a yong gentleman, whereof she was enviously accused, by certaine of her other sisters: the abbesse her selfe (being at the same time in bed with a priest) imagining to have put on her head her plaited vayle, put on the priests breeches. which when the poore nunne perceyved; by causing the abbesse to see her owne error, she got her selfe to be absolved, and had the freer liberty afterward, to be more familiar with her frend, then formerly she had bin._ the second novell. _whereby is declared, that whosoever is desirous to reprehend sinne in other men, should first examine himselfe, that he be not guiltie of the same crime._ by this time, madame _philomena_ sate silent, and the wit of _francesca_, in freeing her selfe from them whom she could not fancie, was generally commended: as also on the contrary, the bold presumption of the two amorous suiters, was reputed not to be love, but meerely folly. and then the queene, with a gracious admonition, gave way for madam eliza to follow next; who presently thus began. worthy ladies, madame _francesca_ delivered her selfe discreetly from trouble, as already hath bin related: but a yong nun, by the helpe and favour of fortune, did also free her selfe (in speaking advisedly) from an inconvenience sodainly falling on her. and as you well know, there wants none of them, who (like bold bayards) will be very forward in checking other mens misdemeanours, when themselves, as my novell will approve, deserve more justly to bee corrected. as hapned to a lady abbesse, under whose governement the same young nunne was, of whom i am now to speake. you are then to understand (gracious auditors) that in _lombardie_ there was a goodly monastery, very famous for holinesse and religion, where, among other sanctified sisters, there was a yong gentlewoman, endued with very singular beautie, being named _isabella_, who on a day, when a kinsman of hers came to see her at the grate, became enamored of a young gentleman, being then in his company. he likewise, beholding her to be so admirably beautifull, & conceyving by the pretty glances of her eye, that they appeared to bee silent intelligencers of the hearts meaning, grew also as affectionately inclined towards her, and this mutuall love continued thus concealed a long while, but not without great affliction unto them both. in the end, either of them being circumspect and provident enough, the gentleman contrived a meanes, whereby he might secretly visite his nunne, wherewith she seemed no way discontented: and this visitation was not for once or twice, but verie often, and closely concealed to themselves. at length it came to passe, that either through their owne indiscreete carriage, or jelous suspition in some others: it was espied by one of the sisters, both the gentlemans comming and departing, yet unknowne to him or _isabella_. the saide sister, disclosing the same to two or three more: they agreed together, to reveale it to the lady abbesse, who was named madame _usimbalda_, a holy and devout lady, in common opinion of all the nunnes, and whosoever else knew her. they further concluded (because _isabella_ should not deny theyr accusation) to contrive the businesse so cunningly: that the ladie abbesse should come her selfe in person, and take the yong gentleman in bed with the nun. and uppon this determination, they agreed to watch nightly by turnes, because by no meanes they wold be prevented: so to surprise poore _isabella_, who beeing ignorant of their treachery, suspected nothing. presuming thus still on this secret felicitie, and fearing no disaster to befall her: it chaunced (on a night) that the yong gentleman being entred into the nuns dorter, the scowts had descried him, & intended to be revenged on her. after some part of the night was overpast, they divided themselves into two bands, one to guard _isabellaes_ dorter doore, the other to carry newes to the abbesse, and knocking at her closet doore, saide. rise quickely madame, and use all the hast you may, for we have seene a man enter our sister _isabellaes_ dorter, and you may take her in bed with him. the lady abbesse, who (the very same night) had the company of a lusty priest in bed with her selfe, as oftentimes before she had, and he being alwayes brought thither in a chest: hearing these tidings, and fearing also, lest the nunnes hastie knocking at her doore, might cause it to fly open, and so (by their entrance) have her owne shame discovered: arose very hastily, and thinking she had put on her plaited vaile, which alwayes she walked with in the night season, and used to tearme her psalter; she put the priests breeches upon her head, and so went away in all hast with them, supposing them verily to be her psalter: but making fast the closet doore with her keye, because the priest should not be discovered. away shee went in all haste with the sisters, who were so forward in the detection of poore _isabella_, as they never regarded what manner of vaile the lady abbesse wore on her head. and being come to the dorter doore, quickly they lifted it off from the hookes, and being entred, found the two lovers sweetly imbracing: but yet so amazed at this sudden surprisall, as they durst not stirre, nor speake one word. the young nunne _isabella_, was raised forthwith by the other sisters, and according as the abbesse had commaunded, was brought by them into the chapter-house: the young gentleman remaining still in the chamber, where he put on his garments, awaiting to see the issue of this businesse, and verily intending to act severe revenge on his betrayers, if any harme were done to _isabella_, and afterward to take her thence away with him, as meaning to make her amends by marriage. the abbesse being seated in the chapter house, and all the other nunnes then called before her, who minded nothing else but the poore offending sister: she began to give her very harsh and vile speeches, as never any transgressor suffered the like, and as to her who had (if it should be openly knowne abroad) contaminated by her lewde life and actions, the sanctity and good renowne of the whole monastery, and threatned her with very severe chastisement. poore _isabella_, confounded with feare and shame, as being no way able to excuse her fault, knew not what answer to make, but standing silent, made her case compassionable to all the rest, even those hard-hearted sisters which betrayed her. and the abbesse still continuing her harsh speeches, it fortuned, that _isabella_, raising her head, which before she dejected into hir bosome, espied the breeches on her head, with the stockings hanging on either side of her; the sight whereof did so much encourage her, that boldly she said. madam, let a poore offender advise you for to mend your veile, and afterward say to me what you will. the abbesse being very angry; and not understanding what she meant, frowningly answered. why how now saucy companion? what vaile are you prating of? are you so malapert, to bee chatting already? is the deed you have done, to be answered in such immodest manner? _isabella_ not a jot danted by her sterne behaviour, once againe said. good madam let me perswade you to sette your vaile right, and then chide me as long as you will. at these words, all the rest of the nunnes exalted their lookes, to behold what vaile the abbesse wore on her head, wherewith _isabella_ should finde such fault, and she her selfe lift up her hand to feele it: and then they all perceyved plainly, the reason of _isabellas_ speeches, and the abbesse saw her owne error. hereupon, when the rest observed, that she had no help to cloud this palpable shame withall, the tide began to turne, and hir tongue found another manner of language, then her former fury to poore _isabella_, growing to this conclusion, that it is impossible to resist against the temptations of the flesh. and therefore she saide: let all of you take occasion, according as it offereth it selfe, as both we and our predecessors have done: to be provident for your selves, take time while you may, having this sentence alwaies in remembrance, _si non caste, tamen caute_. so, having granted the yong nunne _isabella_ free absolution: the lady abbesse returned backe againe to bed to the priest, and _isabella_ to the gentleman. as for the other sisters, who (as yet) were without the benefit of friends; they intended to provide themselves so soone as they could, being enduced thereto by so good example. _master_ simon _the physitian, by the perswasions of_ bruno, buffalmaco, _and a third companion, named_ nello, _made_ calandrino _to beleeve, that he was conceived great with childe. and having physicke ministred to him for the disease: they got both good fatte capons and money of him, and so cured him, without any other manner of deliverance._ the third novell. _discovering the simplicity of some silly witted men, and how easie a matter it is to abuse and beguile them._ after that madame _eliza_ had concluded her novell, and every one of the company given thankes to fortune, for delivering poore _isabella_ the faire young nunne, from the bitter reprehensions of the as faulty abbesse, as also the malice of her envious sisters: the queene gave command unto _philostratus_, that he should be the next in order, and hee (without expecting anie other warning) began in this manner. faire ladies, the paltry judge of the marquisate, whereof yesterday i made relation to you; hindred mee then of another novell, concerning silly _calandrino_, wherewith i purpose now to acquaint you. and because whatsoever hath already bin spoken of him, tended to no other end but matter of meriment, hee and his companions duly considered: the novel which i shall now report, keepeth within the selfesame compasse, and aimeth also at your contentment, according to the scope of imposed variety. you have already heard what manner of man _calandrino_ was, and likewise the rest of his pleasant companions, who likewise are now againe to be remembred, because they are actors in our present discourse. it came so to passe, that an aunt of _calandrinoes_ dying, left him a legacy of two hundred florines, wherewith he purposed to purchase some small farme-house in the countrey, or else to enlarge the other, whereof he was possessed already. and, as if hee were to disburse some ten thousand florines, there was not a broker in all _florence_, but understood what he intended to doe; and all the worst was, that the strings of his purse could stretch no higher. _bruno_, and _buffalmaco_ (his auncient confederates) who heard of this good fortune befalne him, advised him in such manner as they were wont to do; allowing it much better for him, to make merrie with the money in good cheare among them, then to lay it out in paltry land, whereto he would not by any meanes listen, but ridde himselfe of them with a dinners cost, as loath to bee at anie further charge with them. these merry laddes meant not to leave him so; but sitting one day in serious consultation, and a third man in their companie, named _nello_; they all three layde their braines in steep, by what means to wash their mouths well, and _calandrino_ to bee at the cost thereof. and having resolved what was to bee done, they met togither the next morning, even as _calandrino_ was comming foorth of his house, and sundering themselves, to avoyd all suspition, yet beeing not farre distant each from other; _nello_ first met him, and saide unto him, good morrow _calandrino_: which he requited backe agayne with the same salutation. but then _nello_ standing still, looked him stedfastly in the face: whereat _calandrino_ mervailing, sayd: _nello_, why dost thou behold me so advisedly? whereunto _nello_ answered, saying hast thou felt any paine this last night past? thou lookest nothing so well, as thou didst yesterday. _calandrino_ began instantly to wax doubtfull, and replyed thus. dost thou see any alteration in my face, whereby to imagine, i should feele some paine? in good faith _calandrino_ (quoth _nello_) me thinks thy countenance is strangely changed, and surely it proceedeth from some great cause, and so he departed away from him. _calandrino_ being very mistrustfull, scratched his head, yet felte he no grievance at all; and going still on; _buffalmaco_ sodainely encountred him, upon his departure from _nello_, and after salutations passing betweene them; in a manner of admiration, demanded what he ayled. truly (quoth _calandrino_) well enough to mine owne thinking, yet notwithstanding, i met with _nello_ but even now; and he told me, that my countenance was very much altred; is it possible that i should bee sicke, and feele no paine or distaste in any part of me? _buffalmaco_ answered; i am not so skilfull in judgement, as to argue on the nature of distemper in the body: but sure i am, that thou hast some daungerous inward impediment, because thou lookst (almost) like a man more then halfe dead. _calandrino_ began presently to shake, as if hee had had a feaver hanging on him, and then came _bruno_ looking fearefully on him, and before he would utter any words, seemed greatly to bemoane him, saying at length. _calandrino_? art thou the same man, or no? how wonderfully art thou changed since last i saw thee, which is no longer then yester day? i pray thee tell mee, how dooest thou feele thy health? _calandrino_ hearing, that they all agreed in one opinion of him; he beganne verily to perswade himselfe, that some sodaine sicknes, had seised upon him, which they could discerne, although hee felt no anguish at all: and therefore, like a man much perplexed in minde, demanded of them, what he should do? beleeve mee _calandrino_ (answered _bruno_) if i were worthy to give thee counsell, thou shouldst returne home presently to thy house, and lay thee downe in thy warme bedde, covered with so many cloathes as thou canst well endure. then to morrow morning, send thy water unto learned mayster doctor the physitian, who (as thou knowest) is a man of most singular skill and experience: he will instruct thee presently what is the best course to be taken, and we that have ever beene thy loving friends, will not faile thee in any thing that lieth in our power. by this time, _nello_ being come againe unto them, they all returned home with _calandrino_ unto his owne house, whereinto he entering very faintly, hee saide to his wife: woman, make my bed presently ready, for i feele my selfe to be growne extreamely sicke, and see that thou layest cloathes enow upon me. being thus laide in his bedde, they left him for that night, and returned to visite him againe the verie next morning, by which time, he had made a reservation of his water, and sent it by a young damosell unto maister doctor, who dwelt then in the olde market place, at the signe of the muske mellone. then saide _bruno_ unto his companions; abide you heere to keepe him company, and i will walke along to the physitian, to understand what he will say: and if neede be, i can procure him to come hither with me. _calandrino_ very kindely accepted his offer, saying withall. well _bruno_, thou shewst thy selfe a friend in the time of necessity, i pray thee know of him, how the case stands with me, for i feele a very strange alteration within mee, far beyond all compasse of my conceite. _bruno_ being gone to the physitian, he made such expedition, that he arrived there before the damosell, who carried the water, and informed master _simon_ with the whole tricke intended: wherefore, when the damosell was come, and hee had passed his judgement concerning the water, he said to her. maide, go home againe, and tell _calandrino_, that he must keepe himselfe very warme: and i my selfe will instantly be with him, to enstruct him further in the quality of his sicknesse. the damosell delivered her message accordingly, and it was not long before mayster doctor _simon_ came, with _bruno_ also in his company, and sitting downe on the beds side by _calandrino_, hee began to taste his pulse, and within a small while after, his wife being come into the chamber, he said. observe me well _calandrino_, for i speake to thee in the nature of a true friend; thou hast no other disease, but only thou art great with child. so soone as _calandrino_ heard these words, in dispairing manner he beganne to rage, and cry out aloud, saying to his wife. ah thou wicked woman, this is long of thee, and thou hast done me this mischeefe: for alwayes thou wilt be upon me, ever railing at mee, and fighting, untill thou hast gotten me under thee. say thou divellish creature, do i not tell thee true? the woman, being of verie honest and civill conversation, hearing her husband speake so foolishly: blushing with shame, and hanging downe her head in bashfull manner; without returning any answer, went forth of her chamber. _calandrino_ continuing still in his angry humour, wringing his hands, and beating them upon his brest, said: wretched man that i am, what shall i do? how shall i be delivered of this child? which way can it come from me into the world? i plainly perceyve, that i am none other then a dead man, and all through the wickednesse of my wife: heaven plague her with as many mischiefes, as i am desirous to finde ease. were i now in as good health, as heeretofore i have beene, i would rise out of my bed, and never cease beating her, untill i had broken her in a thousand peeces. but if fortune will be so favourable to me, as to helpe mee out of this dangerous agony: hang me, if ever she get me under her againe, or make me such an asse, in having the mastery over mee, as divers times she hath done. _bruno, buffalmaco_ and _nello_, hearing these raving speeches of _calandrino_, were swolne so bigge with laughter, as if their ribbes would have burst in sunder; neverthelesse, they abstained so well as they were able; but doctor _simon_ gaped so wide with laughing as one might easily have pluckt out all his teeth. in the end, because he could tarry there no longer, but was preparing to depart: _calandrino_ thanked him for his paines, requesting that hee would be carefull of him, in aiding him with his best advise and counsell, and he would not be unmindfull of him. honest neighbour _calandrino_, answered the phisition, i would not have you to torment your selfe, in such an impatient and tempestuous manner, because i perceive the time so to hasten on, as we shall soone perceive (and that within very few dayes space) your health well restored, and without the sense of much paine; but indeed it will cost expences. alas sir, said _calandrino_, mak not any spare of my purse, to procure that i may have safe deliverance. i have two hundred florines, lately falne to me by the death of mine aunt, wherewith i intended to purchase a farme in the countrey: take them all if need be, onely reserving some few for my lying in childbed. and then master doctor, alas, i know not how to behave my selfe, for i have heard the grievous complaint of women in that case, oppressed with bitter pangs and throwes; as questionlesse they will bee my death, except you have the greater care of me. be of good cheere neighbour _calandrino_, replyed doctor _simon_, i will provide an excellent distilled drinke for you, marvellously pleasing in taste, and of soveraigne vertue, which will resolve all in three mornings, making you as whole and as sound as a fish newly spawned. but you must have an especiall care afterward, being providently wise, least you fall into the like follies againe. concerning the preparation of this precious drinke, halfe a dozen of capons, the very fairest and fattest, i must make use of in the distillation: what other things shall bee imployed beside, you may deliver forty florines to one of these your honest friends, to see all the necessaries bought, and sent me home to my house. concerning my businesse, make you no doubt thereof, for i will have all distilled against to morrow, and then doe you drinke a great glasse full every morning, fresh and fasting next your heart. _calandrino_ was highly pleased with his words, returning master doctor infinite thankes, and referring all to his disposing. and having given forty florines to _bruno_, with other money beside, to buy the halfe dozen of capons: he thought himselfe greatly beholding to them all, and protested to requite their kindenesse. master doctor being gone home to his house, made ready a bottel of very excellent hypocrasse, which he sent the next day according to his promise: and _bruno_ having bought the capons, with other junkets, fit for the turne, the phisitian and his merry companions, fed on them hartely for the givers sake. as for _calandrino_, he liked his dyet drinke excellently well, quaffing a large glassefull off three mornings together: afterward master doctor and the rest came to see him, and having felt his pulse, the phisition said. _calandrino_, thou art now as sound in health, as any man in all _florence_ can be: thou needest not to keepe within doores any longer, but walke abroad boldly, for all is well and the childe gone. _calandrino_ arose like a joyfull man, and walked daily through the streets, in the performance of such affaires as belonged to him: and every acquaintance he met withall, he told the condition of his sudden sickenesse; and what a rare cure master doctor _simon_ had wrought on him, delivering him (in three dayes space) of a childe, and without the feeling of any paine. _bruno, buffalmaco,_ and _nello,_ were not a little jocond, for meeting so well with covetous _calandrino_: but how the wife liked the folly of her husband, i leave to the judgement of all good women. francesco fortarigo, _played away all that he had at_ buonconvento, _and likewise the money of_ francesco aniolliero, _being his master. then running after him in his shirt, and avouching that hee had robbed him: he caused him to be taken by pezants of the country, clothed himselfe in his masters wearing garments, and (mounted on his horse) rode thence to_ sienna, _leaving_ aniolliero _in his shirt, and walked bare-footed._ the fourth novell. _serving as an admonition to all men, for taking gamesters and drunkards into their service._ the ridiculous words given by _calandrino_ to his wife, all the whole company hartily laughed at: but _philostratus_ ceassing, madame _neiphila_ (as it pleased the queene to appoint) began to speake thus. vertuous ladies, if it were not more hard and uneasie for men, to make good their understanding and vertue, then apparant publication of their disgrace and folly; many would not labour in vaine, to curbe in their idle speeches with a bridle, as you have manifestly observed by the weake wit of _calandrino_. who needed no such fantastick circumstance, to cure the strange disease, which he imagined (by sottish perswasions) to have: had hee not been so lavish of his tongue, and accused his wife of over-mastering him. which maketh me remember a novell, quite contrary to this last related, namely, how one man may strive to surmount another in malice; yet he to sustaine the greater harme, that had (at the first) the most advantage of his enemy, as i will presently declare unto you. there dwelt in _sienna_, and not many yeeres since, two young men of equall age, both of them bearing the name of _francesco_: but the one was descended of the _aniollieri_, and the other likewise of the _fortarigi_; so that they were commonly called _aniolliero_, and _fortarigo_, both gentlemen, and well derived. now, although in many other matters, their complexions did differ very much: yet notwithstanding, they varied not in one bad qualitie, namely too great neglect of their fathers, which caused their more frequent conversation, as very familiar and respective friends. but _aniolliero_ (being a very goodly and faire conditioned young gentleman) apparently perceiving, that he could not maintaine himselfe at _sienna_, in such estate as he liked, and upon the pension allowed him by his father, hearing also, that at the marquisate of _ancona_, there lived the popes legate, a worthy cardinall, his much indeared good lord and friend: he intended to goe visite him, as hoping to advance his fortunes by him. having acquainted his father with this determination, he concluded with him, to have that from him in a moment which might supply his wants for many moneths, because he would be clothed gallantly, and mounted honourably. and seeking for a servant necessary to attend on him, it chanced that _fortarigo_ hearing thereof, came presently to _aniolliero_, intreating him in the best manner he could, to let him waite on him as his serving man, promising both dutifull and diligent attendance: yet not to demaund any other wages, but onely payment of his ordinary expences. _aniolliero_ made him answere, that he durst not give him entertainment, not in regard of his insufficiency, and unaptnesse for service: but because he was a great gamester, and divers times would be beastly drunke? whereto _fortarigo_ replyed that hee would refraine from both those foule vices, and addict all his endeavour wholly to please him, without just taxation of any grosse errour; making such solemne vowes and protestations beside, as conquered _aniolliero_, and won his consent. being entred upon his journey, and arriving in a morning at _buonconvento_, there _aniolliero_ determined to dine, and afterward, finding the heate to be unfit for travaile; he caused a bed to be prepared, wherein being laid to rest by the helpe of _fortarigo_, he gave him charge, that after the heates violence was overpast, hee should not faile to call and awake him. while _aniolliero_ slept thus in his bed, _fortarigo_, never remembring his solemne vowes and promises: went to the taverne, where having drunke indifferently, and finding company fit for the purpose, he fell to play at the dice with them. in a very short while, he had not onely lost his money, but all the cloathes on his backe likewise, and coveting to recover his losses againe; naked in his shirt, he went to _aniollieroes_ chamber, where finding him yet soundly sleeping, he tooke all the money he had in his purse, and then returned backe to play, speeding in the same manner as hee did before, not having one poore penny left him. _aniolliero_ chancing to awake, arose and made him ready, without any servant to helpe him; then calling for _fortarigo_, and not hearing any tydings of him: he began immediately to imagine, that he was become drunke, and so had falne asleepe in one place or other, as very often he was wont to doe. wherefore, determining so to leave him, he caused the male and saddle to be set on his horse; & so to furnish himselfe with a more honest servant at _corsignano_. but when hee came to pay his hoste, hee found not any penny left him: whereupon (as well he might) he grew greatly offended, and raised much trouble in the house, charged the hoasts people to have robde him, and threatening to have them sent as prisoners to _sienna_. suddenly entred _fortarigo_ in his shirt, with intent to have stolne _aniollieroes_ garments, as formerly hee did the money out of his purse, and seeing him ready to mount on horsebacke, hee saide. how now _aniolliero_? what shall we goe away so soone? i pray you sir tarry a little while, for an honest man is comming hither, who hath my doublet engaged for eight and thirty shillings; and i am sure that he will restore it me back for five and thirty, if i could presently pay him downe the money. during the speeches, an other entred among them, who assured _aniolliero_, that _fortarigo_ was the thiefe which robde him of his money, shewing him also how much hee had lost at the dice: wherewith _aniolliero_ being much mooved, very angerly reprooved _fortarigo_, and, but for feare of the law, would have offered him outrage, thretning to have him hangd by the neck, or else condemned to the gallies belonging to _florence_, and so mounted on his horse. _fortarigo_ making shew to the standers by, as if _aniolliero_ menaced some other body, and not him, said. come _aniolliero_, i pray thee let us leave this frivilous prating, for (indeede) it is not worth a button, and minde a matter of more importance: my doublet will bee had againe for five and thirty shillings, if the money may bee tendered downe at this very instant, whereas if we deferre it till to morrow, perhaps hee will then have the whole eight and thirty which he lent me, and he doth me this pleasure, because i am ready (at another time) to affoord him the like courtesie; why then should we loose three shillings, when they may so easily be saved. _aniolliero_ hearing him speake in such confused manner, and perceiving also, that they which stood gazing by, beleeved (as by their lookes appeared) that _fortarigo_ had not played away his masters mony at the dice, but rather that he had some stocke of _fortarigoes_ in his custody; angerly answered; thou sawcy companion, what have i to doe with thy doublet? i would thou wert hangd, not only for playing away my money, but also by delaying thus my journey, and yet boldly thou standest out-facing mee, as if i were no better then thy fellow. _fortarigo_ held on still his former behaviour, without using any respect or reverence to _aniolliero_, as if all the accusations did not concerne him, but saying, why should wee not take the advantage of three shillings profit? thinkest thou, that i am not able to doe as much for thee? why, lay out so much money for my sake, and make no more haste then needs we must, because we have day-light enough to bring us (before night) to _torreniero_. come, draw thy purse, and pay the money, for upon mine honest word, i may enquire throughout all _sienna_, and yet not find such another doublet as this of mine is. to say then, that i should leave it, where it now lyeth pawned, and for eight and thirty shillings, when it is richly more worth then fifty, i am sure to suffer a double endammagement thereby. you may well imagine, that _aniolliero_ was now enraged beyond all patience, to see himselfe both robde of his money, and overborne with presumptuous language: wherefore, without making any more replications, he gave the spurre to his horse, and rode away towards _torreniero_. now fell _fortarigo_ into a more knavish intention against _aniolliero_, and being very speedy in running, followed apace after him in his shirt, crying out still aloude to him all the way, to let him have his doublet againe. _aniolliero_ riding on very fast, to free his eares from this idle importunity, it fortuned that _fortarigo_ espied divers countrey pezants, labouring in the fields about their businesse, and by whom _aniolliero_ (of necessity) must passe: to them he cryed out so loude as he could; stay the thiefe, stop the thiefe, he rides away so fast, having robde me. they being provided, some with prongges, pitchforkes and spades, and others with the like weapons fit for husbandry, stept into the way before _aniolliero_: and beleeving undoubtedly, that he had robde the man which pursued him in his shirt, stayed and apprehended him. whatsoever _aniolliero_ could doe or say, prevailed not any thing with the unmannerly clownes, but when _fortarigo_ was arrived among them, he braved _aniolliero_ most impudently, saying. what reason have i to spoile thy life (thou traiterous villaine) to rob and spoyle thy master thus on the high way? then turning to the countrey boores: how much deare friends (quoth he) am i beholding to you for this unexpected kindnesse? you behold in what manner he left me in my lodging, having first playd away all my money at the dice, and then deceiving me of my horse and garments also: but had not you (by great good lucke) thus holpe mee to stay him; a poore gentleman had bin undone for ever, and i should never have found him againe. _aniolliero_ avouched the truth of his wrong received, but the base peazants, giving credite onely to _fortarigoes_ lying exclamations: tooke him from his horse, despoyled him of all his wearing apparrell, even to the very bootes from off his legges: suffered him to ride away from him in that manner, and _aniolliero_ left so in his shirt, to dance a bare-foote galliard after him, either towards _sienna_, or any place else. thus _aniolliero_, purposing to visite his cousin the cardinal like a gallant, and at the marquisate of _ancona_, returned backe poorly in his shirt unto _buonconvento_, and durst not (for shame) repaire to _sienna_. in the end, he borrowed money on the other horse which _fortarigo_ rode on, and remained there in the inne, whence riding to _corsignano_, where he had divers kinsmen and friends, he continued there so long with them, till he was better furnished from his father. thus you may perceive, that the cunning villanies of _fortarigo_, hindred the honest intended enterprise of _aniolliero_, howbeit in fit time and place, nothing afterward was left unpunished. calandrino _became extraordinarily enamoured of a young damosell, named_ nicholetta. bruno _prepared a charme or writing for him, avouching constantly to him, that so soone as he touched the damosell therewith, she should follow him whithersoever hee would have her. she being gone to an appointed place with him, hee was found there by his wife, and dealt withall according to his deserving._ the fift novell. _in just reprehension of those vaine-headed fooles, that are led and governed by idle perswasions._ because the novell reported by madame _neiphila_ was so soone concluded, without much laughter, or commendation of the whole company: the queene turned hir selfe towards madam _fiammetta_, enjoyning her to succeed in apt order; & she being as ready as sodainly commanded, began as followeth. most gentle ladies, i am perswaded of your opinion in judgement with mine, that there is not any thing, which can bee spoken pleasingly, except it be conveniently suited with apt time and place: in which respect, when ladies and gentlewomen are bent to discoursing, the due election of them both are necessarily required. and therefore i am not unmindfull, that our meeting heere (ayming at nothing more, then to out-weare the time with our generall contentment) should tye us to the course of our pleasure and recreation, to the same conveniency of time and place, not sparing, though some have bin nominated oftentimes in our passed arguments; yet, if occasion serve, and the nature of variety be well considered, wee may speake of the selfsame persons againe. now, notwithstanding the actions of _calandrino_ have been indifferently canvazed among us; yet, remembring what _philostratus_ not long since saide, that they intended to nothing more then matter of mirth: i presume the boldlier, to report another novell of him, beside them already past. and, were i willing to conceale the truth, and cloath it in more circumstantiall manner: i could make use of contrary names, and paint it in a poeticall fiction, perhaps more probable, though not so pleasing. but because wandring from the truth of things, doth much diminish (in relation) the delight of the hearers: i will build boldly on my fore-alledged reason, and tel you truly how it hapned. _niccholao cornocchini_ was once a citizen of ours, and a man of great wealth; who, among other his rich possessions in _camerata_, builded there a very goodly house, which being perfected ready for painting: he compounded with _bruno_ and _buffalmaco_, who because** their worke required more helpe then their owne, they drew _nello_ and _calandrino_ into their association, and began to proceed in their businesse. and because there was a chamber or two, having olde moveables in them, as bedding, tables, and other houshold stuffe beside, which were in the custody of an old woman that kepte the house, without the helpe of any other servants else, a son unto the saide _niccholao_, beeing named _phillippo_, resorted thither divers times, with one or other prety damosell in his company (in regard he was unmarried) where he would abide a day or two with her, & then convey her home againe. at one time among the rest, it chanced that he brought a damosell thither named _nicholetta_, who was maintained by a wily companion, called _magione_, in a dwelling which hee had at _camaldoli_, and (indeed) no honester then she should be. she was a very beautifull young woman, wearing garments of great value, and (according to her quality) well spoken, and of commendable carriage. comming forth of her chamber one day, covered with a white veyle, because her haire hung loose about her, which shee went to wash at a well in the middle court, bathing there also her face and hands: _calandrino_ going (by chance) to the same well for water, gave her a secret salutation. she kindly returning the like courtesie to him, began to observe him advisedly: more, because he looked like a man newly come thither, then any handsomnesse she perceyved in him. _calandrino_ threw wanton glances at her, and seeing she was both faire and lovely, began to finde some occasion of tarrying, so that he returned not with water to his other associates, yet neither knowing her, or daring to deliver one word. she, who was not to learn her lesson in alluring, noting what affectionate regards (with bashfulnesse) he gave her: answered him more boldly with the like; but meerly in scorning manner, breathing forth divers dissembled sighs among them: so that _calandrino_ became foolishly inveigled with her love, and would not depart out of the court, untill _phillippo_, standing above in his chamber window called her thence. when _calandrino_ was returned backe to his businesse, he could do nothing else, but shake the head, sigh, puffe, and blowe, which being observed by _bruno_ (who alwayes fitted him according to his folly, as making a meer mockery of his very best behaviour) sodainly he said. why how now _calandrino_? sigh, puff, and blow man? what may be the reason of these unwonted qualities? _calandrino_ immediately answered, saying: my friendly companion _bruno_, if i had one to lend me a little helpe, i should very quickely become well enough. how? quoth _bruno_, doth any thing offend thee, and wilt thou not reveale it to thy friends? deare _bruno_, said _calandrino_, there is a proper handsome woman here in the house, the goodliest creature that every any eye beheld, much fairer then the queen of fairies her selfe, who is so deeply falne in love with mee, as thou wouldst thinke it no lesse then a wonder; and yet i never sawe her before, till yet while when i was sent to fetch water. a very strange case, answered _bruno_, take heede _calandrino_, that shee bee not the lovely friend to _phillippo_, our yong master, for then it may prove a dangerous matter. _calandrino_ stood scratching his head an indifferent while, and then sodainly replyed thus. now trust me _bruno_, it is to bee doubted, because he called her at his window, and she immediatly went up to his chamber. but what doe i care if it be so? have not the gods themselves bene beguiled of their wenches, who were better men then ever _phillippo_ can be, and shall i stand in feare of him? _bruno_ replied: be patient _calandrino_, i will enquire what woman she is, and if she be not the wife or friend to our young master _phillippo_, with faire perswasions i can over-rule the matter, because shee is a familiar acquaintance of mine. but how shall wee doe, that _buffalmaco_ may not know heereof? i can never speake to her, if hee be in my company. for _buffalmaco_ (quoth _calandrino_) i have no feare of all, but rather of _nello_, because he is a neer kinsman to my wife, and he is able to undo me quite, if once it should come to his hearing. thou saist well, replyed _bruno_, therefore the matter hath neede to be very cleanly carried. now let me tell you, the woman was well enough knowne to _bruno_, as also her quality of life, which _phillippo_ had acquainted him withall, and the reason of her resorting thither. wherefore, _calandrino_ going forth of the roome where they wrought, onely to gaine another sight of _nicholetta, bruno_ revealed the whole history to _buffalmaco_ and _nello_; they all concluding together, how this amorous fit of the foole was to be followed. and when _calandrino_ was returned backe againe; in whispering manner _bruno_ said to him. hast thou once more seene her? yes, yes _bruno_, answered _calandrino_: alas, she hath slaine me with her very eye, and i am no better then a dead man. be patient said _bruno_, i will goe and see whether she be the same woman which i take her for, or no: and if it prove so, then never feare, but refer the businesse unto me. _bruno_ descending downe the staires, found _phillippo_ and _nicholetta_ in conference together, and stepping unto them, discoursed at large, what manner of man _calandrino_ was, and how farre he was falne in love with her: so that they made a merry conclusion, what should be performed in this case, onely to make a pastime of his hot begun love. and being come backe againe to _calandrino_, he saide. it is the same woman whereof i told thee, and therefore wee must worke wisely in the businesse: for if _phillippo_ perceive any thing, all the water in _arno_ will hardly serve to quench his fury. but what wouldst thou have me say to her on thy behalfe, if i compasse the meanes to speake with her? first of all (quoth _calandrino_) and in the prime place, tell her, that i wish infinite bushels of those blessings, which makes maides mothers, and begetteth children. next, that i am onely hers, in any service she will command me. dooest thou understand me what i say? sufficiently answered _bruno_, leave all to me. when supper time was come, that they gave over working, and were descended downe into the court: there they found _phillippo_ and _nicholetta_ readily attending to expect some beginning of amorous behaviour, and _calandrino_ glanced such leering lookes at her, coughing and spetting with hummes and haes, yea in such close and secret manner, that a starke blinde sight might verie easily have perceyved it. she also on the other side, returned him such queint and cunning carriage, as enflamed him farre more furiously, even as if hee were ready to leape out of himselfe. in the meane while, _phillippo, buffalmaco_ and the rest that were there present, seeming as if they were seriouslie consulting together, and perceived nothing of his fantastick behavior, according as _bruno_ had appointed, could scarse refraine from extremity of laughter, they noted such antick trickes in _calandrino_. having spent an indifferent space in this foppish folly, the houre of parting came, but not without wonderfull affliction to _calandrino_; and as they were going towards _florence, bruno_ saide closely to _calandrino_. i dare assure thee, that thou hast made her to consume and melt, even like ice against the warme sunne. on my word, if thou wouldst bring thy gitterne, and sit downe by us, singing some few amorous songs of thine owne making, when we are beneath about our businesse in the court: shee would presently leape out of the window, as being unable to tarry from thee. i like thy counsell well _bruno_, answered _calandrino_; but shall i bring my gitterne thither indeed? yes, in any case, replied _bruno_, for musicke is a matter of mighty prevailing. ah _bruno_ (quoth _calandrino_) thou wouldst not credit me in the morning, when i tolde thee, how the very sight of my person had wounded her: i perceived it at the very first looke of her owne, for shee had no power to conceale it. who but my selfe could so soone have enflamed her affection, and being a woman of such worth and beauty as shee is? there are infinite proper handsome fellowes, that daily haunt the company of dainty damosels, yet are so shallow in the affayres of love, as they are not able to win one wench of a thousand, no, not with all the wit they have, such is their extreame follie and ill fortune. then pausing a while, and sodainely rapping out a lovers oath or two, thus he proceeded. my dearest _bruno_, thou shalt see how i can tickle my gitterne, and what good sport will ensue thereon. if thou dost observe me with judgement, why man, i am not so old as i seeme to be, and she could perceive it at the very first view; yea, and she shall finde it so too, when we have leysure to consult upon further occasions: i finde my selfe in such a free and frolicke jocunditie of spirit, that i will make her to follow me, even as a fond woman doth after her child. but beware, saide _bruno_, that thou do not gripe her over-hard, and in kissing, bee carefull of biting, because the teeth stand in thy head like the pegges of a lute, yet make a comely shew in thy faire wide mouth, thy cheekes looking like two of our artificiall roses, swelling amiably, when thy jawes are well fild with meat. _calandrino_ hearing these hansome commendations, thought himselfe a man of action already, going, singing, and frisking before his companie so lively, as if he had not bin in his skin. on the morrow, carrying his gitterne thither with him, to the no little delight of his companions, hee both played and sung a whole bed-role of songs, not addicting himselfe to any worke all the day: but loitering fantastically, one while he gazed out at the window, then ran to the gate, and oftentimes downe into the court, onely to have a sight of his mistresse. she also (as cunningly) encountred all his follies, by such directions as _bruno_ gave her, and many more beside of her owne devising, to quicken him still with new occasions; _bruno_ plaid the ambassador betweene them, in delivering the messages from _calandrino_, and then returning her answers to him. sometimes when she was absent thence (which often hapned as occasions called her) then he would write letters in her name, & bring them, as if they were sent by her, to give him hope of what hee desired, but because she was then among her kindred, yet she could not be unmindfull of him. in this manner, _bruno_ and _buffalmaco_ (who had the managing of this amorous businesse) made a meere gregory of poore _calandrino_, causing him somtimes to send her, one while a pretty peece of ivory, then a faire wrought purse, and a costly paire of knives, with other such like friendly tokens: bringing him backe againe, as in requitall of them, counterfetted rings of no valew, bugles and bables, which he esteemed as matters of great moment. moreover, at divers close and sodain meetings, they made him pay for many dinners & suppers, amounting to indifferent charges, onely to be carefull** in the furtherance of his love-suit, and to conceale it from his wife. having worne out three or foure months space in this fond and frivolous manner, without any other successe then as hath bene declared; and _calandrino_ perceiving, that the works undertaken by him and his fellowes, grew very neere uppon the finishing, which would barre him of any longer resorting thither: hee began to solicite _bruno_ more importunately, then all the while before he hadde done. in regard whereof, _nicholetta_ being one day come thither, & _bruno_ having conferred both with her and _phillippo_, with full determination what was to be done, he began with _calandrino_, saying. my honest neighbour and friend, this woman hath made a thousand promises, to graunt what thou art so desirous to have, and i plainly perceive that she hath no such meaning, but meerely plaies with both our noses. in which respect, seeing she is so perfidious, and will not perfourme one of all her faithfull-made promises: if thou wilt content to have it so, she shall be compelled to do it whether she will or no. yea marry _bruno_, answered _calandrino_, that were an excellent course indeede, if it could be done, and with expedition. _bruno_ stood musing awhile to himselfe, as if he had some strange stratagem in his braine, & afterward said. hast thou so much corage _calandrino_, as but to handle a peece of written parchment, which i will give thee? yes, that i have answered _calandrino_, i hope that needed not to be doubted. well then, saide _bruno_, procure that i may have a piece of virgin parchment brought mee, with a living bat or reremouse; three graines of incense, and an hallowed candle, then leave me to effect what shall content thee. _calandrino_ watched all the next night following, with such preparation as he could make, onely to catch a bat; which being taken at the last, he broght it alive to _bruno_ (with all the other materials appointed) who taking him alone into a backer chamber, there hee wrote divers follies on the parchment, in the shape of strange and unusuall charracters, which he delivered to _calandrino_, saying: be bold _calandrino_, and build constantly uppon my wordes, that if thou canst but touch her with this sacred charractred charme, she will immediately follow thee, and fulfil whatsoever thou pleasest to command hir. wherefore, if _phillippo_ do this day walke any whither abroad from this house, presume to salute her, in any manner whatsoever it be, & touching her with the written lines, go presently to the barn of hay, which thou perceivest so neere adjoyning, the onely convenient place that can be, because few or none resort thither. she shall (in despight of her blood) follow thee; and when thou hast her there, i leave thee then to thy valiant victory. _calandrino_ stood on tiptoe, like a man newly molded by fortune, and warranted _bruno_ to fulfil all effectually. _nello_, whom _calandrino_ most of all feared and mistrusted, had a hand as deepe as any of the rest in this deceite, and was as forward also to have it performed, by _brunoes_ direction, hee went unto _florence_, where being in company with _calandrinoes_ wife, thus hee began. cousine, thine unkinde usage by thine husband, is not unknown to me, how he did beate thee (beyond the compasse of all reason) when he brought home stones from the plain of _mugnone_; in which regard, i am very desirous to have thee revenged on him: which if thou wilt not do; never repute me heereafter for thy kinsman and friend. he is falne in love with a woman of the common gender, one that is to be hired for money: he hath his private meetings with her, and the place is partly knowne to me, as by a secret appointment (made very lately) i am credibly given to understand; wherefore walke presently along with me, and thou shalt take him in the heat of his knavery. all the while as these words were uttering to her, shee could not dissemble her inward impatience, but starting up as halfe franticke with fury, she said. o notorious villaine! darest thou abuse thine honest wife so basely? i sweare by blessed saint _bridget_, thou shalt be paid with coyne of thine owne stampe. so casting a light wearing cloake about her, and taking a yong woman in her company; shee went away with _nello_ in no meane haste. _bruno_ seeing her comming a farre off, said to _phillippo_: you sir, you know what is to be done, act your part according to your appointment. _phillippo_ went immediately into the roome, where _calandrino_ and his other consorts were at worke, and said to them. honest friends, i have certaine occasions which command mine instant being at _florence_: worke hard while i am absent, and i will not be unthankefull for it. away hee departed from them, and hid himselfe in a convenient place, where he could not be descryed, yet see whatsoever _calandrino_ did: who when he imagined _phillippo_ to be farre enough off, descended downe into the court, where he found _nicholetta_ sitting alone, and going towards her, began to enter into discoursing with her. she knowing what remained to bee done on her behalfe, drew somewhat neere him, and shewed her selfe more familiar then formerly she had done: by which favourable meanes, he touched her with the charmed parchment, which was no sooner done; but without using any other kinde of language, hee went to the hay-barne, whither _nicholetta_ followed him, and both being entred, he closed the barne doore, and then stood gazing on her, as if hee had never seene her before. standing still as in a study, or bethinking himselfe what he should say: she began to use affable gesture to him, and taking him by the hand, made shew as if shee meant to kisse him, which yet she refrained, though he (rather then his life) would gladly have had it. why how now deare _calandrino_ (quoth she) jewell of my joy, comfort of my heart, how many times have i longed for thy sweet company? and enjoying it now, according to mine owne desire, dost thou stand like a statue, or man _alla morte_? the rare tunes of the gitterne, but (much more) the melodious accents of thy voyce, excelling _orpheus_ or _amphion_, so ravished my soule, as i know not how to expresse the depth of mine affection; and yet hast thou brought me hither, onely to looke babies in mine eyes, and not so much as speake one kinde word to me? _bruno_ and _buffalmaco_, having hid themselves close behinde _phillippo_, they both heard and saw all this amourous conflict, and as _calandrino_ was quickning his courage, and wiping his mouth, with intent to kisse her: his wife and _nello_ entred into the barne, which caused _nicholetta_ to get her gone presently, sheltring her self where _phillippo_ lay scouting. but the enraged woman ranne furiously upon poore daunted _calandrino_, making such a pitiful massacre with her nailes, and tearing the haire from his head, as hee meerely looked like an infected anatomy. fowle loathsome dog (quoth she) must you be at your minions, and leave mee hunger-starved at home? an olde knave with (almost) never a good tooth in thy head, and yet art thou neighing after young wenches? hast thou not worke enough at home, but must bee gadding in to other mens grounds? are these the fruites of wandring abroad? _calandrino_ being in this pittifull perplexity, stood like one neither alive nor dead, nor daring to use any resistance against her; but fell on his knees before his wife, holding up his hands for mercy, and entreating her (for charities sake) not to torment him any more: for he had committed no harme at all, and the gentlewoman was his masters wife, who came with no such intent thither, as shee fondly imagined. wife, or wife not (quoth she) i would have none to meddle with my husband, but i that have the most right to him. _bruno_ and _buffalmaco_, who had laughed all this while heartily at this pastime, with _phillippo_ and _nicholetta_; came running in haste to know the reason of this loude noise, and after they had pacified the woman with gentle perswasions: they advised _calandrino_ to walke with his wife to _florence_, and returne no more to worke there againe, least _phillippo_ hearing what had hapned, should be revenged on him with some outrage. thus poore _calandrino_ miserably misused and beaten, went home to _florence_ with his wife, scoulded and raild at all the way, beside his other molestations** (day and night) afterward: his companions, _phillippo_ and _nicholetta_, making themselves merry at his mis-fortune. _two yong gentlemen, the one named_ panuccio, _and the other_ adriano, _lodged one night in a poore inne, where one of them went to bed to the hostes daughter, and the other (by mistaking his way in the darke) to the hostes wife. he which lay with the daughter, happened afterward to the hostes bed, and told him what he had done, as thinking he spake to his owne companyon. discontentment growing betweene them, the mother perceiving her errour, went to bed to her daughter, and with discreete language, made a generall pacification._ the sixt novell. _wherein is manifested, that an offence committed ignorantly, and by mistaking; ought to be covered with good advise, and civill discretion._ _calandrino_, whose mishaps had so many times made the whole assembly merry, and this last passing among them with indifferent commendations: upon a generall silence commanded, the queene gave order to _pamphilus_, that hee should follow next, as indeed he did, beginning thus. praise-worthy ladies, the name of _nicholetta_, so fondly affected by _calandrino_, putteth mee in minde of a novell, concerning another _nicholetta_, of whom i purpose to speake: to the ende you may observe how by a sudden wary fore-sight, a discreet woman compassed the meanes to avoyde a notorious scandall. on the plaine of _mugnone_, neere to _florence_, dwelt (not long since) an honest meane man, who kept a poore inne or ostery for travellers, where they might have some slender entertainement for their money. as he was but a poore man, so his house affoorded but very small receit of guests, not lodging any but on necessity, and such as he had some knowledge of. this honest poore hoste had a woman (sufficiently faire) to his wife, by whom hee had also two children, the one a comely young maiden, aged about fifteene yeares, and the other a sonne, not fully (as yet) a yeare old, and sucking on the mothers brest. a comely youthfull gentleman of our city, became amorously affected to the damosell, resorting thither divers times as hee travelled on the way, to expresse how much he did respect her. and she accounting her fortune none of the meanest, to bee beloved by so youthfull a gallant, declared such vertuous and modest demeanour, as might deserve his best opinion of her: so that their love grew to an equall simpathy, and mutuall contentment of them both, in expectation of further effects; he being named _panuccio_, and she _nicholetta_. the heate of affection thus encreasing day by day, _panuccio_ grew exceedingly desirous to enjoy the fruits of his long continued liking, and divers devises mustred in his braine, how he might compasse one nights lodging in her fathers house, whereof hee knew every part and parcell, as not doubting to effect what hee desired, yet undiscovered by any, but the maide her selfe. according as his intention aymed, so he longed to put it in execution, and having imparted his mind to an honest loyall friend, named _adriano_, who was acquainted with the course of his love: hyring two horses, and having portmantues behind them, filled with matters of no moment, they departed from _florence_, as if they had some great journey to ride. having spent the day time where themselves best pleased, darke night being entred, they arrived on the plaine of _mugnone_, where, as if they were come from the parts of _romanio_, they rode directly to this poore inne, and knocking at the doore, the honest hoste (being familiar and friendly to all commers) opened the doore, when _panuccio_ spake in this manner to him. good man, we must request one nights lodging with you, for we thought to have reached so farre as _florence_, but dark night preventing us, you see at what a late houre wee are come hither. signior _panuccio_, answered the hoste, it is not unknowne to you, how unfitting my poore house is, for entertaining such guests as you are: neverthelesse, seeing you are overtaken by so unseasonable an houre, and no other place is neere for your receite; i will gladly lodge you so well as i can. when they were dismounted from their horses, and entred into the simple inne: having taken order for feeding their horses, they accepted such provision, as the place and time afforded, requesting the hoste to suppe with them. now i am to tell you, that there was but one small chamber in the house, wherein stood three beds, as best the hoste had devised to place them, two of them standing by the walles side, and the third fronting them both, but with such close and narrow passage, as very hardly could one step betweene them. the best of these three beds was appointed for the gentlemen, and therein theyd lay them down to rest, but sleepe they could not, albeit they dissembled it very formally. in the second bed was _nicholetta_ the daughter, lodged by her selfe, and the father and mother in the third, and because she was to give the child sucke in the night time, the cradle (wherein it lay) stood close by their beds side, because the childes crying or any other occasion concerning it, should not disquiet the gentlemen. _panuccio_ having subtily observed all this, and in what manner they went to bed; after such a space of time, as he imagined them to be all fast asleepe, he arose very softly, and stealing to the bed of _nicholetta_, lay downe gently by her. and albeit she seemed somewhat afraid at the first, yet when she perceived who it was, shee rather bad him welcome, then shewed her selfe any way discontented. now while _panuccio_ continued thus with the maide, it fortuned that a cat threw down somewhat in the house, the noise whereof awaked the wife, and fearing greater harme, then (indeed) had hapned, she arose without a candle, and went groping in the darke, towards the place where shee heard the noyse. _adriano_, who had no other meaning but well, found occasion also to rise, about some naturall necessity, and making his passage in the darke, stumbled on the childes cradle (in the way) where the woman had set it, and being unable to passe by, without removing it from the place: tooke and set it by his owne beds side, and having done the businesse for which he rose, returned to his bed againe, never remembring to set the cradle where first he found it. the wife having found the thing throwne downe being of no value or moment, cared not for lighting any candle; but rating the cat, returned backe, feeling for the bed where her husband lay, but finding not the cradle there, she said to her selfe. what a foolish woman am i, that cannot well tell my selfe what i doe? instead of my husbands bed, i am going to both my guests. so, stepping on a little further, she found the childes cradle, and laid her selfe downe by _adriano_, thinking shee had gone right to her husband. _adriano_ being not yet falne asleepe, feeling the hostesse in bed with him: tooke advantage of so faire an occasion offered, and what he did, is no businesse of mine, (as i heard) neither found the woman any fault. matters comming to passe in this strange manner, and _panuccio_ fearing, lest sleepe seazing on him, he might disgrace the maides reputation: taking his kinde farewell of her, with many kisses and sweet imbraces: returned againe to his owne bed, but meeting with the cradle in his way, and thinking it stood by the hostes bed, (as truely it did so at the first) went backe from the cradle, and stept into the hostes bed indeed, who awaked upon his very entrance, albeit he slept very soundly before. _panuccio_ supposing that he was laid downe by his loving friend _adriano_, merrily said to the hoste. i protest to thee, as i am a gentleman, _nicholetta_ is a dainty delicate wench, and worthy to be a very good mans wife: this night shee hath given mee the sweetest entertainement, as the best prince in the world can wish no better, and i have kist her most kindly for it. the hoste hearing these newes, which seemed very unwelcome to him, said first to himself: what make such a devill heere in my bedde? afterward being more rashly angry, then well advised, hee said to _panuccio_. canst thou makes vaunt of such a mounstrous villany? or thinkest thou, that heaven hath not due vengeance in store, to requite all wicked deeds of darkenesse? if all should sleepe, yet i have courage sufficient to right my wrong, and yet as olde as i am thou shalt be sure to finde it. our amorous _panuccio_ being none of the wisest young men in the world, perceiving his errour; sought not to amend it, (as well he might have done) with some queint straine of wit, carried in quicke and cleanly manner, but angerly answered. what shall i find that thou darst doe to me? am i any way afraid of thy threatnings? the hostes imagining she was in bed with her husband, said to _adriano_: harke husband, i thinke our guests are quarrelling together, i hope they will doe no harme to one another. _adriano_ laughing outright, answered. let them alone, and become friends againe as they fell out: perhaps they dranke too much yesternight. the woman perceiving that it was her husband that quarrelled, and distinguishing the voyce of _adriano_ from his: knew presently where shee was, and with whom; wherefore having wit at will, and desirous to cloude an error unadvisedly committed, and with no willing consent of her selfe: without returning any more words, presently she rose, and taking the cradle with the child in it, removed it thence to her daughters bed side, although shee had no light to helpe her, and afterward went to bed to her, where (as if she were but newly awaked) she called her husband, to understand what angry speeches had past betweene him and _panuccio_. the hoste replyed, saying. didst thou not heare him wife, brag & boast, how he hath lyen this night with our daughter _nicholetta_? husband (quoth she) he is no honest gentleman; if hee should say so, and beleeve me it is a manifest lye, for i am in bed with her my selfe, and never yet closed mine eyes together, since the first houre i laid me downe: it is unmannerly done of him to speake it, and you are little lesse then a logger-head, if you doe beleeve it. this proceedeth from your bibbing and swilling yesternight, which (as it seemeth) maketh you to walke about the roome in your sleepe, dreaming of wonders in the night season: it were no great sinne if you brake your necks, to teach you keepe a fairer quarter; and how commeth it to passe, that signior _panuccio_ could not keepe himselfe in his owne bed? _adriano_ (on the other side) perceiving how wisely the woman excused her owne shame and her daughters; to backe her in a businesse so cunningly begun, he called to _panuccio_, saying. have not i tolde thee an hundred times, that thou art not fit to lye any where; out of thine owne lodging? what a shame is this base imperfection to thee, by rising and walking thus in the night-time, according as thy dreames doe wantonly delude thee, and cause thee to forsake thy bed, telling nothing but lies and fables, yet avouching them for manifest truthes? assuredly this will procure no meane perill unto thee: come hither, and keepe in thine owne bedde for meere shame. when the honest meaning host heard, what his own wife and _adriano_ had confirmed: he was verily perswaded, that _panuccio_ spake in a dreame all this while: and to make it the more constantly apparant, _panuccio_ (being now growne wiser by others example) lay talking and blundring to himselfe, even as if dreames or perturbations of the minde did much molest him, with strange distractions in franticke manner. which the hoste perceiving, and compassionating his case, as one man should do anothers: he tooke him by the shoulders, jogging and hunching him, saying. awake signior _panuccio_, and get you gone hence to your owne bed. _panuccio_, yawning and stretching out his limbes, with unusuall groanes and respirations, such as (better) could bee hardly dissembled: seemed to wake as out of a traunce, and calling his friend _adriano_, said. _adriano_, is it day, that thou dost waken me? it may be day or night replyed _adriano_, for both (in these fits) are alike to thee. arise man for shame, and come to thine lodging. then faining to be much troubled and sleepie, he arose from the hoast, and went to _adrianoes_ bed. when it was day, and all in the house risen, the hoast began to smile at _panuccio_, mocking him with his idle dreaming and talking in the night. so, falling from one merry matter to another, yet without any mislike at all: the gentlemen, having their horses prepared, and their portmantues fastened behind, drinking to their hoast, mounted on horsebacke, and they roade away towards _florence_, no lesse contented with the manner of occasions happened, then the effects they sorted to. afterward, other courses were taken, for the continuance of this begun pleasure with _nicholetta_, who made her mother beleeve, that _panuccio_ did nothing else but dreame. and the mother her selfe remembring how kindely _adriano_ had used her (a fortune not expected by her before:) was more then halfe of the minde, that she did then dreame also, while she was waking. talano de molese _dreamed, that a wolfe rent and tore his wives face and throate. which dreame he told to her, with advise to keep her selfe out of danger; which she refusing to doe, received what followed._ the seventh novell. _whereby (with some indifferent reason) it is concluded, that dreames do not alwayes fall out to be leasings._ by the conclusion of _pamphilus_ his novel, wherein the womans ready wit, at a time of such necessity, carried deserved commendations: the queen gave command to madam _pampinea_, that she should next begin with hers, and so she did, in this manner. in some discourses (gracious ladies) already past among us, the truth of apparitions in dreames hath partly bin approved, whereof very many have made a mockery. neverthelesse, whatsoever hath heeretofore bin sayde, i purpose to acquaint you with a very short novell, of a strange accident happening unto a neighbour of mine, in not crediting a dreame which her husband told her. i cannot tell, whether you knew _talano de molese_, or no, a man of much honour, who tooke to wife a yong gentlewoman, named _margarita_, as beautifull as the best: but yet so peevish, scornefull, and fantasticall, that she disdained any good advice given her; neyther could any thing be done, to cause her contentment; which absurd humours were highly displeasing to her husband: but in regard he knew not how to helpe it, constrainedly he did endure it. it came to passe, that _talano_ being with his wife, at a summer-house of his owne in the country, he dreamed one night, that he saw his wife walking in a faire wood, which adjoyned neere unto his house, and while she thus continued there, he seemed to see issue foorth from a corner of the said wood, a great and furious wolfe, which leaping sodainly on her, caught her by the face and throate, drawing her downe to the earth, and offering to drag her thence. but he crying out for helpe, recovered her from the wolfe, yet having her face and throat very pitifully rent and torne. in regard of this terrifying dreame, when _talano_ was risen in the morning, and sate conversing with his wife, he spake thus unto hir. woman, although thy froward wilfull nature be such, as hath not permitted me one pleasing day with thee, since first we becam man and wife, but rather my life hath bene most tedious to me, as fearing still some mischeefe should happen to thee: yet let mee now in loving manner advise thee, to follow my counsell, and (this day) not to walke abroad out of this house. she demanded a reason for this advice of his. he related to her every particular of his dreame, adding with all these speeches. true it is wife (quoth he) that little credit should bee given to dreames: neverthelesse, when they deliver advertisement of harmes to ensue, there is nothing lost by shunning and avoiding them. she fleering in his face, and shaking her head at him, replyed. such harmes as thou wishest, such thou dreamest of. thou pretendest much pittie and care of me, but all to no other end: but what mischeefes thou dreamest happening unto mee, so wouldest thou see them effected on me. wherefore, i will well enough looke to my selfe, both this day, and at all times else: because thou shalt never make thy selfe merry, with any such misfortune as thou wishest unto me. well wife, answered _talano_, i knew well enough before, what thou wouldst say: an unsound head is soone scratcht with the very gentlest combe: but beleeve as thou pleasest. as for my selfe, i speake with a true and honest meaning soule, and once againe i do advise thee, to keepe within our doores all this day: at least wife beware, that thou walke not into our wood, bee it but in regard of my dreame. well sir (quoth she scoffingly) once you shall say, i followed your counsell: but within her selfe she fell to this murmuring. now i perceive my husbands cunning colouring, & why i must not walke this day into our wood: he hath made a compact with some common queane, closely to have her company there, and is afraide least i shold take them tardy. belike he would have me feed among blinde folke, and i were worthy to bee thought a starke foole, if i should not prevent a manifest trechery, being intended against me. go thither therefore i will, and tarry there all the whole day long; but i will meet with him in his merchandize, and see the pink wherein he adventures. after this her secret consultation, her husband was no sooner gone forth at one doore, but shee did the like at another, yet so secretly as possibly she could devise to doe, and (without any delaying) she went to the wood, wherein she hid her selfe very closely, among the thickest of the bushes, yet could discerne every way about her, if any body should offer to passe by her. while shee kept her selfe in this concealment, suspecting other mysterious matters, as her idle imagination had tutord her, rather then the danger of any wolfe; out of a brakie thicket by her, sodainly rushed a huge & dreadfull wolfe, as having found her by the sent, mounting uppe, and grasping her throat in his mouth, before she saw him, or could call to heaven for mercy. being thus seised of her, he carried her as lightly away, as if shee had bin no heavier then a lambe, she being (by no meanes) able to cry, because he held her so fast by the throate, and hindred any helping of her selfe. as the wolfe carried her thus from thence, he had quite strangled her, if certaine shepheards had not met him, who with their outcries and exclaimes at the wolfe, caused him to let her fall, and hast away to save his owne life. notwithstanding the harme done to her throat and face, the shepheards knew her, and caried her home to her house, where she remained a long while after, carefully attended by physitians and chirurgians. now, although they were very expert and cunning men all, yet could they not so perfectly cure her, but both her throate, and part of her face were so blemished, that whereas she seemed a rare creature before, she was now deformed and much unsightly. in regard of which strange alteration, being ashamed to shew her selfe in any place, where formerly she had bene seene: she spent her time in sorrow and mourning, repenting her insolent and scornfull carriage, as also her rash running forth into danger, upon a foolish and jealous surmise, beleeving her husbands dreames the better for ever after. blondello _(in a merry manner) caused_ guiotto _to beguile himselfe of a good dinner: for which deceit,_ guiotto _became cunningly revenged, by procuring_ blondello _to be unreasonably beaten and misused._ the eight novell. _whereby plainly appeareth, that they which take delight in deceiving others, do well deserve to be deceived themselves._ it was a generall opinion in the whole joviall companie, that whatsoever _talano_ saw in his sleepe, was not anie dreame, but rather a vision: considring, every part thereof fell out so directly, without the lest failing. but when silence was enjoyned, then the queene gave forth by evident demonstration, that madam _lauretta_ was next to succeed, whereupon she thus began. as all they (judicious hearers) which have this day spoken before me, derived the ground or project of their novels, from some other argument spoken of before: even so, the cruell revendge of the scholler, yesterday discoursed at large by madame _pampinea_, maketh me to remember another tale of like nature, some-what greevous to the sufferer, yet not in such cruell measure inflicted, as that on madam _helena_. there dwelt sometime in _florence_, one who was generally called by the name of _guiotto_, a man being the greatest gourmand, and grossest feeder, as ever was seene in any countrey, all his meanes & procurements meerly unable to maintaine expences for filling his belly. but otherwise he was of sufficient and commendable carriage, fairely demeaned, and well discoursing on any argument: yet, not as a curious and spruce courtier, but rather a frequenter of rich mens tables, where choice of good cheere is sildome wanting, & such should have his company, albeit not invited, yet (like a bold intruder) he had the courage to bid himselfe welcome. at the same time, and in our city of _florence_ also, there was another man, named _blondello_, very low of stature; yet comly formed, quicke witted, more neat and brisk then a butter flye, alwaies wearing a wrought silke cap on his head, and not a haire staring out of order, but the tuft flourishing above the forehead, and he such another trencher-fly for the table, as our forenamed _guiotto_ was. it so fel out on a morning in the lent time, that hee went into the fish-market, where he bought two goodly lampreyes, for _messer viero de cherchi_, and was espied by _guiotto_, who (comming to _blondello_) said. what is the meaning of this cost, and for whom is it? whereto _blondello_ thus answered. yesternight, three other lampries, far fairer and fatter then these, and a whole sturgeon, were sent unto _messer corso donati_, and being not sufficient to feede divers gentlemen, whom hee hath invited this day to dine with him, hee caused me to buy these two beside: doest not thou intend to make one among them? yes i warrant thee, replied _guiotto_, thou knowst i can invite my selfe thither, without any other bidding. so parting; about the houre of dinner time, _guiotto_ went to the house of the saide _messer corso_, whom he found sitting and talking with certain of his neighbours, but dinner was not (as yet) ready, neither were they come thither to dinner. _messer corso_ demaunded of _guiotto_, what newes with him, and whither he went? why sir (said _guiotto_) i come to dine with you, and your good company. whereto _messer corso_ answered, that he was welcome, & his other friends being gone, dinner was served in, none els thereat present but _messer corso_ and _guiotto_: al the diet being a poore dish of pease, a little piece of tunny, & a few small dishes fried, without any other dishes to follow after. _guiotto_ seeing no better fare, but being disapointed of his expectation, as longing to feed on the lampries and sturgeon, and so to have made a full dinner indeed: was of a quick apprehension, & apparantly perceived, that _blondello_ had meerly guld him in a knavery, which did not a little vex him, and made him vow to be revenged on _blondello_, as he could compasse occasion afterward. before many daies were past, it was his fortune to meete with _blondello_, who having told this jest to divers of his friends, and much good merriment made thereat: he saluted _guiotto_ in ceremonious manner, saying. how didst thou like the fat lampreyes and sturgeon, which thou fedst on at the house of _messer corso donati_? wel sir (answered _guiotto_) perhaps before eight dayes passe over my head, thou shalt meet with as pleasing a dinner as i did. so, parting away from _blondello_, he met with a porter or burthen-bearer, such as are usually sent on errands; and hyring him to deliver a message for him, gave him a glasse bottle, and bringing him neere to the hal-house of _cavicciuli_, shewed him there a knight, called _signior phillippo argenti_, a man of huge stature, stout, strong, vainglorious, fierce and sooner mooved to anger then any other man. to him (quoth _guiotto_) thou must go with this bottle in thy hand, and say thus to him. sir, _blondello_ sent me to you, and courteously entreateth you, that you would enrubinate this glasse bottle with your best claret wine; because he would make merry with a few friends of his. but beware he lay no hand on thee, because he may bee easily induced to misuse thee, and so my businesse be disappointed. well sir replied the porter, shall i say any thing else unto him? no (quoth _guiotto_) only go and deliver this message, and when thou art returned, ile pay thee for thy paines. the porter being gone to the house, delivered his message to the knight, who being a man of no great civill breeding, but furious, rash, and inconsiderate: presently conceived, that _blondello_ (whom he knew well enough) sent this message in meere mockage of him, and starting up with fiery lookes, said: what enrubination of claret should i send him? and what have i to do with him, or his drunken friends? let him and thee go hang your selves together. so he stept to catch hold on the porter, but he (being well warnd before) was quicke and nimble, and escaping from him, returned backe to _guiotto_ (who observed all) and told him the answer of signior _phillippo. guiotto_ not a little contented, paied the porter, and taried not in any place till he met with _blondello_, to whom he said. when wast thou at the hall of _cavicciuli_? not a long while, answerd _blondello_, but why dost thou demand such a question? because (quoth _guiotto_) signior _phillippo_ hath sought about for thee, yet knowe not i what he would have with thee. is it so? replied _blondello_, then i will walke thither presently, to understand his pleasure. when _blondello_ was thus parted from him, _guiotto_ folowed not farre off behind him, to behold the issue of this angry businesse; and signior _phillippo_, because he could not catch the porter, continued much distempred, fretting and fuming, in regard he could not comprehend the meaning of the porters message: but onely surmized, that _blondello_ (by the procurement of some body else) had done this in scorne of him. while he remained thus deeply discontented, he espied _blondello_ comming towards him, and meeting him by the way, he stept close to him, and gave him a cruell blow on the face, causing his nose to fall out a bleeding. alas sir, said _blondello_, wherefore do you strike me? signior _phillippo_, catching him by the haire of the head, trampled his wrought night-cap in the dirt, & his cloke also; when, laying many violent blowes on him, he said. villanous traitor as thou art, ile teach thee what it is to enrubinate with claret, either thy selfe, or any of thy cupping companions: am i a child, to be jested withall? nor was he more furious in words, then in strokes also, beating him about the face, hardly leaving any haire on his head, and dragging him along in the mire, spoyling all his garments, and he not able (from the first blow given) to speake a word in defence of himselfe. in the end, signior _phillippo_ having extreamly beaten him, and many people gathering about them, to succour a man so much misused, the matter was at large related, and manner of the message sending. for which, they all present, did greatly reprehend _blondello_, considering he knew what kinde of man _phillippo_ was, not any way to be jested withall. _blondello_ in teares constantly maintained, that he never sent any such message for wine, or intended it in the least degree: so, when the tempest was more mildly calmed, and _blondello_ (thus cruelly beaten and durtied) had gotten home to his owne house, he could then remember, that (questionles) this was occasioned by _guiotto_. after some few dayes were passed over, and the hurts in his face indifferently cured; _blondello_ beginning to walke abroade againe, chanced to meet with _guiotto_: who laughing heartily at him, sayde. tell me _blondello_, how doost thou like the enrubinating clarret of signior _phillippo_? as well (quoth _blondello_) as thou didst the sturgeon and lampreyes at _messer corso donaties_. why then (sayde _guiotto_) let these two tokens continue familiar betweene thee and me, when thou wouldst bestow such another dinner on mee, then will i enrubinate thy nose with a bottle of the same claret. but _blondello_ perceived (to his cost) that hee had met with the worser bargaine, and _guiotto_ got cheare, without any blowes: and therefore desired a peacefull attonement, each of them (alwayes after) abstaining from flouting one another. _two yong gentlemen, the one named_ melisso, _borne in the city of_ laiazzo: _and the other_ giosefo _of_ antioche, _travailed together unto_ salomon, _the famous king of_ great britaine. _the one desiring to learne what he should do, whereby to compasse and winne the love of men. the other craved to be enstructed, by what meanes hee might reclaime an headstrong and unruly wife. and what answeres the wise king gave unto them both, before they departed away from him._ the ninth novell. _containing an excellent admonition, that such as covet to have the love of other men, must first learne themselves, how to love: also, by what meanes such women as are curst and self-willed, may be reduced to civill obedience._ upon the conclusion of madame _laurettaes_ novell, none now remained to succeede next in order, but onely the queene her selfe, the priviledge reserved, granted to _dioneus_; wherefore, after they had all smiled at the folly of _blondello_, with a chearfull countenance thus the queene began. honourable ladies, if with advised judgement, we do duly consider the order of all things, we shall very easily perceyve, that the whole universall multiplicitie of women, by nature, custome, and lawes, are & ought to be subject to men, yea, and to be governd by their discretion. because every one desiring to enjoy peace, repose and comfort with them, under whose charge they are; ought to be humble, patient and obedient, over and beside her spotlesse honesty, which is the crowne and honour of every good woman. and although those lawes, which respect the common good of all things, or rather use & custome (as our wonted saying is) the powers whereof are very great, and worthy to be referenced, should not make us wise in this case. yet nature hath given us a sufficient demonstration, in creating our bodies more soft and delicate, yea, and our hearts timorous, fearefull, benigne and compassionable, our strength feeble, our voyces pleasing, and the motion of our members sweetly plyant; all which are apparant testimonies, that wee have neede of others government. now, it is not to be denyed, that whosoever hath need of helpe, and is to bee governed: meerely reason commandeth, that they should bee subject and obedient to their governour. who then should we have for our helps and governours, if not men? wherefore, we should be intirely subject to them, in giving them due honour and reverence, and such a one as shall depart from this rule: she (in mine opinion) is not onely worthy of grievous reprehension, but also severe chastisement beside. and to this exact consideration (over and above divers other important reasons) i am the rather induced, by the novel which madame _pampinea_ so lately reported, concerning the froward and wilfull wife of _talano_, who had a heavier punishment inflicted on her, then her husband could devise to doe. and therefore it is my peremptory sentence, that all such women as will not be gracious, benigne and pleasing: doe justly deserve (as i have already said) rude, rough and harsh handling, as both nature, custome and lawes have commanded. to make good what i have said, i will declare unto you the counsell & advise, given by _salomon_, the wise and famous king of great britaine, as a most wholesome and soveraigne medicine for the cure of such a dangerous disease, in any woman so fouly infected. which counsell (notwithstanding) all such women as have no need of this phisicke, i would not have them to imagine, that it was meant for them, albeit men have a common proverbe, to wit. _as the good horse and bad horse, doe both need the spurre. so a good wife and bad wife, a wand will make stirre._ which saying, whosoever doth interpret it in such pleasing manner as they ought, shall find it (as you al will affirm no lesse) to be very true: especially in the morall meaning, it is beyond all contradiction. women are naturally all unstable, and easily enclining to misgovernment; wherefore to correct the iniquity of such a distemperature in them that out-step the tearmes and bounds of womanhood, a wand hath been allowed for especiall phisicke. as in the like manner, for support of vertue, in those of contrary condition, shaming to be sullyed with so grosse a sinne: the correcting wand may serve as a walking staffe, to protect them from all other feares. but, forbearing to teach any longer; let mee proceed to my purpose, and tell you my novell. in those ancient and reverend dayes, whereof i am now to speake, the high renowne and admirable wisedome of _salomon_, king of great brittain, was most famous throughout all parts of the world; for answering all doubtfull questions and demaunds whatsoever, that possibly could be propounded to him. so that many resorted to him, from the most remote and furthest off countreyes, to heare his miraculous knowledge and experience, yea, and to crave his counsell, in matters of greatest importance. among the rest of them which repaired thither, was a rich yong gentleman, honourably descended, named _melisso_, who came from the city of _laiazzo_, where he was both borne, and dwelt. in his riding towards _france_, as he passed by _naples_, hee overtooke another yong gentleman, a native of _antioch_, and named _giosefo_, whose journey lay the same way as the others did. having ridden in company some few dayes together, as it is a custome commonly observed among travellers, to understand one anothers countrey and condition, as also to what part his occasions call him: so happened it with them, _giosefo_ directly telling him, that he journyed towards the wise king _salomon_, to desire his advise what meanes he should observe, in the reclaiming of a wilfull wife, the most froward and selfe-willed woman that ever lived; whom neither faire perswasions, nor gentle courtesies could in any manner prevaile withall. afterward he demaunded of _melisso_, to know the occasion of his travell, and whither. now trust me sir, answered _melisso_, i am a native of _laiazzo_, and as you are vexed with one great misfortune, even so am i offended with another. i am young, wealthy, well derived by birth, and allow liberall expences, for maintaining a worthy table in my house, without distinguishing persons by their rancke and quality, but make it free for all commers, both of the city, & all places els. notwithstanding all which bounty and honourable entertainement, i cannot meet with any man that loveth me. in which respect, i journey to the same place as you doe, to crave the counsell of so wise a king, what i should doe, whereby i might procure men to love me. thus like two well-met friendly companions, they rode on together, untill they arrived in great britaine, where, by meanes of the noble barons attending on the king; they were brought before him. _melisso_ delivered his minde in very few words, whereto the king made no other answere, but this: learne to love. which was no sooner spoken, but _melisso_ was dismissed from the kings presence. _giosefo_ also relating, wherefore he came thither; the king replyed onely thus; goe to the goose bridge: and presently _giosefo_ had also his dismission from the king. comming forth, he found _melisso_ attending for him, and revealed in what manner the king had answered him: whereupon, they consulted together, concerning both their answeres, which seemed either to exceed their comprehension, or else was delivered them in meere mockery, and therefore (more then halfe discontented) they returned homeward againe. after they had ridden on a few dayes together, they came to a river, over which was a goodly bridge, and because a great company of horses and mules (heavily laden, and after the manner of a _caravan_ of camels in _egypt_) were first to passe over the saide bridge; they gladly stayed to permit their passe. the greater number of them being already past over, there was one shie and skittish mule (belike subject to fearefull starting, as oftentimes we see horses have the like ill quality) that would not passe over the bridge by any meanes, wherefore one of the muletters tooke a good cudgell, and smote her at the first gently, as hoping so to procure her passage. notwithstanding, starting one while backeward, then againe forward, side-wayes, and every way indeed, but the direct road way she would not goe. now grew the muletter extreamely angry, giving her many cruell stroakes, on the head, sides, flancks and all parts else, but yet they proved to no purpose, which _melisso_ and _giosefo_ seeing, and being (by this meanes) hindred of their passage, they called to the muletter, saying. foolish fellow, what doest thou? intendest thou to kill the mule? why dost thou not leade her gently, which is the likelier course to prevaile by, then beating and misusing her as thou dost? content your selves gentlemen (answered the muletter) you know your horses qualities, as i doe my mules, let mee deale with her as i please. having thus spoken, he gave her so many violent strokes, on head, sides, hippes, and every where else, as made her at last passe over the bridge quietly, so that the muletter wonne the mastery of his mule. when _melisso_ and _giosefo_ had past over the bridge, where they intended to part each from other; a sudden motion happened into the minde of _melisso_, which caused him to demaund of an aged man (who sate craving almes of passengers at the bridge foot) how the bridge was called: sir, answered the old man, this is called, the goose bridge. which words when _giosefo_ heard, hee called to minde the saying of king _salomon_, and therefore immediately saide to _melisso_. worthy friend, and partner in my travell, i dare now assure you, that the counsell given me by king _salomon_, may fall out most effectuall and true: for i plainely perceive, that i knew not how to handle my selfe-will'd-wife, untill the muletter did instruct me. so, requesting still to enjoy the others company, they journeyed on, till at the length they came to _laiazzo_, where _giosefo_ retained _melisso_ still with him, for some repose after so long a journey, and entertained him with very honourable respect and courtesie. one day _giosefo_ said to his wife: woman, this gentleman is my intimate friend, and hath borne me company in all my travell: such dyet therefore as thou wilt welcome him withall, i would have it ordered (in dressing) according to his direction. _melisso_ perceiving that _giosefo_ would needs have it to be so; in few words directed her such a course, as (for ever) might be to her husbands contentment. but she, not altring a jote from her former disposition, but rather farre more froward and tempestuous: delighted to vexe and crosse him, doing every thing, quite contrary to the order appointed. which _giosefo_ observing, angerly he said unto her. was it not tolde you by my friend, in what manner he would have our supper drest? she turning fiercely to him, replyed. am i to be directed by him or thee? supper must and shall bee drest as i will have it: if it pleaseth mee, i care not who doth dislike it; if thou wouldst have it otherwise, goe seeke both your suppers where you may have it. _melisso_ marvelling at her froward answere, rebuked her for it in very kind manner: whereupon, _giosefo_ spake thus to her. i perceive wife, you are the same woman as you were wount to be: but beleeve me on my word, i shall quite alter you from this curst complexion. so turning to _melisso_, thus he proceeded. noble friend, we shall try anone, whether the counsell of king _salomon_ bee effectuall, or no; and i pray you, let it not be offensive to you to see it; but rather hold all to be done in merriment. and because i would not be hindered by you, doe but remember the answere which the muletter gave us, when we tooke compassion on his mule. worthy friend, replyed _melisso_, i am in your owne house, where i purpose not to impeach whatsoever you doe. _giosefo_, having provided a good holly-wand, went into the chamber, where his wife sate railing, and despitefully grumbling, where taking her by the haire of her head, he threw her at his feete, beating her entreamely with the wand. she crying, then cursing, next railing, lastly fighting, biting and scratching, when she felt the cruell smart of the blowes, and that all her resistance served to no end: then she fell on her knees before him, and desired mercy for charities sake. _giosefo_ fought still more and more on head, armes, shoulders, sides, and all parts else, pretending as if he heard not her complaints, but wearied himselfe wel neere out of breath: so that (to be briefe) she that never felt his fingers before, perceived and confessed, it was now too soone. this being done, hee returned to _melisso_, and said: to morrow we shall see a miracle, and how availeable the councell is of going to the goose bridge. so sitting a while together, after they had washed their hands, and supt, they withdrew to their lodgings. the poore beaten woman, could hardly raise her selfe from the ground, which yet (with much adoe) she did, and threw her selfe upon the bed, where she tooke such rest as she could: but arising early the next morning, she came to her husband, and making him a very low courtesie, demaunded what hee pleased to have for his dinner; he smiling heartely thereat, with _melisso_, tolde her his mind. and when dinner time came, every thing was ready according to the direction given: in which regard, they highly commended the counsell, whereof they made such an harsh construction at the first. within a while after, _melisso_ being gone from _giosefo_, and returned home to his owne house: hee acquainted a wise and reverend man, with the answere which king _salomon_ gave him, whereto hee received this reply. no better or truer advise could possibly be given you, for well you know, that you love not any man; but the bountiful banquets you bestow on them, is more in respect of your owne vaine-glory, then any kind affection you beare to them: learne then to love men, as _salomon_ advised, and you shall be beloved of them againe. thus our unruly wife became mildely reclaimed, and the yong gentleman, by loving others, found the fruits of reciprocall affection. john de barolo, _at the instance and request of his gossip_ pietro da trefanti, _made an enchantment, to have his wife become a mule. and when it came to the fastening on of the taile; gossip_ pietro _by saying she should have no taile at all, spoyled the whole enchantment._ the tenth novell. _in just reproofe of such foolish men, as will be governed by over-light beleefe._ this novell reported by the queene, caused a little murmuring among the ladies, albeit the men laughed heartely thereat: but after they were all growne silent, _dioneus_ began in this manner. gracious beauties, among many white doves, one blacke crow will seeme more sightly, then the very whitest swanne can doe. in like manner, among a multitude of wise men, sometimes one of much lesse wisedome and discretion, shall not onely increase the splendour and majestie of their maturity, but also give an addition of delight and solace. in which regard, you all being modest and discreet ladies, and my selfe more much defective in braine, then otherwise able: in making your vertues shine gloriously, through the evident apparance of mine owne weakenesse, you should esteeme the better of mee, by how much i seeme the more cloudy and obscure. and consequently, i ought to have the larger scope of liberty, by plainely expressing what i am, and be the more patiently endured by you all, in saying what absurdly i shall; then i should be if my speeches favoured of absolute wisdome. i will therefore tell you a tale, which shall not be of any great length, whereby you may comprehend, how carefully such things should be observed, which are commanded by them, as can effect matters by the power of enchantment, and how little delayance also ought to be in such, as would not have an enchantment so be hindered. about a yeare already past since, there dwelt at _barletta_, an honest man, called _john de barolo_, who because he was of poore condition; for maintenance in his contented estate, provided himselfe of a mule, to carry commodities from place to place, where faires and markets were in request, but most especially to _apuglia_, buying and selling in the nature of a petty chapman. travelling thus thorow the countreyes, he grew into great and familiar acquaintance, with one who named himselfe _pietro da trefanti_, following the same trade of life as he did, carrying his commodities upon an asse. in signe of amitie, according to the countreyes custome, he never tearmed him otherwise, then by the name of gossip _pietro_ and alwayes when he came to _barletta_, he brought him to his own house, taking it as his inne, entreating him very friendly, and in the best manner he could devise to doe. on the other side, gossip _pietro_ being very poore, having but one simple habitation in the village of _trefanti_, hardly sufficient for him, and an handsome young woman which he had to his wife, as also his asse: evermore when _john de barolo_ came to _trefanti_, he would bring him to his poore abiding, with all his uttermost abilitie of entertainement, in due acknowledgement of the courtesie he afforded to him at _barletta_. but when he came to take repose in the night-season, gossip _pietro_ could not lodge him as gladly he would: because he had but one silly bed, wherein himselfe and his wife lay; so that _john de barolo_ was faigne to lie on a little straw, in a small stable, close adjoyning by his owne mule and the asse. the woman understanding, what good and honest welcome, gossip _john_ afforded her husband, when he came to _barletta_, was often very willing to goe lodge with an honest neighbour of hers, called _carapresa di giudice leo_, because the two gossips might both lie together in one bed; wherewith divers times she acquainted her husband, but by no meanes he would admit it. at one time among the rest, as she was making the same motion againe to her husband, that his friend might be lodged in better manner: gossip _john_ thus spake to her. good _zita carapresa_, never molest your selfe for me, because i lodge to mine owne contentment, and so much the rather, in regard that whensoever i list: i can convert my mule into a faire young woman, to give mee much delight in the night-season, and afterward make her a mule againe: thus am i never without her company. the young woman wondring at these words, and beleeving he did not fable in them: she told them to her husband, with this addition beside, _pietro_ (quoth she) if he be such a deare friend to thee, as thou hast often avouched to me; with him to instruct thee in so rare a cunning, that thou maist make a mule of me; then shalt thou have both an asse and a mule to travell withall about thy businesse, whereby thy benefit will be double: and when we returne home to our house; then thou maist make mee thy wife againe, in the same condition as i was before. gossip _pietro_, who was (indeed) but a very coxecombe; beleeved also the words to be true, yeelding therefore the more gladly to her advise; and moving the matter to his gossip _john_, to teach him such a wonderfull secret, which would redound so greatly to his benefit: but _john_ began to disswade him from it, as having spoken it in merriment, yet perceiving, that no contradiction would serve to prevaile, thus he began. seeing you will needs have it so, let us rise to morrow morning before day, as in our travell we use to doe, and then i will shew you how it is to be done: onely i must and doe confesse, that the most difficult thing of all the rest, is, to fasten on the taile, as thou shalt see. gossip _pietro_ and his wife, could hardly take any rest all the night long, so desirous they were to have the deed done; and therefore when it drew towards day, up they arose, and calling gossip _john_, he came presently to them in his shirt, & being in the chamber with them, he said. i know not any man in the world, to whom i would disclose this secret, but to you, and therefore because you so earnestly desire it, i am the more willing to doe it. onely you must consent, to doe whatsoever i say, if you are desirous to have it done. faithfully they promised to performe all, whereupon _john_ delivering a lighted candle to gossip _pietro_, to hold in his hand, said. marke well what i doe, and remember all the words i say: but be very carefull, that whatsoever thou hearest or seest, thou doe not speake one word, for then the enchantment will be utterly overthrowne, onely wish that the taile may be well set on, for therein consisteth all the cunning. gossip _pietro_ holding the candle, and the woman being prepared as _john_ had appointed her, she bowed her selfe forwardes with her hands set to the ground, even as if she stood upon foure feete. first with his hands he touched her head and face, saying, heere is the goodly head of a mule: then handling her disheveld haire, termed them the goodly mane of a mule. afterwardes, touching the body, armes, legs, and feete, gave them all the apt names (for those parts) belonging to a mule, nothing else remaining, but onely the forming of the taile, which when _pietro_ perceived, how _john_ was preparing to fasten it on (having no way misliked all his former proceeding) he called to him, saying: forbeare gossippe _john_, my mule shall have no taile at all, i am contented to have her without a taile. how now gossip _pietro_? answered _john_, what hast thou done? thou hast mard all by this unadvised speaking, even when the worke was almost fully finished. it is no matter gossip (answered _pietro_) i can like my mule better without a taile, then to see it set on in such manner. the fond yong woman, more covetously addicted to gayne and commodity, then looking into the knavish intention of her gossip _john_; began to grow greatly offended. beast as thou art (quoth she to her husband) why hast thou overthrowne both thine own good fortune and mine? diddest thou ever see a mule without a taile? wouldst thou have had him made me a monster? thou art wretchedly poore, and when we might have bin enriched for ever, by a secret knowne to none but our selves, thou art the asse that hast defeated all, and made thy friend to become thine enemy. gossippe _john_ began to pacifie the woman, with solemne protestations of his still continuing friendship, albeit (afterwards) there was no further desiring of any more mule-making: but gossip _pietro_ fel to his former trading onely with his asse, as he was no lesse himselfe, and hee went no more with gossip _john_ to the faires in _apuglia_, neyther did he ever request, to have the like peece of service done for him. * * * * * although there was much laughing at this novell, the ladies understanding it better, then _dioneus_ intended that they should have done, yet himselfe scarsely smiled. but the novels being all ended, and the sunne beginning to loose his heate; the queene also knowing, that the full period of her government was come: dispossessing her selfe of the crowne, shee placed it on the head of _pamphilus_, who was the last of all to be honoured with this dignity; wherefore (with a gracious smile) thus she spake to him. sir, it is no meane charge which you are to undergo, in making amends (perhaps) for all the faults committed by my selfe and the rest, who have gone before you in the same authority; and, may it prove as prosperous unto you, as i was willing to create you our king. _pamphilus_ having received the honour with a chearfull mind, thus answered. madam, your sacred vertues, and those (beside) remaining in my other subjects, will (no doubt) worke so effectually for me, that (as the rest have done) i shall deserve your generall good opinion. and having given order to the master of the houshold (as all his predecessors had formerly done, for every necessary occasion) he turned to the ladies, who expected his gracious favour, and said. bright beauties, it was the discretion of your late soveraigne & queene, in regard of ease and recreation unto your tyred spirits, to grant you free liberty, for discoursing on whatsoever your selves best pleased: wherefore, having enjoyed such a time of rest, i am of opinion, that it is best to returne once more to our wonted law, in which respect, i would have every one to speake in this manner to morrow. namely, of those men or women, who have done any thing bountifully or magnificently, either in matter of amity, or otherwise. the relation of such worthy arguments, will (doubtlesse) give an addition to our very best desires, for a free and forward inclination to good actions, whereby our lives (how short soever they bee) may perpetuate an ever-living renowne and fame, after our mortall bodies are converted into dust, which (otherwise) are no better then those of bruite beasts, reason onely distinguishing this difference, that as they live to perish utterly, so we respire to reigne in eternity. the theame was exceedingly pleasing to the whole company; who being all risen, by permission of the new king, every one fel to their wonted recreations, as best agreed with their owne disposition; untill the houre for supper came, wherein they were served very sumptuously. but being risen from the table, they began their dances, among which, many sweet sonnets were enterlaced, with such delicate tunes as moved admiration. then the king commanded madam _neiphila_, to sing a song in his name, or how her selfe stood best affected. and immediatly with a cleare and rare voice, thus she began. _the song._ the chorus sung by all the companie. _in the spring season, maides have best reason, to dance and sing; with chaplets of flowers, to decke up their bowers, and all in honour of the spring._ _i heard a nimph that sate alone, by a fountaines side: much her hard fortune to bemone, for still she cride: ah! who will pitty her distresse, that findes no foe like ficklenesse? for truth lives not in men: poore soule, why live i then? in the spring season, &c._ _oh, how can mighty love permit, such a faithlesse deed, and not in justice punish it as treasons meed? i am undone through perjury, although i loved constantly: but truth lives not in men, poore soule, why live i then? in the spring season,&c._ _when i did follow dyans traine, as a loyall maide, i never felt oppressing paine, nor was dismaide. but when i listened loves alluring, then i wandred from assuring. for truth lives not in men: poore soule, why live i then? in the spring season, &c._ _adiew to all my former joyes, when i lived at ease, and welcome now those sad annoies which do most displease. and let none pitty her distresse, that fell not, but by ficklenesse. for truth lives not in men, alas! why live i then?_ _in the spring season, maides have best reason, to dance and sing; with chaplets of flowers, to decke up their bowers, and all in honour of the spring._ this song, most sweetly sung by madame _neiphila_, was especially commended, both by the king, & all the rest of the ladies. which being fully finished, the king gave order, that everie one should repaire to their chambers, because a great part of the night was already spent. _the end of the ninth day._ the tenth and last day. _whereon, under the government of pamphilus, the severall arguments do concerne such persons, as either by way of liberality, or in magnificent manner, performed any worthy action, for love, favour, friendship, or any other honourable occasion._ the induction. already began certaine small clouds in the west, to blush with a vermillion tincture, when those in the east (having reached to their full heighth) looked like bright burnished gold, by splendour of the sun beames drawing neere unto them: when _pamphilus_ being risen, caused the ladies, and the rest of his honourable companions to be called. when they were all assembled, and had concluded together on the place, whither they should walke for their mornings recreation: the king ledde on the way before, accompanied with the two noble ladies _philomena_ and _fiammetta_, all the rest following after them, devising, talking, and answering to divers demands both what that day was to be don, as also concerning the proposed imposition. after they had walked an indifferent space of time, and found the rayes of the sunne to be over-piercing for them: they returned backe againe to the pallace, as fearing to have their blood immoderately heated. then rinsing their glasses in the coole cleare running current, each tooke their mornings draught, & then walked into the milde shades about the garden, untill they should bee summoned to dinner. which was no sooner over-past, and such as slept, returned waking: they mette together againe in their wonted place, according as the king had appointed, where he gave command unto madame _neiphila_, that shee should (for that day) begin the first novell, which she humbly accepting, thus began. _a florentine knight, named signior_ rogiero de figiovanni, _became a servant to_ alphonso, _king of_ spaine, _who (in his owne opinion) seemed but sleightly to respect and reward him. in regard whereof, by a notable experiment, the king gave him a manifest testimony, that it was not through any defect in him, but onely occasioned by the knights ill fortune; most bountifully recompensing him afterward._ the first novell. _wherein may evidently be discerned, that servants to princes and great lords, are many times recompenced, rather by their good fortune, then in any regard of their dutifull services._ i doe accept it (worthy ladies) as no mean favour, that the king hath given me the first place, to speake of such an honourable argument, as bounty and magnificence is, which precious jewell, even as the sunne is the beauty, or ornament and bright glory of al heaven; so is bounty and magnificence the crowne of all vertues. i shall then recount to you a short novell, sufficiently pleasing, in mine owne opinion, and i hope (so much i dare rely on your judgements) both profitable, and worthy to be remembred. you are to know then, that among other valiant knights, which of long have lived in our city, one of them, and (perhappes) of as great merit as any, was one, named signior _rogiero d'figiovanni_. he being rich, of great courage, and perceiving, that (in due consideration) the quality belonging to life, and the customes observed among our _tuscanes_, were not answerable to his expectation, nor agreed with the disposition of his valour; determined to leave his native countrey, and belong in service (for some time) to _alfonso_, king of _spaine_, whose fame was generally noised in all places, for excelling all other princes in those times, for respect of mens well deservings, and bountifull requitall of their paines. being provided in honorable order, both of horses, armes, & a competent train, he travelled to _spaine_, where he was worthily entertained. signior _rogiero_ continuing there, living in honorable manner, and performing many admirable actions of arms; in short time he made himselfe sufficiently knowne, for a very valiant and famous man. and having remained there an indifferent long while, observing divers behaviours in the king: he saw, how he enclined himselfe first to one man, then to another, bestowing on one a castle, a towne on another, and baronnies on divers, some-what indiscreetly, as giving away bountifully to men of no merit. and restraining all his favors from him, as seeming close fisted, and parting with nothing: he took it as a diminishing of his former reputation, and a great empayring of his fame, wherefore he resolved on his departure thence, & made his suit to the king that he might obtaine it. the king did grant it, bestowing on him one of the very best mules, and the goodliest that ever was backt, a gift most highly pleasing to _rogiero_, in regarde of the long journy he intended to ride. which being deliverd, the king gave charge to one of his gentlemen, to compasse such convenient meanes, as to ride thorow the country, and in the company of signior _rogiero_, yet in such manner, as he should not perceive, that the king had purposely sent him so to do. respectively he should observe whatsoever he said concerning the king, his gesture, smiles, and other behavior, shaping his answers accordingly, and on the nexte morning to command his returne backe with him to the king. nor was the gentleman slacke in this command, but noting _rogieroes_ departing forth of the city, he mounted on horseback likewise, and immediatly after came into his company, making him beleeve, that he journied towards _italy. rogiero_ rode on the mule which the king had given him, with diversity of speeches passing between them. about three of the clocke in the afternoone, the gentleman said. it were not amisse sir, (having such fit opportunitie) to stable our horses for a while, till the heate be a little more overpast. so taking an inne, and the horses being in the stable, they all staled except the mule. being mounted againe, and riding on further, the gentleman duely observed whatsoever _rogiero_ spake, and comming to the passage of a small river or brooke: the rest of the beasts dranke, and not the mule, but staled in the river: which signior _rogiero_ seeing, clapping his hands on the mules mane, hee said. what a wicked beast art thou? thou art just like thy master that gave thee to mee. the gentleman committed the words to memory, as he did many other passing from _rogiero_, riding along the rest of the day, yet none in disparagement of the king, but rather highly in his commendation. and being the next morning mounted on horseback, seeming to hold on still the way for _tuscane_: the gentleman fulfilled the kings command, causing signior _rogiero_ to turne back againe with him, which willingly he yeelded to doe. when they were come to the court, and the king made acquainted with the words, which _rogiero_ spake to his mule; he was called into the presence, where the king shewed him a gracious countenance, & demanded of him, why he had compared him to his mule? signior _rogiero_ nothing daunted, but with a bold and constant spirit, thus answered. sir, i made the comparison, because, like as you give, where there is no conveniency, and bestow nothing where reason requireth: even so, the mule would not stale where she should have done, but where was water too much before, there she did it. beleeve me signior _rogiero_, replyed the king, if i have not given you such gifts, as (perhaps) i have done to divers other, farre inferiour to you in honour and merit; this happened not thorough any ignorance in me, as not knowing you to be a most valiant knight, and well-worthy of speciall respect: but rather through your owne ill fortune, which would not suffer me to doe it, whereof she is guilty, and not i, as the truth thereof shall make it selfe apparent to you. sir, answered _rogiero_, i complaine not, because i have received no gift from you, as desiring thereby covetously to become the richer: but in regard you have not as yet any way acknowledged, what vertue is remaining in me. neverthelesse, i allow your excuse for good and reasonable, and am heartely contented, to behold whatsoever you please; although i doe confidently credit you, without any other testimony. the king conducted him then into the great hall, where (as hee had before given order) stood two great chests, fast lockt; & in the presence of all his lords, the king thus spake. signior _rogiero_, in out of these chests is mine imperiall crowne, the scepter royall, the mound, & many more of my richest girdles, rings, plate, & jewels, even the very best that are mine: the other is full of earth onely. chuse one of these two, and which thou makest election of; upon my royall word thou shalt enjoy it. hereby shalt thou evidently perceive, who hath bin ingreatful to the deservings, either i, or thine owne bad fortune. _rogiero_ seeing it was the kings pleasure to have it so; chose one of them, which the king caused presently to be opened, it approving to be the same that was full of earth, whereat the king smyling, said thus unto him. you see signior _rogiero_, that what i said concerning your ill fortune, is very true: but questionlesse, your valour is of such desert, as i ought to oppose my selfe against all her malevolence. and because i know right, that you are not minded to become a spaniard; i will give you neither castle nor dwelling place: but i will bestow the chest on you (in meer despight of your malicious fortune) which she so unjustly tooke away from you. carry it home with you into your countrey, that there it may make an apparant testimoney, in the sight of all your well-willers, both of your owne vertuous deservings, and my bounty. signior _rogiero_ humbly receiving the chest, and thanking his majestie for so liberall a gift, returned home joyfully therewith, into his native countrey of _tuscane_. ghinotto di tacco; _tooke the lord abbot of_ clugni _as his prisoner, and cured him of a grievous disease, which he had in his stomacke, and afterward set him at liberty. the same lord abbot, when hee returned from the court of rome, reconciled_ ghinotto _to pope_ boniface; _who made him a knight, and lord prior of a goodly hospitall._ the second novell. _wherein is declared that good men doe sometimes fall into bad conditions, onely occasioned thereto by necessity: and what meanes are to be used, for their reducing to goodnesse againe._ the magnificence and royall bounty, which king _alphonso_ bestowed on the florentine knight, passed through the whole assembly with no mean applause; & the king (who gave it the greatest praise of al) commanded madame _eliza_, to take the second turne in order; whereupon, thus she began. faire ladies, if a king shewed himselfe magnificently minded, and expressed his liberall bounty to such a man, as had done him good and honourable services: it can be termed no more then a vertuous deed well done, and becomming a king. but what will we say, when we heare that a prelate of the church, shewed himselfe wondrously magnificent, and to such a one as was his enemy: can any malicious tongue speake ill of him? undoubtedly, no other answere is to be made, but the action of the king was meerely vertue, and that of the prelate, no lesse then a miracle: for how can it be otherwise, when they are more greedily covetous then women, and deadly enemies to all liberality? and although every man (naturally) desireth revenge for injuries and abuses done unto him: yet men of the church, in regard that dayly they preached patience, and commaund (above all things else) remission of sinnes: it would appeare a mighty blemish in them, to be more froward and furious then other men. but i am to speake of a reverend prelate of the church, as also concerning his munificent bounty, to one that was his enemy, and yet became his reconciled friend, as you shall perceive by my novell. _ghinotto di tacco_, for his insolent and stout robberies, became a man very farre famed, who being banished from _sienna_, and an enemy to the countes _disanta fiore_: prevailed so by his bold and headstrong perswasions, that the towne of _raticonfani_ rebelled against the church of rome, wherein he remaining; all passengers whatsoever, travelling any way thereabout, were robde and rifled by his theeving companions. at the time whereof now i speake, _boniface_ the eight, governed as pope at rome, and the lord abbot of _clugni_ (accounted to be one of the richest prelates in the world) came to rome, and there either by some surfeit, excesse of feeding, or otherwise, his stomacke being grievously offended and pained; the phisitians advised him, to travell to the bathes at _sienna_, where he should receive immediate cure. in which respect, his departure being licenced by the pope, to set onward thither, with great and pompous cariages, of horses, mules, and a goodly traine, without hearing any rumour of the theevish consorts. _ghinotto di tacco_, being advertised of his comming, spred about his scouts and nettes, and without missing so much as one page, shut up the abbot, with all his traine and baggage, in a place of narrow restraint, out of which he could by no meanes escape. when this was done, he sent one of his most sufficient attendants, (well accompanyed) to the lord abbot, who said to him in his masters name, that if his lordship were so pleased, hee might come and visite _ghinotto_ at his castle. which the abbot hearing, answered chollerickly, that he would not come thither, because hee had nothing to say to _ghinotto_: but meant to proceed on in his journy, and would faine see, who durst presume to hinder his passe. to which rough words, the messenger thus mildely answered. my lord (quoth he) you are arrived in such a place, where we feare no other force, but the all-controlling power of heaven, clearely exempted from the popes thunder-cracks, of maledictions, interdictions, excommunications, or whatsoever else: and therefore it would bee much better for you, if you pleased to do as _ghinotto_ adviseth you. during the time of this their interparlance, the place was suddenly round ingirt with strongly armed theeves, and the lord abbot perceiving, that both he and all his followers were surprized: tooke his way (though very impatiently) towards the castle, and likewise all his company and carriages with him. being dismounted, hee was conducted (as _ghinotto_ had appointed) all alone, into a small chamber of the castle, it being very darke and uneasie: but the rest of his traine, every one according to his ranck and quality, were all well lodged in the castle, their horses, goods and all things else, delivered into secure keeping, without the least touch of injury or prejudice. all which being orderly done, _ghinotto_ himselfe went to the lord abbot, and said. my lord, _ghinotto_, to whom you are a welcome guest, requesteth, that it might be your pleasure to tell him, whither you are travelling, and upon what occasion? the lord abbot being a very wise man, and his angry distemper more moderately qualified; revealed whither he went, and the cause of his going thither. which when _ghinotto_ had heard, hee departed courteously from him, and began to consider with himselfe, how he might cure the abbot; yet without any bathe. so, commanding a good fire to be kept continually in his small chamber, and very good attendance on him: the next morning, he came to visite him againe, bringing a faire white napkin on his arme, and in it two slices or toasts of fine manchet, a goodly cleare glasse, full of the purest white-bastard of _corniglia_ (but indeed, of the abbots owne provision brought thither with him) and then hee spoke to him in this manner. my lord, when _ghinotto_ was yonger then now he is, he studyed physicke, and he commanded me to tell you, that the very best medicine, he could ever learne, against any disease in the stomacke, was this which he had provided for your lordship, as an especial preparative, and which he should finde to be very comfortable. the abbot, who had a better stomacke to eate, then any will or desire to talke: although hee did it somewhat disdainfully, yet hee eate up both the toastes, and roundly dranke off the glasse of bastard. afterward, divers other speeches passed betweene them, the one still advising in phisicall manner, and the other seeming to care little for it: but moved many questions concerning _ghinotto_, and earnestly requesting to see him. such speeches as favoured of the abbots discontentment, and came from him in passion; were clouded with courteous acceptance, & not the least signe of any mislike: but assuring his lordship, that _ghinotto_ intended very shortly to see him, and so they parted for that time. nor returned he any more, till the next morning with the like two toastes of bread, and such another glasse of white bastard, as he had brought him at the first, continuing the same course for divers dayes after: till the abbot had eaten (and very hungerly too) a pretty store of dryed beanes, which _ghinotto_ purposely, (yet secretly) had hidden in the chamber. whereupon he demaunded of him (as seeming to be so enjoyned by his pretended master) in what temper he found his stomacke now? i should finde my stomacke well enough (answered the lord abbot) if i could get forth of thy masters fingers, and then have some good food to feed on: for his medicines have made me so soundly stomackt, that i am ready to starve with hunger. when _ghinotto_ was gone from him, hee then prepared a very faire chamber for him, adorning it with the abbots owne rich hangings, as also his plate and other moveables, such as were alwayes used for his service. a costly dinner he provided likewise, whereto he invited divers of the towne, and many of the abbots chiefest followers: then going to him againe the next morning, he said. my lord, seeing you doe feele your stomacke so well, it is time you should come forth of the infirmary. and taking him by the hand, he brought him into the prepared chamber, where he left him with his owne people, and went to give order for the dinners serving in, that it might be performed in magnificent manner. the lord abbot recreated himselfe a while with his owne people, to whom he recounted, the course of his life since hee saw them; and they likewise told him, how kindly they had bin initeated by _ghinotto_. but when dinner time was come, the lord abbot and all his company, were served with costly viands and excellent wines, without _ghinottoes_ making himselfe knowne to the abbot: till after he had beene entertained some few dayes in this order: into the great hall of the castle, _ghinotto_ caused all the abbots goods and furniture to bee brought, and likewise into a spacious court, whereon the windowes of the said court gazed, all his mules and horses, with their sumpters, even to the very silliest of them, which being done, _ghinotto_ went to the abbot, and demaunded of him, how he felt his stomacke now, and whether it would serve him to venter on horsebacke as yet, or no? the lord abbot answered, that he found his stomacke perfectly recovered, his body strong enough to endure travell, and all things well, so hee were delivered from _ghinotto_. hereupon, he brought him into the hall where his furniture was, as also all his people, & commanding a window to be opned, whereat he might behold his horses, he said. my lord, let me plainely give you to understand, that neither cowardise, or basenesse of minde, induced _ghinotto di tacco_ (which is my selfe) to become a lurking robber on the high-wayes, an enemy to the pope, and so (consequently) to the romane court: but onely to save his owne life and honour, knowing himselfe to be a gentleman cast out of his owne house, and having (beside) infinite enemies. but because you seeme to be a worthy lord, i will not (although i have cured your stomacks disease) deale with you as i doe to others, whose goods (when they fall into my power) i take such part of as i please: but rather am well contented, that my necessities being considered by your selfe, you spare me out a proportion of the things you have heere, answerable to your owne liking. for all are present here before you, both in this hall, and in the court beneath, free from any spoyle, or the least impairing. wherefore, give a part, or take all, if you please, and then depart hence when you will, or abide heere still, for now you are at your owne free liberty. the lord abbot wondred not a little, that a robber on the high wayes, should have such a bold and liberall spirit, which appeared very pleasing to him; and instantly, his former hatred and spleene against _ghinotto_, became converted into cordiall love and kindnes, so that (imbracing him in his armes) he said. i protest upon my vow made to religion, that to win the love of such a man, as i plainely perceive thee to be: i would undergo far greater injuries, then those which i have received at thy hands. accursed be cruell destiny, that forced thee to so base a kind of life, and did not blesse thee with a fairer fortune. after he had thus spoken, he left there the greater part of all his goods, and returned back againe to rome, with fewer horses, and a meaner traine. during these passed accidents, the pope had received intelligence of the lord abbots surprizall, which was not a little displeasing to him: but when he saw him returned, he demaunded, what benefit he received at the bathes? whereto the abbot, merrily smyling, thus replyed. holy father, i met with a most skilfull physitian neerer hand, whose experience is beyond the power of the bathes, for by him i am very perfectly cured: and so discoursed all at large. the pope laughing heartely, and the abbot continuing on still his report, moved with an high and magnificent courage, he demaunded one gracious favour of the pope: who imagining that he would request a matter of greater moment, then he did, freely offered to grant, whatsoever he desired. holy father, answered the lord abbot, all the humble suit which i make to you, is, that you would be pleased to receive into your grace and favor, _ghinotto di tacco_ my physitian, because among all the vertuous men, deserving to have especial account made of them i never met with any equall to him both in honour and honesty. whatsoever injury he did to me, i impute it as a greater in-fortune, then any way he deserveth to be charged withall. which wretched condition of his, if you were pleased to alter, and bestow on him some better meanes of maintenance, to live like a worthy man, as he is no lesse: i make no doubt, but (in very short time) hee will appeare as pleasing to your holinesse, as (in my best judgement) i thinke him to be. the pope, who was of a magnanimious spirit, and one that highly affected men of vertue, hearing the commendable motion made by the abbot; returned answere, that he was as willing to grant it, as the other desired it, sending letters of safe conduct for his comming thither. _ghinotto_ receiving such assurance from the court of rome, came thither immediatly, to the great joy of the lord abbot: and the pope finding him to be a man of valour and worth, upon reconciliation, remitted all former errors, creating him knight, and lord prior of the very chiefest hospitall in rome. in which office he lived long time after, as a loyall servant to the church, and an honest thankefull friend to the lord abbot of _clugny_. mithridanes _envying the life and liberality of_ nathan, _and travelling thither, with a setled resolution to kill him: chaunceth to conferre with_ nathan _unknowne. and being instructed by him, in what manner he might best performe the bloody deede, according as hee gave direction, hee meeteth with him in a small thicket or woode, where knowing him to be the same man, that taught him how to take away his life: confounded with shame, hee acknowledgeth his horrible intention, and becommeth his loyall friend._ the third novell. _shewing in an excellent and lively demonstration, that any especiall honourable vertue, persevering and dwelling in a truly noble soule, cannot be violenced or confounded, by the most politicke attemptes of malice and envy._ it appeared to the whole assembly, that they had heard a matter of mervaile, for a lord abbot to performe any magnificent action: but their admiration ceasing in silence, the king commanded _philostratus_ to follow next, who forthwith thus began. honourable ladies, the bounty and magnificence of _alphonso_ king of _spaine_, was great indeede, and that done by the lord abbot of _clugny_, a thing (perhaps) never heard of in any other. but it will seeme no lesse mervailous to you, when you heare, how one man, in expression of great liberality to another man, that earnestly desired to kill him; should bee secretly disposed to give him his life, which had bin lost, if the other would have taken it, as i purpose to acquaint you withall, in a short novell. most certaine it is, at least, if faith may bee given to the report of certaine _genewayes_, and other men resorting to those remote parts, that in the country of _cathaya_, there lived somtime a gentleman, rich beyond comparison, and named _nathan_. he having his living adjoyning to a great common rode-way, whereby men travayled from the east to the west (as they did the like from the west unto the east, as having no other means of passage) and being of a bountifull and chearfull disposition, which he was willing to make knowen by experience: he summoned together many master masons and carpenters, and there erected (in a short time) one of the greatest, goodliest, and most beautifull houses (in manner of a princes pallace) that ever was seene in all those quarters. with movables and all kinde of furnishment, befitting a house of such outward apparance, hee caused it to be plentifully stored, onely to receive, entertaine, and honor all gentlemen or other travailers whatsoever, as had occasion to passe that way, being not unprovided also of such a number of servants, as might continuallie give attendance on all commers and goers. two and fifty severall gates, standing al way wide open, & over each of them in great golden carracters was written, _welcome, welcome,_ and gave free admission to all commers whatsoever. in this honourable order (observed as his estated custom) he persevered so long a while, as not onely the east parts, but also those in the west, were every where acquainted with his fame & renown. being already well stept into yeares, but yet not wearie (therefore) of his great charge and liberality: it fortuned, that the rumour of his noble hospitality, came to the eare of another gallant gentleman, named _mithridanes_, living in a countrey not farre off from the other. this gentleman, knowing himself no lesse wealthy then _nathan_, and enviously repining at his vertue and liberality, determined in his mind, to dim and obscure the others bright splendour, by making himselfe farre more famous. and having built a palace answerable to that of _nathans_, with like windings of gates, and welcome inscriptions; he beganne to extend immeasurable courtesies, unto all such as were disposed to visite him: so that (in a short while) hee grew very famous in infinite places. it chanced on a day, as _mithridanes_ sate all alone within the goodly court of his pallace: a poore woman entred at one of the gates, craving an almes of him, which she had; and returned in againe at a second gate, comming also to him, and had a second almes; continuing so still a dozen times; but at the thirteenth returning, _mithridanes_ saide to her: good woman, you goe and come very often, and still you are served with almes. when the old woman heard these words, she said. o the liberality of _nathan_! how honourable and wonderfull is that? i have past through two and thirty gates of his palace, even such as are here, and at every one i receyved an almes, without any knowledgement taken of me, either by him, or any of his followers: and heere i have past but through thirteene gates, and am there both acknowledged and taken. fare well to this house, for i never meane to visit it any more; with which words shee departed thence, and never after came thither againe. when _mithridanes_ had a while pondered on her speeches, hee waxed much discontented, as taking the words of the olde woman, to extoll the renowne of _nathan_, and darken or ecclipse his glorie, whereupon he said to himselfe. wretched man as i am, when shall i attaine to the height of liberality, and performe such wonders, as _nathan_ doth? in seeking to surmount him, i cannot come neere him in the very meanest. undoubtedly, i spend all my endeavour but in vaine, except i rid the world of him, which (seeing his age will not make an end of him) i must needs do with my own hands. in which furious and bloody determination (without revealing his intent to any one) he mounted on horse-backe, with few attendants in his company, and after three dayes journey, arrived where _nathan_ dwelt. he gave order to his men, to make no shew of beeing his servants, or any way to acknowledge him: but to provide them selves of convenient lodgings, untill they heard other tydings from him. about evening, and (in this manner) alone by himselfe, neere to the palace of _nathan_, he met him solitarily walking, not in pompous apparrell, whereby to bee distinguished from a meaner man: and, because he knew him not, neyther had heard any relation of his description, he demanded of him, if he knew where _nathan_ then was? _nathan_, with a chearfull countenance, thus replyed. faire syr, there is no man in these parts, that knoweth better how to shew you _nathan_ then i do; and therefore, if you be so pleased, i will bring you to him. _mithridanes_ said, therein he should do him a great kindnesse: albeit (if it were possible) he would bee neyther knowne nor seene of _nathan_. and that (quoth he) can i also do sufficiently for you, seeing it is your will to have it so, if you will goe along with me. dismounting from his horse, he walked on with _nathan_, diversly discoursing, untill they came to the pallace, where one of the servants taking _mithridanes_ his horse, _nathan_ rounded the fellow in the eare, that he should give warning to all throughout the house, for revealing to the gentleman, that he was _nathan_; as accordingly it was performed. no sooner were they within the pallace, but he conducted _mithridanes_ into a goodly chamber, where none (as yet) had seene him, but such as were appointed to attend on him reverently; yea, and he did himselfe greatly honor him, as being loth to leave his company. while thus _mithridanes_ conversed with him, he desired to know (albeit he respected him much for his yeares) what he was. introth sir, answered _nathan_, i am one of the meanest servants to _nathan_, and from my child-hood, have made my selfe thus olde in his service: yet never hath he bestowed any other advancement on mee, then as you now see; in which respect, howsoever other men may commend him, yet i have no reason at all to do it. these words, gave some hope to _mithridanes_, that with a little more counsell, he might securely put in execution his wicked determination. _nathan_ likewise demaunded of him (but in very humble manner) of whence, and what he was, as also the businesse inviting him thither: offering him his utmost aide and counsell, in what soever consisted in his power. _mithridanes_ sat an indifferent while meditating with his thoughts before he would returne any answer: but at the last, concluding to repose confidence in him (in regard of his pretended discontentment) with many circumstantiall perswasions, first for fidelity, next for constancie, and lastly for counsell and assistance, he declared to him truly what he was, the cause of his comming thither, and the reason urging him thereto. _nathan_ hearing these words, and the detestable deliberation of _mithridanes_, became quite changed in himself: yet wisely making no outward appearance thereof, with a bold courage and setled countenance, thus he replyed. _mithridanes_, thy father was a noble gentleman, and (in vertuous qualities) inferiour to none, from whom (as now i see) thou desirest not to degenerate, having undertaken so bold & high an enterprise, i meane, in being liberall and bountifull to all men. i do greatly commend the envy which thou bearest to the vertue of _nathan_: because if there were many more such men, the world that is now wretched and miserable, would become good and conformable. as for the determination which thou hast disclosed to mee, i have sealed it up secretly in my soule: wherein i can better give thee counsell, then any especiall helpe or furtherance: and the course which i would have thee to observe, followeth thus in few words. this window, which we now looke forth at, sheweth thee a small wood or thicket of trees, being little more then the quarter of a miles distance hence; whereto _nathan_ usually walketh every morning, and there continueth time long enough: there maist thou very easily meet him, and do whatsoever thou intended to him. if thou kilst him, because thou maist with safety returne home unto thine owne abiding, take not the same way which guided thee thither, but another, lying on the left hand, & directing speedily out of the wood, as being not so much haunted as the other, but rather free from all resort, and surest for visiting thine owne countrey, after such a dismall deed is done. when _mithridanes_ had receyved this instruction, and _nathan_ was departed from him, hee secretly gave intelligence to his men, (who likewise were lodged, as welcome strangers, in the same house) at what place they should stay for him the next morning. night being passed over, and _nathan_ risen, his heart altred not a jot from his counsell given to _mithridanes_, much lesse changed from anie part thereof: but all alone by himselfe, walked on to the wood, the place appointed for his death. _mithridanes_ also being risen, taking his bow & sword (for other weapons had he none) mounted on hors-backe, and so came to the wood, where (somewhat farre off) hee espyed _nathan_ walking, and no creature with him. dismounting from his horse, he had resolved (before he would kill him) not onely to see, but also to heare him speake: so stepping roughly to him, and taking hold of the bonnet on his head, his face being then turned from him, he sayde. old man, thou must dye. whereunto _nathan_ made no other answer, but thus: why then (belike) i have deserved it. when _mithridanes_ heard him speake, and looked advisedly on his face, he knew him immediatly to be the same man, that had entertained him so lovingly, conversed with him so familiarly, and counselled him so faithfully: all which overcomming his former fury, his harsh nature became meerly confounded with shame: so throwing downe his drawne sword, which he held readily prepared for the deede: he prostrated himselfe at _nathans_ feet, and in teares, spake in this manner. now do i manifestly know (most loving father) your admired bounty and liberalitie; considering, with what industrious providence, you made the meanes for your comming hither, prodigally to bestow your life on me, which i have no right unto, although you were so willing to part with it. but those high and supreame powers, more carefull of my dutie, then i my selfe: even at the very instant, and when it was most needfull, opened the eyes of my better understanding, which infernall envy had closed up before. and therefore, looke how much you have bin forward to pleasure me; so much the more shame and punishment, i confesse my heinous transgression hath justly deserved: take therefore on me (if you please) such revenge, as you thinke (in justice) answerable to my sin. _nathan_ lovingly raised _mithridanes_ from the ground, then kissing his cheeke, and tenderly embracing him, he said. sonne, thou needed not to aske, much lesse to obtaine pardon, for any enterprise of thine, which thou canst not yet terme to be good or bad: because thou soughtest not to bereave me of my life, for any hatred thou barest me, but onely in coveting to be reputed the woorthier man. take then this assurance of me, and beleeve it constantly, that there is no man living, whom i love and honour, as i do thee: considering the greatnesse of thy minde, which consisteth not in the heaping up of money, as wretched and miserable worldlings make it their onely felicity; but, contending in bounty to spend what is thine, didst hold it for no shame to kill me, thereby to make thy selfe so much the more worthily famous. nor is it any matter to be wondred at, in regard that emperors, and the greatest kings, hadde never made such extendure of their dominions, and consequently of their renowne, by any other art, then killing; yet not one man onely, as thou wouldst have done: but infinite numbers, burning whole countries, and making desolate huge townes and cities, onely to enlarge their dominion, and further spreading of their fame. wherefore, if for the increasing of thine owne renowne, thou wast desirous of my death: it is no matter of novelty, and therefore deserving the lesse mervaile, seeing men are slaine daily, and all for one purpose or other. _mithridanes_, excusing no further his malevolent deliberation, but rather commending the honest defence, which _nathan_ made on his behalfe; proceeded so farre in after discoursing, as to tel him plainely, that it did wondrously amaze him, how he durst come to the fatall appointed place, himselfe having so exactly plotted and contrived his owne death: whereunto _nathan_ returned this aunswere. i would not have thee _mithridanes_, to wonder at my counsell or determination; because, since age hath made mee maister of mine owne will, and i resolved to doe that, wherein thou hast begun to follow me: never came any man to mee, whom i did not content (if i could) in any thing he demanded of mee. it was thy fortune to come for my life, which when i saw thee so desirous to have it, i resolved immediately to bestow it on thee: and so much the rather, because thou shouldst not be the onely man, that ever departed hence, without enjoying whatsoever hee demanded. and, to the end thou mightst the more assuredly have it, i gave thee that advice, least by not enjoying mine, thou shouldest chance to loose thine owne. i have had the use of it full fourescore yeares, with the consummation of all my delights and pleasures: and well i know, that according to the course of nature (as it fares with other men, and generally all things else) it cannot bee long before it must leave mee. wherefore, i hold it much better for me to give it away freely, as i have alwayes done my goods and treasure; then bee curious in keeping it, and suffer it to be taken from me (whether i will or no) by nature. a small gift it is, if time make me up the full summe of an hundred yeares: how miserable is it then, to stand beholding but for foure or five, and all of them vexation too? take it then i intreate thee, if thou wilt have it; for i never met with any man before (but thy selfe) that did desire it, nor (perhaps) shall finde any other to request it: for the longer i keepe it, the worse it will be esteemed: and before it grow contemptible, take it i pray thee. _mithridanes_, being exceedingly confounded with shame, bashfully sayde: fortune fore-fend, that i should take away a thing so precious as your life is, or once to have so vile a thought of it as lately i had; but rather then i would diminish one day thereof, i could wish, that my time might more amply enlarge it. forthwith aunswered _nathan_, saying. wouldst thou (if thou couldst) shorten thine owne dayes, onely to lengthen mine? why then thou wouldest have me to do that to thee, which (as yet) i never did unto any man, namely, robbe thee, to enrich my selfe. i will enstruct thee in a much better course, if thou wilt be advised by mee. lusty and young, as now thou art, thou shalt dwell heere in my house, and be called by the name of _nathan_. aged, and spent with yeares, as thou seest i am, i will goe live in thy house, and bee called by the name of _mithridanes_. so, both the name and place shall illustrate thy glorie, and i live contentedly, without the very least thought of envie. deare father, answered _mithridanes_, if i knew so well howe to direct mine owne actions, as you doe, and alwayes have done, i would gladly accept your most liberall offer: but because i plainlie perceive, that my very best endeavours, must remayne darkened by the bright renowne of _nathan_: i will never seeke to impayre that in another, which i cannot (by any means) increase in my selfe, but (as you have worthily taught me) live contented with my owne condition. after these, and many more like loving speeches had passed between them, according as _nathan_ very instantly requested, _mithridanes_ returned back with him to the pallace, where many dayes he highly honored & respected him, comforting & counselling him, to persever alwayes in his honourable determination. but in the end, when _mithridanes_ could abide there no longer, because necessary occasions called him home: he departed thence with his men, having found by good experience, that hee could never goe beyond _nathan_ in liberality. signior gentile de carisendi, _being come from_ modena, _took a gentlewoman, named madam_ catharina, _forth of a grave, wherein she was buried for dead: which act he did, in regard of his former honest affection to the said gentlewoman. madame_ catharina _remaining afterward, and delivered of a goodly sonne: was (by_ signior _there_ gentile) _delivered to her owne husband, named_ signior nicoluccio caccianimico, _and the yong infant with her._ the fourth novell. _wherein is shewne, that true love hath alwayes bin, and so still is, the occasion of many great and worthy courtesies._ by judgment of all the honorable assembly, it was reputed wonderfull, that a man should be so bountifull, as to give away his owne life, and to his hatefull enemy. in which respect, it passed with generall affirmation, that _nathan_ (in the vertue of liberallity) had exceeded _alphonso_, king of _spaine_, but (especially) the abbot of _clugny_. so, after every one had delivered their opinion, the king, turning himselfe to madame _lauretta_, gave her such a signe, as well instructed her understanding, that she should be the next in order, whereto she gladly yeelding, began in this manner. youthfull ladies, the discourses already past, have been so worthy and magnificent, yea, reaching to such a height of glorious splendour; as (me thinkes) there remaineth no more matter, for us that are yet to speake, whereby to enlarge so famous an argument, and in such manner as it ought to be: except we lay hold on the actions of love, wherein is never any want of subject, it is so faire and spacious a field to walke in. wherefore, as well in behalfe of the one, as advancement of the other, whereto our instant age is most of all inclined: i purpose to acquaint you with a generous and magnificent act, of an amourous gentleman, which when it shall be duely considered on, perhaps will appeare equall to any of the rest. at least, if it may passe for currant, that men may give away their treasures, forgive mighty injuries, and lay downe life it selfe, honour and renowne (which is farre greater) to infinite dangers, only to attaine any thing esteemed and affected. understand then (gracious hearers) that in _bologna_, a very famous city of _lombardie_, there lived sometime a knight, most highly respected for his vertues, named signior _gentile de carisendi_, who (in his yonger dayes) was enamoured of a gentlewoman, called madam _catharina_, the wife of signior _nicoluccio caccianimico_. and because during the time of his amourous pursuite, he found but a sorry enterchange of affection from the lady; hee went (as hopelesse of any successe) to be potestate of _modena_, whereto he was called by place and order. at the same time, signior _nicoluccio_ being absent from _bologna_, and his lady at a farme-house of his in the countrey (about three miles distant from the city) because she was great with child, and somewhat neere the time of her teeming: it came to passe, that some dangerous accident befell her, which was so powerfull in operation, as no signe of life appeared remained in her, but she was reputed (even in the judgement of the best phisitians, whereof she wanted no attendance) to be verily dead. and because in the opinion of her parents and neerest kinred, the time for her deliverance was yet so farre off, as the infant within her, wanted much of a perfect creature: they made the lesse mourning; but in the next church, as also the vault belonging to her ancestors, they gave her buriall very speedily. which tydings comming to the hearing of signior _gentile_, by one that was his endeared friend: although (while she lived) he could never be gracious in her favour, yet her so sudden death did greatly grieve him, whereupon he discoursed in this sort with himselfe. deare madame _catharina_, i am not a little sorry for thy death, although (during thy life-time) i was scarcely worthy of one kind looke: yet now being dead, thou canst not prohibite me, but i may robbe thee of a kisse. no sooner had hee spoke the words, but it beeing then night, and taking such order, as none might know of his departure: hee mounted on horse-backe, accompanied onely with one servant, and stayed no where, till hee came to the vault where the lady was buried. which when he had opened, with instruments convenient for the purpose, he descended downe into the vault, and kneeled downe by the beere whereon she lay, and in her wearing garments, according to the usuall manner, with teares trickling mainly downe his cheekes, he bestowed infinite sweet kisses on her. but as we commonly see, that mens desires are never contented, but still will presume on further advantages, especially such as love entirely: so fared it with _gentile_, who being once minded to get him gone, as satisfied with the oblation of his kisses; would needs yet step backe againe, saying. why should i not touch her yvory breast, the adamant that drew all desires to adore her? ah let me touch it now, for never hereafter can i bee halfe so happy. overcome with this alluring appetite, gently he laid his hand upon her breast, with the like awefull respect, as if she were living, and holding it so an indifferent while: either he felt, or his imagination so perswaded him, the heart of the lady to beate and pant. casting off all fond feare, and the warmth of his increasing the motion: his inward soule assured him, that she was not dead utterly, but had some small sense of life remaining in her, whereof he would needs be further informed. so gently as possible he could, and with the helpe of his man, he tooke her forth of the monument, & laying her softly on his horse before him, conveighed her closely to his house in _bologna_. signior _gentile_ had a worthy lady to his mother, a woman of great wisdome and vertue, who understanding by her sonne, how matters had happened; moved with compassion, and suffering no one in the house to know what was done, made a good fire, and very excellent bathe, which recalled back againe wrong-wandering life. then fetching a vehement sigh, opening her eyes, & looking very strangely about her, she said. alas! where am i now? whereto the good old lady kindly replyed, saying. comfort your selfe madame, for you are in a good place. her spirits being in better manner met together, and she still gazing every way about her, not knowing well where she was, and seeing signior _gentile_ standing before her: he entreated his mother to tell her by what meanes she came thither; which the good old lady did, _gentile_ himselfe helping to relate the whole history. a while she grieved and lamented, but afterward gave them most hearty thankes, humbly requesting, that, in regard of the love he had formerly borne her, in his house she might finde no other usage, varying from the honour of her selfe and her husband, and when day was come, to be conveighed home to her owne house. madame, answered signior _gentile_, whatsoever i sought to gaine from you in former dayes, i never meane, either here, or any where else, to motion any more. but seeing it hath been my happy fortune, to prove the blessed means, of reducing you from death to life: you shall find no other entertainment here, then as if you were mine owne sister. and yet the good deed which i have this night done for you, doth well deserve some courteous requitall: in which respect, i would have you not to deny me one favour, which i will presume to crave of you. whereto the lady lovingly replyed, that she was willing to grant it; provided, it were honest, and in her power: whereto signior _gentile_ thus answered. madame, your parents, kindred and friends, and generally all throughout _bologna_, doe verily thinke you to be dead, wherefore there is not any one, that will make any inquisition after you: in which regard, the favour i desire from you, is no more but to abide here secretly with my mother, untill such time as i returne from _modena_, which shall be very speedily. the occasion why i move this motion, aymeth at this end, that in presence of the chiefest persons of our city, i may make a gladsome present of you to your husband. the lady knowing her selfe highly beholding to the knight, and the request he made to be very honest: disposed her selfe to doe as he desired (although she earnestly longed, to glad her parents and kindred with seeing her alive) and made her promise him on her faith, to effect it in such manner, as he pleased to appoint and give her direction. scarcely were these words concluded, but she felt the custome of women to come upon her, with the paines and throwes incident to childing: wherefore, with helpe of the aged lady, mother to signior _gentile_, it was not long before her deliverance of a goodly sonne, which greatly augmented the joy of her and _gentile_, who tooke order, that all things belonging to a woman in such a case, were not wanting, but she was as carefully respected, even as if she had been his owne wife. secretly he repaired to _modena_, where having given direction for his place of authority; he returned back againe to _bologna_, and there made preparation for a great and solemne feast, appointing who should be his invited guests, the very chiefest persons in _bologna_, and (among them) signior _nicoluccio caccianimico_ the especiall man. after he was dismounted from horsebacke, and found so good company attending for him (the lady also, more faire and healthful then ever, and the infant lively disposed) he sate downe at the table with his guests, causing them to be served in most magnificent manner, with plenty of all delicates that could be devised, and never before was there such a joviall feast. about the ending of dinner, closely he made the lady acquainted with his further intention, and likewise in what order every thing should be done, which being effected, he returned to his company, & used these speeches. honourable friends, i remember a discourse sometime made unto me, concerning the countrey of _persia_, and a kind of custome there observed, not to be misliked in mine opinion. when any one intended to honour his friend in effectuall manner, he invited him home to his house, and there would shew him the thing, which with greatest love he did respect; were it wife, friend, sonne, daughter, or any thing else whatsoever; wherewithall hee spared not to affirme, that as he shewed him those choyce delights, the like view he should have of his heart, if with any possibility it could be done; and the very same custome i meane now to observe here in our city. you have vouchsafed to honour me with your presence, at this poore homely dinner of mine, and i will welcome you after the _persian_ manner, in shewing you the jewell, which (above all things else in the world) i ever have most respectively esteemed. but before i doe it, i crave your favourable opinions in a doubt, which i will plainely declare unto you. if any man having in his house a good and faithfull servant, who falling into extremity of sickenesse, shall be throwne forth into the open street, without any care or pitty taken on him; a stranger chanceth to passe by, and (moved with compassion of his weakenesse) carryeth him home to his owne house, where using all charitable diligence, and not sparing any cost, he recovereth the sicke person to his former health. i now desire to know, if keeping the said restored person, and imploying him about his owne businesse: the first master (by pretending his first right) may lawfully complaine of the second, and yeeld him backe againe to the first master, albeit he doe make challenge of him? all the gentlemen, after many opinions passing among them, agreed altogether in one sentence, and gave charge to signior _nicoluccio caccianimico_, (because he was an excellent and elegant speaker) to give answere for them all. first, he commended the custome observed in _persia_, saying, he jumpt in opinion with all the rest, that the first master had no right at all to the servant, having not onely (in such necessity) forsaken him, but also cast him forth into the comfortlesse street. but for the benefits and mercy extended to him; it was more then manifest, that the recovered person, was become justly servant to the second master, and in detayning him from the first, hee did not offer him any injury at all. the whole company sitting at the table (being all very wise & worthy men) gave their verdict likewise with the confession of signior _nicoluccio caccianimico_. which answere did not a little please the knight; and so much the rather, because _nicoluccio_ had pronounced it, affirming himselfe to be of the same minde. so, sitting in a pretended musing a while, at length he said. my honourable guests, it is now more then high time, that i should doe you such honour, as you have most justly deserved, by performing the promise made unto you. then calling two of his servants, he sent them to madame _catharina_ (whom he had caused to adorne her self in excellent manner) entreating her, that she would be pleased to grace his guests with her presence. _catharina_, having deckt her child in costly habiliments, layed it in her armes, and came with the servants into the dyning hall, and sate down (as the knight had appointed) at the upper end of the table, and then signior _gentile_ spake thus. behold, worthy gentlemen, this is the jewell which i have most affected, and intend to love none other in the world; be you my judges, whether i have just occasion to doe so, or no? the gentlemen saluting her with respective reverence, said to the knight; that he had great reason to affect her: and viewing her advisedly, many of them thought her to be the very same woman (as indeed she was) but that they beleeved her to be dead. but above all the rest _nicoluccio caccianimico_ could never be satisfied with beholding her; and, enflamed with earnest desire, to know what she was, could not refraine (seeing the knight was gone out of the roome) but demaunded of her, whether she were of _bologna_, or a stranger? when the lady heard her selfe to be thus questioned, and by her husband, it seemed painefull to her, to containe from answering: neverthelesse, to perfect the knights intended purpose, she sate silent. others demaunded of her, whether the sweet boy were hers, or no; and some questioned, if she were _gentiles_ wife, or no, or else his kinsewoman; to all which demaunds, she returned not any answere. but when the knight came to them againe, some of them said to him. sir, this woman is a goodly creature, but she appeareth to be dumbe, which were great pitty, if it should be so. gentlemen (quoth he) it is no small argument of her vertue, to sit still and silent at this instant. tell us then (said they) of whence, and what she is. therein (quoth he) i will quickely resolve you, upon your conditionall promise: that none of you do remove from his place, whatsoever shall be said or done, untill i have fully delivered my minde. every one bound himselfe by solemne promise, to perform what he had appointed, and the tables being voided, as also the carpets laid; then the knight (sitting downe by the lady) thus began. worthy gentlemen, this lady is that true and faithfull servant, whereof i moved the question to you, whom i tooke out of the cold street, where her parents, kindred and friends (making no account at all of her) threw her forth, as a thing vile and unprofitable. neverthelesse, such hath been my care and cost, that i have rescued her out of deaths griping power; and, in a meere charitable disposition, which honest affection caused me to beare her; of a body, full of terror & affrighting (as then she was) i have caused her to become thus lovely as you see. but because you may more apparantly discerne, in what manner this occasion happened; i will lay it open to you in more familiar manner. then he began the whole history, from the originall of his unbeseeming affection to her (in regard she was a worthy mans wife) and consequently, how all had happened to the instant houre, to the no meane admiration of all the hearers, adding withall. now gentlemen (quoth he) if you varry not from your former opinion, and especially signior _nicoluccio caccianimico_: this lady (by good right) is mine, and no man else, by any just title, can lay any claime to her. all sate silent, without answering one word, as expecting what he intended further to say: but in the meane while, _nicoluccio_, the parents and kindred, but chiefely the lady her selfe, appeared as halfe melted into teares with weeping. but signior _gentile_, starting up from the table, taking the infant in his arme, and leading the lady by the hand, going to _nicoluccio_, thus spake. rise sir, i will not give thee thy wife, whom both her kindred and thine, threw forth into the street: but i will bestow this lady on thee, being my gossip, and this sweet boy my god-sonne, who was (as i am verily perswaded) begotten by thee, i standing witnesse for him at the font of baptisme, and give him mine owne name _gentile_. let me entreat thee, that, although she hath lived here in mine house, for the space of three monethes, she should not be lesse welcome to thee, then before: for i sweare to thee upon my soule, that my former affection to her (how unjust soever) was the onely meanes of preserving her life: and more honestly she could not live, with father, mother, or thy selfe, then she hath done here with mine owne mother. having thus spoken, he turned to the lady, saying. madame, i now discharge you of all promises made me, delivering you to your husband franke and free: and when he had given him the lady, and the child in his armes, he returned to his place, and sate downe againe. _nicoluccio_, with no meane joy and hearty contentment received both his wife and childe, being before farre from expectation of such an admirable comfort; returning the knight infinite thankes (as all the rest of the company did the like) who could not refraine from weeping for meere joy, for such a strange and wonderfull accident: everyone highly commending _gentile_, & such also as chanced to heare thereof. the lady was welcommed home to her owne house, with many moneths of joviall feasting, and as she passed through the streets, all beheld her with admiration, to be so happily recovered from her grave. signior _gentile_ lived long after, a loyall friend to _nicoluccio_ and his lady, and all that were well-willers to them. what thinke you now ladies? can you imagine, because a king gave away his crowne and scepter; and an abbot (without any cost to himselfe) reconciled a malefactor to the pope; and an old idle-headed man, yeelding to the mercy of his enemy: that all those actions are comparable to this of signior _gentile_? youth and ardent affection, gave him a just and lawfull title, to her who was free (by imagined death) from husbands, parents, and all friends else, she being so happily wonne into his owne possession. yet honesty not onely over-swayed the heate of desire, which in many men is violent and immoderate: but with a bountifull and liberall soule, that which he coveted beyond all hopes else, and had within his owne command; he freely gave away. beleeve me (bright beauties) not any of the other (in a true and unpartiall judgement) are worthy to be equalled with this, or stiled by the name of magnificent actions. _madame_ dianora, _the wife of signior_ gilberto, _being immodestly affected by signior_ ansaldo, _to free herselfe from his tedious importunity, she appointed him to performe (in her judgement) an act of impossibility, namely, to give her a garden, as plentifully stored with fragrant flowers in january, as in the flourishing moneth of_ may. ansaldo, _by meanes of a bond which he made to a magitian, performed her request. signior_ gilberto, _the ladyes husband, gave consent, that his wife should fulfill her promise made to_ ansaldo. _who hearing the bountifull mind of her husband; released her of her promise: and the magitian likewise discharged signior_ ansaldo, _without taking any thing of him._ the fift novell. _admonishing all ladies and gentlewomen, that are desirous to preserve their chastity, free from all blemish and taxation: to make no promise of yeelding to any, under a compact or covenant, how impossible soever it may seeme to be._ not any one in all the company, but extolled the worthy act of signior _gentile_ to the skies; till the king gave command to madame _ã�millia_, that she should follow next with her tale, who boldly stepping up, began in this order. gracious ladies, i thinke there is none heere present among us, but (with good reason) may maintaine, that signiour _gentile_ performed a magnificent deede: but whosoever saith, it is impossible to do more; perhaps is ignorant in such actions, as can and may be done, as i meane to make good unto you, by a novell not over-long or tedious. the countrey of _fretulium_, better knowne by the name of _forum julii_; although it be subject to much cold, yet it is pleasant, in regard of many goodly mountaines, rivers, and cleare running springs, wherewith it is not meanly stored. within those territories, is a city called _udina_, where sometime lived a faire and noble lady, named madame _dianora_, wife to a rich and woorthie knight, called signior _gilberto_, a man of very great fame and merite. this beautifull** lady, beeing very modest and vertuously inclined, was highly affected by a noble baron of those parts, tearmed by the name of signior _ansaldo gradense_, a man of very great spirit, bountifull, active in armes, and yet very affable and courteous, which caused him to be the better respected. his love to this lady was extraordinary, hardly to bee contained within any moderate compasse, striving to bee in like manner affected of her: to which end, she wanted no daily solicitings, letters, ambassages and love-tokens, all proving to no purpose. this vertuous lady, being wearied with his often temptations, and seeing, that by denying whatsoever he demanded, yet he wold not give over his suite, but so much the more importunatly still pursued her: began to bethinke herselfe, how she might best be rid of him, by imposing some such taske upon him, as should bee impossible (in her opinion) for him to effect. an olde woman, whom hee imployed for his continual messenger to her, as shee came one day about her ordinary errand, with her she communed in this manner. good woman (quoth she) thou hast so often assured me, that signior _ansaldo_ loveth me above all other women in the world, offering me wonderfull gifts and presents in his name, which i have alwayes refused, and so still will do, in regard i am not to be woon by any such allurements: yet if i could be soundly perswaded, that his affection is answerable to thy peremptory protestations, i shoulde (perhaps) be the sooner wonne, to listen to his suite in milder manner, then hitherto i have done. wherefore, if he will give me assurance, to perform such a businesse as i mean to enjoyne him, he shall the speedier heare better answer from me, and i will confirme it with mine oath. wonderfully pleased was mistresse _maquerella_, to heare a reply of such comfortable hope; and therefore desired the lady, to tel hir what she wold have done. listen to me wel (answerd madam _dianora_) the matter which i would have him to effect for me, is; without the wals of our city, and during the month of januarie nexte ensuing, to provide me a garden, as fairely furnished with all kind of fragrant flowers, as the flourishing month of may can yeelde no better. if he be not able to accomplish this imposition, then i command him, never hereafter to solicite me any more, either by thee, or any other whatsoever; for, if he do importune me afterward, as hitherto i have concealed his secret conspiring, both from my husband, and all my friends; so will i then lay his dishonest suite open to the world, that he may receive punishment accordingly, for offering to wrong a gentleman in his wife. when signior _ansaldo_ heard her demand, and the offer beside thereupon** made him (although it seemed no easie matter; but a thing meerly impossible to be done) he considered advisedly, that she made this motion to no other end, but onely to bereave him of all his hope, ever to enjoy what so earnestly hee desired: neverthelesse, he would not so give it utterly over, but would needs approve what could be done. heereupon, hee sent into divers partes of the world, to find out any one that was able to advise him in this doubtfull case. in the end, one was brought to him, who beeing well recompenced for his paines, by the art of nigromancie would undertake to do it. with him signior _ansaldo_ covenanted, binding himselfe to pay a great summe of mony, upon performance of so rare a deed, awaiting (in hopefull expectation) for the month of januaries comming. it being come, and the weather then in extreamity of cold, every thing being covered with ice and snow; the magitian prevailed so by his art, that after the christmas holy dayes were past, and the calends of january entred: in one night, and without the cittie wals, the goodliest garden of flowers and fruites, was sodainely sprung up, as (in opinion of such as beheld it) never was the like seen before. now ladies, i think i need not demand the question, whether signior _ansaldo_ were wel pleased, or no, who going to beholde it, saw it most plenteously stored, with al kind of fruit trees, flowers, herbes and plants, as no one could be named, that was wanting in this artificiall garden. and having gathered some pretty store of them, secretly he sent them to madam _dianora_, inviting hir to come see her garden, perfected according to her owne desire, and uppon view thereof, to confesse the integrity of his love to her; considering and remembring withall, the promise shee had made him under solemne oath, that she might be reputed for a woman of her word. when the lady beheld the fruites and flowers, and heard many other thinges re-counted, so wonderfully growing in the same garden: she began to repent her rash promise made; yet not withstanding her repentance, as women are covetous to see all rarities; so, accompanied with divers ladies and gentlewomen more, she went to see the garden; and having commended it with much admiration, she returned home againe, the most sorrowfull woman as ever lived, considering what she had tyed her selfe to, for enjoying this garden. so excessive grew her griefe and affliction, that it could not be so clouded or concealed: but her husband tooke notice of it, and would needs understand the occasion thereof. long the lady (in regard of shame and modesty) sate without returning any answer; but being in the end constrained, she disclosd the whole history to him. at the first, signior _gilberto_ waxed exceeding angry, but when he further considered withall, the pure and honest intention of his wife; wisely he pacified his former distemper, and saide. _dianora_, it is not the part of a wise and honest woman, to lend an eare to ambassages of such immodest nature, much lesse to compound or make agreement for her honesty, with any person, under any condition whatsoever. those perswasions which the heart listeneth to, by allurement of the eare, have greater power then many do imagine, & nothing is so uneasie or difficult, but in a lovers judgement it appeareth possible. ill didst thou therefore first of all to listen, but worse (afterward) to contract. but, because i know the purity of thy soule, i will yeelde (to disoblige thee of thy promise) as perhaps no wise man else would do: mooved thereto onely by feare of the magitian, who seeing signior _ansaldo_ displeased, because thou makest a mockage of him; will do some such violent wrong to us, as we shall be never able to recover. wherefore, i would have thee go to signior _ansaldo_, and if thou canst (by any meanes) obtaine of him, the safe-keeping of thy honour, and full discharge of thy promise; it shall be an eternall fame to thee, and the crowne of a most victorious conquest. but if it must needs be otherwise, lend him thy body onely for once, but not thy will: for actions committed by constraint, wherein the will is no way guilty, are halfe pardonable by the necessity. madame _dianora_, hearing her husbands words, wept exceedingly, and avouched, that shee had not deserved any such especiall grace of him, and therefore she would rather dye, then doe it. neverthelesse, it was the will of her husband to have it so, and therefore (against her will) she gave consent. the next morning, by the breake of day, _dianora_ arose, and attiring her selfe in her very meanest garments, with two servingmen before her, and a waiting woman following, she went to the lodging of signior _ansaldo_, who hearing that madam _dianora_ was come to visite him, greatly mervailed, and being risen, he called the magitian to him, saying. come go with me, and see what effect will follow upon thine art. and being come into her presence, without any base or inordinate appetite, he did her humble reverence, embracing her honestly, and taking her into a goodly chamber, where a faire fire was readilie prepared, causing her to sit downe by him, he sayde unto her as followeth. madam, i humbly intreat you to resolve me, if the affection i have long time borne you, and yet do still, deserve any recompence at all: you would be pleased then to tel me truly, the occasion of your instant comming hither, and thus attended as you are. _dianora_, blushing with modest shame, and the teares trickling mainly down her faire cheekes, thus answered. signior _ansaldo_, not for any love i beare you, or care of my faithfull promise made to you, but onely by the command of my husband (who respecting more the paynes and travels of your inordinate love, then his owne reputation and honor, or mine;) hath caused me to come hither: and by vertue of his command, am ready (for once onely) to fulfill your pleasure, but far from any will or consent in my selfe. if signior _ansaldo_ were abashed at the first, hee began now to be more confounded with admiration, when he heard the lady speake in such strange manner: & being much moved with the liberall command of her husband, he began to alter his inflamed heate, into most honourable respect and compassion, returning her this answer. most noble lady, the gods forbid (if it be so as you have sayd) that i should (villain-like) soile the honour of him, that takes such unusuall compassion of my unchaste appetite. and therefore, you may remaine heere so long as you please, in no other condition, but as mine owne naturall borne sister; and likewise, you may depart freely when you will: conditionally, that (on my behalfe) you render such thankes to your husband, as you thinke convenient for his great bounty towards me, accounting me for ever heereafter, as his loyall brother and faithfull servant. _dianora_ having well observed his answer, her heart being ready to mount out at her mouth with joy, said. all the world could never make mee beleeve (considering your honourable minde and honesty) that it would happen otherwise to me, then now it hath done; for which noble courtesie, i will continually remaine obliged to you. so, taking her leave, she returned home honorably attended to her husband, and relating to him what had happened, it proved the occasion of begetting intire love and friendship, betweene himselfe and the noble lord _ansaldo_. now concerning the skilfull magitian, to whom _ansaldo_ meant to give the bountifull recompence agreed on betweene them, hee having seene the strange liberality, which the husband expressed to signior _ansaldo_, and that of _ansaldo_ to the lady, hee presently saide. great _jupiter_ strike me dead with thunder, having my selfe seene a husband so liberall of his honour, and you sir of true noble kindnesse, if i should not be the like of my recompence: for, perceiving it to be so worthily imployed, i am well contented that you shall keepe it. the noble lord was modestly ashamed, and strove (so much as in him lay) that he should take all, or the greater part thereof: but seeing he laboured meerly in vaine, after the third day was past, and the magitian had destroyed the garden againe, hee gave him free liberty to depart, quite controlling all fond and unchaste affection in himselfe, either towards _dianora_, or any lady else, and living (ever after) as best becommeth any nobleman to do. what say you now ladies? shall wee make any account of the woman wel-neere dead, and the kindnesse growne cold in signiour _gentile_, by losse of his former hopes, comparing them with the liberality of signior _ansaldo_, affecting more fervently, then ever the other did? and being (beyond hope) possessed of the booty, which (above all things else in the world) he most desired to have, to part with it meerly in fond compassion? i protest (in my judgement) the one is no way comparable to the other; that of _gentile_, with this last of signior _ansaldo_. _victorious_ king charles, _sirnamed the aged, and first of that name, fell in love with a yong maiden, named_ genevera, _daughter to an ancient knight, called signior_ neri degli uberti. _and waxing ashamed of his amorous folly, caused both_ genevera, _and her fayre sister_ isotta, _to be joyned in marriage with two noble gentlemen; the one named_ signior maffeo da palizzi, _and the other,_ signior gulielmo della magna. the sixt novell. _sufficiently declaring, that how mighty soever the power of love is: yet a magnanimous and truly generous heart, it can by no meanes fully conquer._ who is able to expresse ingeniously, the diversity of opinions, which hapned among the ladies, in censuring on the act of madame _dianora_, and which of them was most liberall, either signior _gilberto_ the husband, lord _ansaldo_ the importunate suiter, or the magitian, expecting to bee bountifully rewarded. surely, it is a matter beyond my capacity: but after the king had permitted their disputation a long while, looking on madam _fiammetta_, he commanded that she should report her novel to make an end of their controversie; and she (without any further delaying) thus began. i did alwaies (noble ladies) hold it fit and decent, that in such an assembly as this of ours is, every one ought to speake so succinctly and plainly: that the obscure understanding, concerning the matters spoken of, should have no cause of disputation. for disputes do much better become the colledges of scholars, then to be among us, who hardly can manage our distaves or samplers. and therefore i, doe intend to relate something, which (peradventure) might appeare doubtfull: will forbeare (seeing you in such a difference; for that which hath bin spoken alreadie) to use any difficult discourse; but will speake of one, a man of no meane ranke or quality, being both a valiant and vertuous king, and what he did, without any impeach or blemish to his honor. i make no doubt, but you have often heard report, of king _charles_ the aged, and first of that name, by reason of his magnificent enterprises, as also his most glorious victory, which he obtaind against king _manfred_, when the _ghibellines_ were expulsed foorth of _florence_, and the _guelphes_ returned thither againe. by which occasion, an ancient knight, named signior _neri degli uberti_; forsaking then the city, with all his family and great store of wealth, woulde live under any other obedience, then the awful power or command of king _charles_. and coveting to be in some solitary place, where he might finish the remainder of his dayes in peace, he went to _castello da mare_; where, about a bow shoote distance from all other dwelling houses, hee bought a parcel of ground, plentifully stored with variety of trees, bearing olives, chesnuts, orenges, lemons, pomcitrons, and other excellent frutages, wherewith the countrey flourisheth abundantly. there he built a very faire and commodious house, and planted (close by it) a pleasant garden, in the middst whereof, because he had great plenty of water: according as other men use to do, being in the like case so wel provided; he made a very goodly pond, which forthwith had all kinde of fish swimming in it, it being his daily care and endeavour**, to tend his garden, and encrease his fish-pond. it fortuned, that king _charles_ (in the summer time) for his pleasure and recreation, went to repose himselfe (for some certayne dayes) at _castello de mare_, where having heard report of the beautie and singularitie of signiour _neries_ garden; hee grew very desirous to see it. but when he understoode to whome it belonged, then he entred into consideration with himselfe, that hee was an ancient knight, maintaining a contrarie faction to his: wherefore, he thought it fit to goe in some familiar manner, and with no trayne attending on him. whereupon he sent him word, that he wold come to visit him, with foure gentlemen onely in his companie, meaning to sup with him in his garden the next night ensuing. the newes was very welcome to _signior neri_, who took order in costly manner for all things to bee done, entertaining the king most joyfully into his beautifull garden. when the king had survayed all, and the house likewise, he commended it beyond all other comparison, and the tables being placed by the ponds side, he washed his hands therein, & then sat down at the table, commanding the count, sir _guy de montforte_ (who was one of them which came in his company) to sitte downe by him, and signior _neri_ on his other side. as for the other three of the traine, hee commaunded them to attend on his service, as signior _neri_ had given order. there wanted no exquisite viandes and excellent wines, all performed in most decent manner, and without the least noise or disturbance, wherein the king tooke no little delight. feeding thus in this contented manner, and facying the solitude of the place: sodainly entred into the garden, two yong damosels, each aged about some fifteene yeares, their haire resembling wyars of gold, and curiously curled, having chaplets (made like provinciall crownes) on their heades, and their delicate faces, expressing them to be rather angels, then mortall creatures, such was the appearance of their admired beauty. their under-garments were of costly silke, yet white as the finest snow, framed (from the girdle upward) close to their bodies, but spreading largely downward, like the extendure of a pavillion, and so descending to the feet. she that first came in sight, caried on her shoulder a couple of fishing netts, which she held fast with her left hand, and in the right she carryed a long staffe. the other following her, had on her left shoulder a frying-pan, and under the same arme a small faggot of woodde, with a trevit in her hand; and in the other hand a pot of oyle, as also a brand of fire flaming. no sooner did the king behold them, but he greatly wondered what they should be; and, without uttering one word, attended to listen what they wold say. both the yong damosels, when they were come before the king, with modest and bashfull gesture, they performed very humble reverence to him, and going to the place of entrance into the pond, she who held the trevit, set it downe on the ground, with the other things also; and taking the staffe which the other damosell carried: they both went into the pond, the water whereof reached so high as to their bosomes. one of the servants to signior _neri_, presently kindled the fire, setting the trevit over it, and putting oyle into the frying-panne, held it uppon the trevit, awaiting untill the damosels should cast him uppe fish. one of them did beate a place with the staffe, where she was assured of the fishes resort, and the other hadde lodged the nets so conveniently, as they quickly caught great store of fish, to the kings high contentment, who observed their behaviour very respectively. as the fishes were throwne up to the servant, alive as they were, he tooke the best and fairest of them, and brought them to the table, where they skipt and mounted before the king, count _guy de montfort_ and the father: some leaping from the table into the pond againe, and others, the king (in a pleasing humour) voluntarily threw backe to the damosels. jesting and sporting in this manner, till the servant had drest divers of them in exquisite order, and served them to the table, according as signior _neri_ had ordained. when the damosels saw the fishes service performed, and perceived that they had fished sufficiently: they came forth of the water, their garments then (being wet) hanging close about them, even as if they hid no part of their bodies. each having taken those things againe, which at first they brought with them, and saluting the king in like humility as they did before, returned home to the mansion house. the king and count likewise, as also the other attending gentlemen, having duely considered the behavior of the damosels: commended extraordinarily their beauty and faire feature, with those other perfections of nature so gloriously shining in them. but (beyond all the rest) the king was boundlesse in his praises given of them, having observed their going into the water, the equall carriage there of them both, their comming forth, and gracious demeanor at their departing (yet neither knowing of whence, or what they were) he felt his affection very violently flamed, and grew into such an amourous desire to them both, not knowing which of them pleased him most, they so choisely resembled one another in all things. but after he had dwelt long enough upon these thoughts, he turned him selfe to signior _neri_, and demanded of him, what damosels they were. sir (answered _neri_) they are my daughters, both brought into the world at one birth, and twinnes, the one being named _genevera_ the faire, and the other _isotta_ the amiable. the king began againe to commend them both, and gave him advise to get them both married: wherein he excused himselfe, alleadging, that he wanted power to doe it. at the same time instant, no other service remaining to be brought to the table, except fruit and cheese, the two damosels returned againe, attyred in goodly roabes of carnation sattin, formed after the turkish fashion, carrying two fayre silver dishes in their hands, filled with divers delicate fruits, such as the season then afforded, setting them on the table before the king. which being done, they retyred a little backeward, and with sweet melodious voyces, sung a ditty, beginning in this manner. _where love presumeth into place: let no one sing in loves disgrace._ so sweet and pleasing seemed the song to the king (who tooke no small delight, both to heare and behold the damosels) even as if all the hirarchies of angels, were descended from the heavens to sing before him. no sooner was the song ended, but (humbly on their knees) they craved favour of the king for their departing. now, although their departure was greatly grieving to him, yet (in outward appearance) he seemed willing to grant it. when supper was concluded, and the king and his company remounted on horsebacke: thankefully departing from signior _neri_, the king returned to his lodging, concealing there closely his affection to himselfe, and whatsoever important affaires happened: yet he could not forget the beauty, & gracious behaviour of _genevera_ the faire (for whose sake he loved her sister likewise) but became so linked to her in vehement manner, as he had no power to think on any thing else. pretending other urgent occasions, he fell into great familiarity with signior _neri_, visiting very often his goodly garden; onely to see his faire daughter _genevera_, the adamant which drew him thither. when he felt his amourous assaults, to exeed all power of longer sufferance: he resolved determinately with himselfe, (being unprovided of any better meanes) to take her away from her father, and not onely she, but her sister also; discovering both his love and intent to count _guy de montforte_, who being a very worthy and vertuous lord, and meet to be a counseller for a king, delivered his mind in this manner. gracious lord, i wonder not a little at your speeches, and so much the greater is my admiration, because no man els can be subject to the like, in regard i have knowne you from the time of your infancy; even to this instant houre, and alwayes your carriage to bee one and the same. i could never perceive in your youthfull dayes (when love should have the greatest meanes to assaile you) any such oppressing passions: which is now the more novell and strange to me, to heare it but said, that you being old, and called the aged; should be growne amorous, surely to me it seemeth a miracle. and if it appertained to me to reprehend you in this case, i know well enough what i could say. considering, you have yet your armour on your backe, in a kingdome newly conquered, among a nation not knowne to you, full of falsehoods, breaches, and treasons; all which are no meane motives to care and needfull respect. but having now wone a little leisure, to rest your selfe a while from such serious affaires; can you give way to the idle suggestions of love? beleeve me sir, it is no act becomming a magnanimious king; but rather the giddy folly of a young braine. moreover you say (which most of all i mislike) that you intend to take the two virgines from the knight, who hath given you entertainment in his house beyond his ability, and to testifie how much he honoured you, he suffered you to have a sight of them, meerely (almost) in a naked manner: witnessing thereby, what constant faith he reposed in you, beleeving verily, that you were a just king, and not a ravenous woolfe. have you so soone forgot, that the rapes and violent actions, done by king _manfred_ to harmelesse ladies, made your onely way of entrance into this kingdome? what treason was ever committed, more worthy of eternall punishment, then this will be in you: to take away from him (who hath so highly honoured you) his chiefest hope and consolation? what will be said by all men, if you doe it? peradventure you thinke, it will be a sufficient excuse for you, to say: i did it, in regard hee was a _ghibelline_. can you imagine this to be justice in a king, that such as get into their possession in this manner (whatsoever it be) ought to use it in this sort? let me tell you sir, it was a most worthy victory for you, to conquer king _manfred_: but it is farre more famous victory, for a man to conquer himselfe. you therefore, who are ordained to correct vices in other men, learne first to subdue them in your selfe, and (by brideling this inordinate appetite) set not a foule blemish on so faire a fame, as will be honour to you to preserve spotlesse. these words pierced the heart of the king deepely, and so much the more afflicted him, because he knew them to be most true: wherefore, after he had ventred a very vehement sigh, thus he replyed. beleeve me noble count, there is not any enemy, how strong soever he be, but i hold him weake and easie to be vanquished, by him who is skilfull in the warre, where a man may learne to conquere his owne appetite. but because he shall find it a laborious taske, requiring inestimable strength and courage: your words have so toucht me to the quicke, that it becommeth me to let you effectually perceive (and within the compasse of few dayes) that as i have learned to conquer others, so i am not ignorant, in expressing the like power upon my selfe. having thus spoken, within some few dayes after, the king being returned to _naples_, he determined, as well to free himself from any the like ensuing follie, as also to recompence signior _neri_, for the great kindnesse he had shewne to him (although it was a difficult thing, to let another enjoy, what he rather desired for himselfe) to have the two damosels married, not as the daughters of signior _neri_, but even as if they were his owne. and by consent of the father, he gave _genevera_ the faire, to signior _maffeo da pallizzi_, and _isotta_ the amiable, to signior _gulielmo della magna_, two noble knights and honourable barons. after he had thus given them in marriage, in sad mourning he departed thence into _apuglia_, where by following worthy and honourable actions, he so well overcame all inordinate appetites: that shaking off the enthralling fetters of love, he lived free from all passions, the rest of his life time, and dyed as an honourable king. some perhaps will say, it was a small matter for a king, to give away two damosels in marriage, and i confesse it: but i maintaine it to be great, and more then great, if we say, that a king, being so earnestly enamoured as this king was; should give her away to another, whom he so dearely affected himselfe, without receiving (in recompence of his affection) so much as a leaffe, flowre, or the least fruit of love. yet such was the vertue of this magnificent king, expressed in so highly recompencing the noble knights courtesie, honouring the two daughters so royally, and conquering his owne affections so vertuously. lisana, _the daughter of a florentine apothecary, named_ bernardo puccino, _being at_ palermo, _and seeing_ piero, _king of_ aragon _run at the tilt; fell so affectionately enamored of him, that she languished in an extreame and long sickenesse. by her owne devise, and means of a song, sung in the hearing of the king: he vouchsafed to visite her, and giving her a kisse, terming himselfe also to bee her knight for ever after, hee honourably bestowed her in marriage on a young gentleman, who was called_ perdicano, _and gave him liberall endowments with her._ the seventh novell. _wherein is covertly given to understand, that howsoever a prince may make use of his absolute power and authority, towards maides or wives that are his subjects: yet he ought to deny and reject all things, as shall make him forgetfull of himselfe, and his true honour._ madame _fiammetta_ being come to the end of her novell, and the great magnificence of king _charles_ much commended (howbeit, some of the company, affecting the _ghibelline_ faction, were otherwise minded) madame _pampinea_, by order given from the king, began in this manner. there is no man of good understanding (honourable ladies) but will maintaine what you have said of victorious _charles_; except such as cannot wish well to any. but because my memory hath instantly informed me, of an action (perhaps) no lesse commendable then this, done by an enemy of the said king _charles_, and to a yong maiden of our city; i am the more willing to relate it, upon your gentle attention vouchsafed, as hitherto it hath been courteously granted. at such time as the french were driven out of _sicilie_, there dwelt at _palermo_ a _florentine_ apothecary, named _bernardo puccino_, a man of good wealth and reputation, who had by his wife one onely daughter, of marriageable yeares, and very beautifull. _piero_, king of _arragon_, being then become lord of that kingdom, he made an admirable feast royall at _palermo_, accompanyed with his lords and barons. in honour of which publique feast, the king kept a triumphall day (of justs and turnament) at _catalana_, and whereat it chanced, that the daughter of _bernardo_, named _lisana_, was present. being in a window, accompanied with other gentlewomen, she saw the king runne at the tilt, who seemed so goodly a person in her eye; that being never satisfied with beholding him, she grew enamoured, and fell into extremity of affection towards him. when the feastivall was ended, she dwelling in the house of her father, it was impossible for her to thinke on any thing else, but onely the love, which she had fixed on a person of such height. and that which most tormented her in this case, was the knowledge of her owne condition, being but meane and humble in degree; whereby she confessed, that she could not hope for any successefull issue of her proud love. neverthelesse, she would not refraine from affecting the king, who taking no note of this kindnesse in her, by any perceivable meanes; must needs be the more regardles, which procured (by wary observation) her afflictions to be the greater and intollerable. whereon it came to passe, that this earnest love encreasing in her more and more, and one melancholly conceit taking hold on another: the faire maide, when she could beare the burden of her griefe no longer; fell into a languishing sickenesse, consuming away daily (by evident appearance) even as the snow melteth by the warme beames of the sunne. the father and mother, much dismayed and displeased at this haplesse accident, applying her with continuall comforts, phisicke, and the best skill remayning in all the phisitions, sought all possible meanes wayes to give her succour: but all proved to no effect, because in regard of her choyce (which could sort to none other then a desperate end) she was desirous to live no longer. now it fortuned, that her parents offering her whatsoever remained in their power to performe, a sudden apprehension entred her minde, to wit, that (if it might possible be done) before she dyed, she would first have the king to know, in what manner she stood affected to him. wherefore, one day she entreated her father, that a gentleman, named _manutio de arezza_, might be permitted to come see her. this _manutio_ was (in those times) held to be a most excellent musitian, both for his voyce in singing, and exquisite skill in playing on instruments, for which he was highly in favour with king _piero_, who made (almost) daily use of him, to heare him both sing and play. her tender and loving father conceived immediately, that shee was desirous to heare his playing and singing, both being comfortable to a body in a languishing sickenesse, whereupon, he sent presently for the gentleman, who came accordingly, and after he had comforted _lisana_ with kind and courteous speeches; he played dexteriously on his lute, which purposely hee had brought with him, and likewise he sung divers excellent ditties, which insted of his intended consolation to the maid, did nothing else but encrease her fire and flame. afterward, she requested to have some conference with _manutio_ alone, and every one being gone forth of the chamber, she spake unto him in this manner. _manutio_, i have made choyce of thee, to be the faithfull guardian of an especial secret, hoping first of al, that thou wilt never reveale it to any living body, but onely to him whom i shall bid thee: and next, to helpe me so much as possibly thou canst, because my onely hope relyeth in thee. know then my dearest friend _manutio_, that on the solemne festivall day, when our soveraigne lord the king honoured his exaltation, with the noble exercises of tilt and turney; his brave behaviour kindled such a sparke in my soule, as since brake forth into a violent flame, and brought me to this weake condition as now thou seest. but knowing and confessing, how farre unbeseeming my love is, to aime so ambitiously at a king, and being unable to controule it, or in the least manner to diminish it: i have made choyce of the onely and best remedy of all, namely, to dye, and so i am most willing to doe. true it is, that i shall travaile in this my latest journey, with endlesse torment and affliction of soule, except he have some understanding thereof before, and not knowing by whom to give him intelligence, in so oft and convenient order, as by thee: i doe therefore commit this last office of a friend to thy trust, desiring thee, not to refuse me in the performance thereof. and when thou hast done it, to let me understand what he saith, that i may dye the more contentedly, and disburdened of so heavy an oppression, the onely comfort to a parting spirit: and so she ceased, her teares flowing forth abundantly. _manutio_ did not a little wonder at the maides great spirit, and her desperate resolution, which moved him to exceeding commiseration, and suddenly he conceived, that honestly he might discharge this duty for her, whereupon, he returned her this answer. _lisana_, here i engage my faith to thee, that thou shalt find me firme and constant, and die i will, rather then deceive thee. greatly i doe commend thy high attempt, in fixing thy affection on so potent a king, wherein i offer thee my utmost assistance: and i make no doubt (if thou wouldest be of good comfort) to deale in such sort, as, before three dayes are fully past, to bring such newes as will content thee, and because i am loath to loose the least time, i will goe about it presently. _lisana_ the yong maiden, once againe entreated his care and diligence, promising to comfort her selfe so well as she could, commending him to his good fortune. when _manutio_ was gone from her, hee went to a gentleman, named _mico de sienna_, one of the best poets in the composing of verses, as all those parts yeelded not the like. at his request, _mico_ made for him this ensuing dittie. the song sung in the hearing of king _piero_, on the behalfe of love-sicke _lisana._ _goe love, and tell the torments i endure, say to my soveraigne lord, that i must die except he come, some comfort to procure, for tell i may not, what i feele, and why._ _with heaved hands great love, i call to thee, goe see my soveraigne, where he doth abide, and say to him, in what extremity, thou hast (for him) my firm affection tryed. to die for him, it is my sole desire, for live with him i may not, nor aspire, to have my fortunes thereby dignified, onely his sight would lend me life a while: grant it (great love) mine anguish to beguile. goe love and tell the torments, &c._ _since the first houre that love enthralled me, i never had the heart, to tell my griefe, my thoughts did speake, for thoughts be alwayes free, yet hopefull thoughts doe find but poore reliefe. when gnats will mount to eagles in the ayre, alas! they scorne them, for full well they know, they were not bred to prey so base and low, aloft they look, to make their flight more faire. and yet his sight would lend me life a while: grant it (great love) mine anguish to beguile. goe love, and tell the torments, &c._ _if sight shall be denyed, then tell them plaine, his high triumphall day procurd my death, the launce that won him honour, hath me slaine, for instantly it did bereave my breath. that speake i could not, nor durst be so bold, to make the ayre acquainted with my woe: alas! i lookt so high, and doing so, justly deserve by death to be controld. yet mercies sight would lend me life a while, grant it (great love) mine anguish to beguile._ _goe love, and tell the torments i endure, say to my soveraigne lord, that i must die: except he come, some comfort to procure, for tell i may not, what i feele, and why._ the lines contained in this ditty, _manutio_ fitted with noates so mooving and singularly musicall, that every word had the sensible motion of life in it, where the king being (as yet) not risen from the table, he commanded him to use both his lute and voyce. this seemed a happy opportunity to _manutio_, to sing the dittie so purposely done and devised: which hee delivered in such excellent manner, the voice and instrument concording so extraordinary pleasing; that all the persons then in the presence, seemed rather statues, then living men, so strangely they were wrapt with admiration, and the king himselfe farre beyond all the rest, transported with a rare kinde of alteration. when _manutio_ had ended the song, the king demanded of him, whence this song came, because he had never heard it before? my gracious lord, answered _manutio_, it must needes seeme straunge to your majesty, because it is not fully three dayes, since it was invented, made, and set to the note. then the king asked, whom it concerned? sir (quoth _manutio_) i dare not disclose that to any but onely your selfe. which answer made the king much more desirous, and being risen from the table, he tooke him into his bed-chamber, where _manutio_ related all at large to him, according to the trust reposed in him. wherewith the king was wonderfully well pleased, greatly commending the courage of the maide, and said, that a virgin of such a valiant spirit, did well deserve to have her case commiserated: and commanded him also, to goe (as sent from him) and comfort her, with promise, that the very same day, in the evening, he would not faile to come and see her. _manutio_, more then contented, to carry such glad tydings to _lisana_; without staying in any place, and taking his lute also with him, went to the apothecaries house, where speaking alone with the maide: he told her what he had done, and afterward sung the song to her, in as excellent manner as he had done before, wherein _lisana_ conceived such joy and contentment, as even in the very same moment, it was observed by apparant signes, that the violence of her fits forsooke her, and health began to get the upper hand of them. so, without suffering any one in the house to know it, or by the least meanes to suspect it; she comforted her selfe till the evening, in expectation of her soveraignes arrivall. _piero_ being a prince, of most liberall and benigne nature, having afterward divers times considered on the matters which _manutio_ had revealed to him, knowing also the yong maiden, to bee both beautifull and vertuous: was so much moved with pitty of her extremitie, as mounting on horse-backe in the evening, and seeming as if he rode abroad for his private recreation; he went directly to the apothecaries house, where desiring to see a goodly garden, appertaining then to the apothecarie, he dismounted from his horse. walking into the garden, he began to question with _bernardo_, demaunding him for his daughter, and whether he had (as yet) marryed her, or no? my gracious lord, answered _bernardo_, as yet shee is not marryed, neither likely to bee, in regard shee hath had a long and tedious sickenesse: but since dinner time, she is indifferently eased of her former violent paine, which we could not discerne the like alteration in her, a long while before. the king understood immediately, the reason of this so sudden alteration, and said. in good faith _bernardo_, the world would sustaine a great maine & imperfection, by the losse of thy faire daughter; wherefore, we will goe our selfe in person to visite her. so, with two of his lords onely, and the father, he ascended to the maides chamber & being entred, he went to the beds side, where she sate, somewhat raised, in expectation of his comming, and taking her by the hand, he said. faire _lisana_, how commeth this to passe? you being so faire a virgin, yong, and in the delicacy of your daies, which should be the chiefest comfort to you, will you suffer your selfe to be over-awed with sickenesse? let us intreat you, that (for our sake) you will be of good comfort, and thereby recover your health the sooner, especially, when it is requested by a king, who is sorry to see so bright a beauty sicke, and would helpe it, if it consisted in his power. _lisana_, feeling the touch of his hand, whom she loved above all things else in the world, although a bashfull blush mounted up into her cheekes: yet her heart was seazed with such a rapture of pleasure, that she thought her selfe translated into paradise, and, so well as she could, thus she replyed. great king, by opposing my feeble strength, against a burden of over-ponderous weight, it became the occasion of this grievous sickenesse: but i hope that the violence thereof is (almost) already kild, onely by this soveraigne mercy in you; and doubtlesse it will cause my speedy deliverance. the king did best understand this so well palliated answere of _lisana_, which as he did much commend, in regard of her high adventuring; so he did againe as greatly condemne fortune, for not making her more happy in her birth. so, after he had stayed there a good while, and given her many comfortable speeches, he returned backe to the court. this humanity in the king, was reputed a great honour to the apothecary and his daughter, who (in her owne mind) received as much joy and contentment thereby, as ever any wife could have of her owne husband. and being assisted by better hopes, within a short while after, she became recovered, and farre more beautifull (in common judgment) then ever she was before. _lisana_ being now in perfect health, the king consulted with his queene, what meete recompence he should gratifie her withall, for loving and affecting him in such fervent manner. upon a day determined, the king mounting on horsebacke, accompanied with many of his cheefest lords and barons, he rode to the apothecaries house, where walking in his beautifull garden, hee called for _bernardo_ and his daughter _lisana_. in the meane space, the queene also came thither, royally attended on by her ladies, and _lisana_ being admitted into their company, they expressed themselves very gracious to her. soone after, the king and the queene cald _lisana_, and the king spake in this manner to her. faire virgin, the extraordinary love which you bare to us, calleth for as great honour from us to you; in which respect, it is our royall desire, by one meanes or other to requite your kinde love. in our opinion, the chiefe honour we can extend to you, is, that being of sufficient yeares for marriage, you would grace us so much, as to accept him for your husband, whom we intend to bestow on you. beside this further grant from us, that (notwithstanding whatsoever else) you shall call us your knight; without coveting any thing else from you, for so great favour, but only one kisse, and thinke not to bestow it nicely on a king, but grant it the rather, because he begges it. _lisana_, whose lookes, were dyed with a vermillian tincture, or rather converted into a pure maiden blush, reputing the kings desire to be her owne; in a low and humbled voyce, thus answered. my lord, most certaine am i, that if it had beene publikely knowne, how none but your highnes, might serve for me to fixe my love on, i should have been termed the foole of all fooles: they perhaps beleeving, that i was forgetfull of my selfe, in being ignorant of mine owne condition, and much lesse of yours. but the gods are my witnesses (because they know the secrets of all hearts) that even in the very instant, when loves fire tooke hold on my yeelding affection: i knew you to be a king, and my selfe the daughter of poore _bernardo_ the apothecary: likewise, how farre unfitting it was for me, to be so ambitious in my loves presuming. but i am sure your majestie doth know (much better then i am able to expresse) that no one becommeth amourous, according to the duty of election, but as the appetite shapeth his course, against whose lawes my strength made many resistances, which not prevailing, i presumed to love, did, and so for ever shall doe, your majestie. now royall soveraigne, i must needes confesse, that so soone as i felt my selfe thus wholly conquered by loving you, i resolved for ever after, to make your will mine owne, and therefore, am not onely willing to accept him for my husband, whom you shall please to appoint, befitting my honor and degree: but if you will have me to live in a flaming fire, my obedience shall sacrifice it selfe to your will, with the absolute conformity of mine owne. to stile you by the name of my knight, whom i know to be my lawfull king and soveraigne; you are not ignorant, how farre unfitting a word that were for me to use: as also the kisse which you request, in requitall of my love to you; to these two i will never give consent, without the queenes most gracious favour and license first granted. neverthelesse, for such admirable benignity used to me, both by your royall selfe, and your vertuous queene: heaven shower downe all boundlesse graces on you both, for it exceedeth all merit in me, and so she ceased speaking, in most dutifull manner. the answer of _lisana_ pleased the queene exceedingly, in finding her to be so wise and faire, as the king himself had before informed her: who instantly called for her father and mother, and knowing they would be well pleased with whatsoever he did; he called for a proper yong gentleman, but some what poore, being named _perdicano_, and putting certaine rings into his hand, which he refused not to receive, caused him there to espouse _lisana_. to whome the king gave immediately (besides chaines and jewels of inestimable valew, delivered by the queene to the bride) _ceffala_ and _calatabelotta_, two great territories abounding in divers wealthy possessions, saying to _perdicano_. these wee give thee, as a dowry in marriage with this beautifull maid, and greater gifts we will bestow on thee hereafter, as we shall perceive thy love and kindnesse to her. when he had ended these words, hee turned to _lisana_, saying: heere doe i freely give over all further fruits of your affection towards me, thanking you for your former love: so taking her head betweene his hands, he kissed her faire forhead, which was the usuall custome in those times. _perdicano_, the father and mother of _lisana_, and she her selfe likewise, extraordinarily joyfull for this so fortunate a marriage, returned humble and hearty thankes both to the king and queene, and (as many credible authors doe affirme) the king kept his promise made to _lisana_, because (so long as he lived) he alwaies termed himselfe by the name of her knight, and in al actions of chivalry by him undertaken, he never carried any other devise, but such as he received still from her. by this, and divers other like worthy deeds, not onely did he win the hearts of his subjects; but gave occasion to the whole world beside, to renowne his fame to all succeeding posterity. whereto (in these more wretched times of ours) few or none bend the sway of their understanding: but rather how to bee cruell and tyrranous lords, and thereby win the hatred of their people. sophronia, _thinking her selfe to be the maried wife of_ gisippus, _was (indeed) the wife of_ titus quintus fulvius, _& departed thence with him to rome. within a while after,_ gisippus _also came thither in very poore condition, and thinking that he was despised by_ titus, _grew weary of his life, and confessed that he had murdred a man, with full intent to die for the fact. but_ titus _taking knowledge of him, and desiring to save the life of_ gisippus, _charged himself to have done the bloody deed. which the murderer himself (standing then among the multitude) seeing, truly confessed the deed. by meanes whereof, all three were delivered by the emperor_ octavius; _and_ titus _gave his sister in mariage to_ gisippus, _giving them also the most part of his goods & inheritances._ the eight novell. _declaring, that notwithstanding the frownes of fortune, diversity of occurrences, and contrary accidents happening: yet love and friendship ought to be preciously preserved among men._ by this time madam _philomena_, at command of the king, (madam _pampinea_ ceasing) prepared to follow next in order, whereupon thus she began. what is it (gracious ladies) that kings can not do (if they list) in matters of greatest importance, and especially unto such as most they should declare their magnificence? he then that performeth what he ought to do, when it is within his owne power, doth well. but it is not so much to bee admired, neither deserveth halfe the commendations, as when one man doth good to another, when least it is expected, as being out of his power, and yet performed. in which respect, because you have so extolled king _piero_, as appearing not meanly meritorious in your judgements; i make no doubt but you will be much more pleased, when the actions of our equals are duly considered, and shall paralell any of the greatest kings. wherefore i purpose to tell you a novel, concerning an honorable curtesie of two worthy friends. at such time as _octavius cã¦sar_ (not as yet named _augustus_, but only in the office called _triumveri_) governed the _romane_ empire, there dwelt in _rome_ a gentleman, named _publius quintus fulvius_, a man of singular understanding, who having one son, called _titus quintus fulvius_, of towardly yeares and apprehension, sent him to _athens_ to learne philosophy; but with letters of familiar commendations, to a noble _athenian_ gentleman, named _chremes_, being his ancient friend, of long acquaintance. this gentleman lodged _titus_ in his owne house, as companion to his son, named _gisippus_, both of them studying together, under the tutoring of a philosopher, called _aristippus_. these two yong gentlemen living thus in one citty, house, and schoole, it bred betweene them such a brother-hoode and amity, as they could not be severed from one another; but only by the accident of death; nor could either of them enjoy any content, but when they were both together in company. being each of them endued with gentle spirits, and having begun their studies together: they arose (by degrees) to the glorious height of philosophy, to their much admired fame and commendation. in this manner they lived, to the no meane comfort of _chremes_, hardly distinguishing the one from the other for his son, & thus the scholars continued the space of three yeares. at the ending whereof (as it hapneth in al things else) _chremes_ died, whereat both the young gentlemen conceived such hearty griefe, as if he had bin their common father; nor could the kinred of _chremes_ discerne, which of the two had most need of comfort, the losse touched them so equally. it chanced within some few months after, that the kinred of _gisippus_ came to see him, and (before _titus_) avised him to marriage, and with a yong gentlewoman of singular beauty, derived from a most noble house in _athens_, and she named _sophronia_, aged about fifteen years. this mariage drawing neere, _gisippus_ on a day, intreated _titus_ to walk along with him thither, because (as yet) he had not seene her. comming to the house, and she sitting in the midst betweene them, _titus_ making himselfe a considerator of beauty, & especially on his friends behalfe; began to observe her very judicially, & every part of her seemed so pleasing in his eie, that giving them al a privat praise, yet answerable to their due deserving; he becam so enflamed with affection to her, as never any lover could bee more violentlie surprized, so sodainly doth beauty beguile our best senses. after they had sate an indifferent while with her, they returned home to their lodging, where _titus_ being alone in his chamber, began to bethink himselfe on her, whose perfections had so powerfully pleased him: and the more he entred into this consideration, the fiercer he felt his desires enflamed, which being unable to quench, by any reasonable perswasions, after hee had vented foorth infinite sighes, thus he questioned with himselfe. most unhappie _titus_ as thou art, whether doost thou transport thine understanding, love, and hope? dooest thou not know as well by the honourable favours, which thou hast received of _chremes_ and his house, as also the intire amity betweene thee and _gisippus_ (unto whom faire _sophronia_ is the affianced friend) that thou shouldst holde her in the like reverent respect, as if shee were thy true borne sister? darest thou presume to fancie her? whether shall beguiling love allure thee, and vaine immaging hopes carrie thee? open the eyes of thy better understanding, and acknowledge thy selfe to bee a most miserable man. give way to reason, bridle thine intemperate appetites, reforme all irregulare desires, and guide thy fancy to a place of better direction. resist thy wanton and lascivious will in the beginning, and be master of thy selfe, while thou hast opportunity, for that which thou aimest at, is neither reasonable nor honest. and if thou wert assured to prevaile upon this pursuite, yet thou oughtst to avoide it, if thou hast any regard of true friendship, and the duty therein justly required. what wilt thou do then _titus_? fly from this inordinate affection, if thou wilt be reputed to be a man of sensible judgement. after he had thus discoursed with himselfe, remembring _sophronia_, and converting his former allegations, into a quite contrarie sense, in utter detestation of them, and guided by his idle appetite, thus he began againe. the lawes of love are of greater force, then any other whatsoever, they not only breake the bands of friendship, but even those also of more divine consequence. how many times hath it bin noted, the father to affect his own daughter, the brother his sister, and the stepmother her son in law, matters far more monstrous, then to see one friend love the wife of another, a case happening continually? moreover, i am yong, and youth is wholly subjected to the passions of love: is it reasonable then, that those should be bard from me, which are fitting and pleasing to love? honest things, belong to men of more years and maturity, then i am troubled withall, and i can covet none, but onely those wherein love is directer. the beauty of _sophronia_ is worthy of generall love, and if i that am a yongman do love her, what man living can justly reprove me for it? shold not i love her, because she is affianced to _gisippus_? that is no matter to me, i ought to love her, because she is a woman, and women were created for no other occasion, but to bee loved. fortune had sinned in this case, and not i, in directing my friends affection to her, rather then any other; and if she ought to be loved, as her perfections do challenge, _gisippus_ understanding that i affect her, may be the better contented that it is i, rather then any other. with these, and the like crosse entercourses, he often mockt himselfe, falling into the contrary, and then to this againe, and from the contrary, into another kind of alteration, wasting and consuming himselfe, not only this day and the night following, but many more afterward, till he lost both his feeding & sleepe, so that through debility of body, he was constrained to keepe his bed. _gisippus_, who had divers dayes noted his melancholly disposition, and now his falling into extreamitie of sicknesse, was very sorry to behold it: and with all meanes and inventions he could devise to use, hee both questioned the cause of this straunge alteration, and essayed everie way, how hee might best comfort him, never ceassing to demaunde a reason, why he should become thus sad and sickely. but _titus_ after infinite importuning, which still he answered with idle and frivolous excuses, farre from the truth indeede, and (to the no meane affliction of his friend) when he was able to use no more contradictions; at length, in sighes and teares, thus he replyed. _gisippus_, were the gods so wel pleased, i could more gladly yeild to dye, then continue any longer in this wretched life, considering, that fortune hath brought mee to such an extremity, as proofe is now to be made of my constancie and vertue; both which i finde conquered in me, to my eternall confusion and shame. but my best hope is, that i shall shortly be requited, as i have in justice deserved, namely with death, which will be a thousand times more welcome to me, then a loathed life, with remembrance of my base dejection in courage, which because i can no longer conceale from thee; not without blushing shame, i am well contented for to let thee know it. then began hee to recount, the whole occasion of this straunge conflict in him, what a maine battaile hee had with his private thoughts, confessing that they got the victory, causing him to die hourely for the love of _sophronia_, and affirming withall, that in due acknowledgement, how greatly hee had transgressed against the lawes of friendship, he thought no other penance sufficient for him, but onely death, which he willingly expected every houre, and with all his heart would gladly bid welcome. _gisippus_ hearing this discourse, and seeing how _titus_ bitterly wept, in agonies of most moving afflictions: sat an indifferent while sad and pensive, as being wounded with affection to _sophronia_, but yet in a well-governed and temperate manner. so, without any long delaying, hee concluded with himselfe; that the life of his friend ought to be accounted much more deare, then any love hee could beare unto _sophronia_: and in this resolution, the teares of _titus_ forcing his eyes to flow forth like two fountaines, thus he replyed. _titus_, if thou hadst not neede of comfort, as plainly i see thou hast, i would justly complaine of thee to my selfe, as of the man who hath violated our friendship, in keeping thine extreamitie so long time concealed from mee, which hath beene over-tedious for thee to endure. and although it might seeme to thee a dishonest case, and therefore kept from the knowledge of thy friend, yet i plainly tell thee, that dishonest courses (in the league of amitie) deserve no more concealment, then those of the honestest nature. but leaving these impertinent wandrings, let us come to them of much greater necessitie. if thou doest earnestly love faire _sophronia_, who is betroathed and affianced to me, it is no matter for me to marvaile at: but i should rather be much abashed, if thou couldst not intyrely affect her, knowing how beautifull she is, and the nobility of her minde, being as able to sustaine passion, as the thing pleasing is fullest of excellence. and looke how reasonably thou fanciest _sophronia_, as unjustly thou complainest of thy fortune, in ordaining her to be my wife, although thou doest not speake it expresly: as being of opinion, that thou mightest with more honesty love her, if she were any others, then mine. but if thou art so wise, as i have alwayes held thee to be, tell me truely upon thy faith, to whom could fortune better guide her, and for which thou oughtest to be more thankfull, then in bestowing her on me? any other that had enjoyed her, although thy love were never so honest, yet he would better affect her himselfe, then for thee, which thou canst not (in like manner) looke for from me, if thou doest account me for thy friend, and as constant now as ever. reason is my warrant in this case, because i cannot remember, since first our entrance into friendship, that ever i enjoyed any thing, but it was as much thine, as mine. and if our affaires had such an equall course before, as otherwise they could not subsist; must they not now be kept in the same manner? can any thing more perticularly appertaine to me, but thy right therein is as absolute as mine? i know not how thou maist esteeme of my friendship, if in any thing concerning my selfe, i can plead my priviledge to be above thine. true it is, that _sophronia_ is affianced to me, and i love her dearely, daily expecting when our nuptials shall be celebrated. but seeing thou doest more fervently affect her, as being better able to judge of the perfections, remaining in so excellent a creature as she is, then i doe: assure thy selfe, and beleeve it constantly, that she shall come to my bed, not as my wife, but onely thine. and therefore leave these despairing thoughts, shake off this cloudy disposition, reassume thy former joviall spirit, with comfort and what else can content thee: in expectation of the happy houre, and the just requitall of thy long, loving, and worthy friendship, which i have alwayes valued equall with mine owne life. _titus_ hearing this answer of _gisippus_, looke how much the sweet hope of that which he desired gave him pleasure, as much both duty and reason affronted him with shame; setting before his eyes this du consideration, that the greater the liberality of _gisippus_ was, farre greater and unreasonable it appeared to him in disgrace, if hee should unmannerly accept it. wherefore, being unable to refrain from teares, and with such strength as his weaknesse would give leave, thus he replyed. _gisippus_, thy bounty and firme friendship suffereth me to see apparantly, what (on my part) is no more then ought to be done. all the gods forbid, that i should receive as mine, her whom they have adjudged to be thine, by true respect of birth and desert. for if they had thought her a wife fit for me, doe not thou or any else imagine, that ever she should have beene granted to thee. use freely therefore thine owne election, and the gracious favour wherewith they have blessed thee: leave me to consume away in teares, a mourning garment by them appointed for me, as being a man unworthy of such happinesse; for either i shall conquer this disaster, and that will be my crowne, or else will vanquish me, and free me from all paine: whereto _gisippus_ presently thus answered. worthy _titus_, if our amity would give me so much licence, as but to contend with my selfe, in pleasing thee with such a thing as i desire, and could also induce thee therein to be directed: it is the onely end whereat i aime, and am resolved to pursue it. in which regard, let my perswasions prevaile with thee, and thereto i conjure thee, by the faith of a friend, suffer me to use mine authority, when it extendeth both to mine owne honour, and thy good, for i will have _sophronia_ to bee onely thine. i know sufficiently, how farre the forces of love doe extend in power, and am not ignorant also, how not once or twice, but very many times, they have brought lovers to unfortunate ends, as now i see thee very neere it, and so farre gone, as thou art not able to turne backe againe, nor yet to conquer thine owne teares, but proceeding on further in this extremity, thou wilt be left vanquished, sinking under the burthen of loves tyrannicall oppression, and then my turne is next to follow thee. and therefore, had i no other reason to love thee, yet because thy life is deare to me, in regard of mine owne depending thereon; i stand the neerer thereto obliged. for this cause, _sophronia_ must and shall be thine, for thou canst not find any other so conforme to thy fancy: albeit i who can easily convert my liking to another wife, but never to have the like friend againe, shall hereby content both thee, and my selfe. yet perhaps this is not a matter so easily done, or i to expresse such liberality therein, if wives were to be found with the like difficultie, as true and faithfull friends are: but, (being able to recover another wife) though never such a worthy friend; i rather chuse to change, i doe not say loose her (for in giving her to thee, i loose her not my selfe) and by this change, make that which was good before, tenne times better, and so preserve both thee and my selfe. to this end therefore, if my prayers and perswasions have any power with thee, i earnestly entreat thee, that, by freeing thy selfe out of this affliction, thou wilt (in one instant) make us both truely comforted, and dispose thy selfe (living in hope) to embrace that happinesse, which the fervent love thou bearest to _sophronia_, hath justly deserved. now although _titus_ was confounded with shame, to yeeld consent, that _sophronia_ should be accepted as his wife, and used many obstinate resistances: yet notwithstanding, love pleading on the one side powerfully, and _gisippus_ as earnestly perswading on the other, thus he answered. _gisippus_, i know not what to say, neither how to behave my selfe in this election, concerning the fitting of mine contentment, or pleasing thee in thy importunate perswasion. but seeing thy liberality is so great, as it surmounteth all reason or shame in me, i will yeeld obedience to thy more then noble nature. yet let this remaine for thine assurance, that i doe not receive this grace of thine, as a man not sufficiently understanding, how i enjoy from thee, not onely her whom most of all i doe affect, but also doe hold my very life of thee. grant then you greatest gods (if you be the patrones of this mine unexpected felicitie) that with honor and due respect, i may hereafter make apparantly knowne: how highly i acknowledge this thy wonderfull favour, in being more mercifull to me, then i could be to my selfe. for abridging of all further circumstances, answered _gisippus_, and for easier bringing this matter to full effect, i hold this to be our onely way. it is not unknowne to thee, how after much discourse had between my kindred, and those belonging to _sophronia_, the matrimoniall conjunction was fully agreed on, and therefore, if now i shall flye off, and say, i will not accept thee as my wife: great scandall would arise thereby, and make much trouble among our friends, which could not be greatly displeasing to me, if that were the way to make her thine. but i rather stand in feare, that if i forsake her in such peremptory sort, her kinred and friends will bestow her on some other, and so she is utterly lost, without all possible meanes of recovery. for prevention therefore of all sinister accidents, i thinke it best, (if thy opinion jumpe with mine) that i still pursue the busines, as already i have begun, having thee alwaies in my company, as my dearest friend and onely associate. the nuptials being performed with our friends, in secret manner at night (as we can cunningly enough contrive it) thou shalt have her maiden honour in bed, even as if she were thine owne wife. afterward, in apt time and place, we will publiquely make knowne what is done; if they take it well, we will be as jocond as they: if they frowne and waxe offended, the deed is done, over-late to be recalled, and so perforce they must rest contented. you may well imagine, this advise was not a little pleasing to _titus_, whereupon _gisippus_ received home _sophronia_ into his house, with publike intention to make her his wife, according as was the custome then observed, and _titus_ being perfectly recovered, was present at the feast very ceremonially observed. when night was come, the ladies and gentlewomen conducted _sophronia_ to the bride-chamber, where they left her in her husbands bed, and then departed all away. the chamber wherein _titus_ used to lodge, joyned close to that of _gisippus_, for their easier accesse each to the other, at all times whensoever they pleased, and _gisippus_ being alone in the bride-chamber, preparing as if he were comming to bed: extinguishing the light, he went softly to _titus_, willing him to goe to bed to his wife. which _titus_ hearing, overcome with shame and feare, became repentant, and denyed to goe. but _gisippus_, being a true intyre friend indeed, and confirming his words with actions: after a little lingring dispute, sent him to the bride, and so soone as he was in the bed with her, taking _sophronia_ gently by the hand, softly he moved the usuall question to her, namely, if she were willing to be his wife. she beleeving verily that he was _gisippus_, modestly answered. sir, i have chosen you to be my husband, reason requires then, that i should be willing to be your wife. at which words, a costly ring, which _gisippus_ used daily to weare, he put upon her finger, saying. with this ring, i confesse my selfe to be your husband, and bind you (for ever) my spouse and wife; no other kind of marriage was observed in those dayes; and so he continued all the night with her, she never suspecting him to be any other then _gisippus_, and thus was the marriage consumated, betweene _titus_ and _sophronia_, albeit the friends (on either side) thought otherwise. by this time, _publius_, the father of _titus_, was departed out of this mortall life, & letters came to _athens_, that with all speed he should returne to _rome_, to take order for occasions there concerning him, wherefore he concluded with _gisippus_ about his departure, and taking _sophronia_ thither with him, which was no easie matter to be done, until it were first known, how occasions had bin caried among them. whereupon, calling her one day into her chamber, they told her entirely, how all had past, which _titus_ confirmed substantially, by such direct passages betweene themselves, as exceeded all possibility of denyall, and moved in her much admiration; looking each on other very discontentedly, she heavily weeping and lamenting, & greatly complaining of _gisippus_, for wronging her so unkindly. but before any further noyse was made in the house, shee went to her father, to whom, as also to her mother, shee declared the whole trecherie, how much both they and their other friends were wronged by _gisippus_, avouching her selfe to be the wife of _titus_, and not of _gisippus_, as they supposed. these newes were highly displeasing to the father of _sophronia_, who with hir kinred, as also those of _gisippus_, made great complaints to the senate, very dangerous troubles and commotions arising daily betweene them, drawing both _gisippus_ and _sophronia_ into harsh reports; he being generally reputed, not onely worthy of all bitter reproofe, but also the severest punishment. neverthelesse, hee maintained publikely what he had done, avouching it for an act both of honour and honestie, wherewith _sophronia's_ friends had no reason to bee offended, but rather to take it in very thankfull part, having married a man of farre greater worth and respect, than himselfe was, or could be. on the other side, _titus_ hearing these uncivill acclamations, became much moved and provoked at them, but knowing it was a custome observed among the _greekes_, to be so much the more hurried away with rumours and threatnings, as lesse they finde them to be answered, and when they finde them, shew themselves not onely humble enough, but rather as base men, and of no courage; he resolved with himselfe, that their braveries were no longer to be endured, without some some bold and manly answere. and having a romane heart, as also an athenian understanding, by politique perswasions, he caused the kinred of _gisippus_ and _sophronia_, to be assembled in a temple, and himselfe comming thither, accompanied with none but _gisippus_ onely, he began to deliver his minde before them all, in this manner following. the oration uttered by _titus quintus fulvius_, in the hearing of the athenians, being the kinred and friends to _gisippus_ and _sophronia_. _many philosophers doe hold opinion, that the actions performed by mortall men, doe proceed from the disposing and ordination of the immortall gods. whereupon some doe maintaine, that things which be done, or never are to be done, proceed of necessity: howbeit some other doe hold, that this necessity is onely referred to things done. both which opinions (if they be considered with mature judgment) doe most manifestly approve, that they who reprehend any thing which is irrevocable, doe nothing else but shew themselves, as if they were wiser then the gods, who we are to beleeve, that with perpetuall reason, and void of any error, doe dispose and governe both us, and all our actions; in which respect, how foolish and beast-like a thing it is, presumptuously to checke or controule their operations, you may very easily consider; and likewise, how justly they deserve condigne punishment, who suffer themselves to be transported in so temerarious a manner._ _in which notorious transgression, i understand you all to be guiltie, if common fame speake truely, concerning the marriage of my selfe and_ sophronia, _whom you imagined as given to_ gisippus; _for you never remember that it was so ordained from eternitie, shee to be mine, and no wife for_ gisippus, _as at this instant is made manifest by full effect. but because the kinde of speaking, concerning divine providence, and intention of the gods, may seeme a difficult matter to many, and somewhat hard to bee understood: i am content to presuppose, that they meddle not with any thing of ours, and will onely stay my selfe on humane reasons, and in this nature of speech, i shall be enforced to doe two things, quite contrary to my naturall disposition. the one is, to speake somewhat in praise and commendation of my selfe: and the other, justly to blame and condemne other mens seeming estimation. but because both in the one and the other, i doe not intend to swerve a jot from the truth, and the necessitie of the present case in question, doth not onely require, but also command it, you must pardon what i am to say._ _your complaints doe proceed, rather from furie then reason, and (with continuall murmurings, or rather seditious) slander, backe-bite and condemne_ gisippus, _because (of his owne free will and noble disposition) hee gave her to be my wife, whom (by your election) was made his; wherein i account him most highly praise-worthy: and the reasons inducing mee thereunto, are these. the first, because he hath performed no more then what a friend ought to doe: and the second, in regard he hath dealt more wisely, then you did. i have no intention, to display (at this present) what the sacred law of amitie requireth, to be acted by one friend towards another, it shall suffice mee onely to informe you, that the league of friendship (farre stronger then the bond of bloud and kinred) confirmed us in our election of either at the first, to be true, loyall and perpetuall friends; whereas that of kinred, commeth onely by fortune or chance. and therefore if_ gisippus _affected more my life, then your benevolence, i being ordained for his friend, as i confesse my selfe to be; none of you ought to wonder thereat, in regard it is no matter of mervaile._ _but let us come now to our second reason, wherein, with farre greater instance i will shew you, that he hath (in this occasion) shewen himselfe to be much more wise, then you did, or have done: because it plainely appeareth, that you have no feeling of the divine providence, and much lesse knowledge in the effects of friendship. i say, that your foresight, councell and deliberation, gave_ sophronia _to_ gisippus, _a yong gentleman, and a philosopher:_ gisippus _likewise hath given her to a yong gentleman, and a philosopher, as himselfe is. your discretion gave her to an athenian; the gift of_ gisippus_, is to a romaine. yours, to a noble and honest man; that of_ gisippus, _to one more noble by race, and no lesse honest then himselfe. your judgement hath bestowed her on a rich young man:_ gisippus _hath given her to one farre richer. your wisedome gave her to one who not onely loved her not, but also one that had no desire to know her:_ gisippus _gave her unto him, who, above all felicitie else, yea, more than his owne life, both entirely loved and desired her._ _now, for proofe of that which i have said, to be most true and infallible, and that his deede deserveth to bee much more commended then yours, let it bee duely considered on, point by point. that i am a young man and a philosopher, as_ gisippus _is; my yeares, face, and studies, without seeking after further proofe, doth sufficiently testifie: one selfe-same age is both his and mine, in like quality of course have wee lived and studied together. true it is, that hee is an athenian, and i am a romaine. but if the glory of these two cities should bee disputed on: then let mee tell you, that i am of a citie that is francke and free, and hee is of a tributarie citie. i say, that i am of a citie, which is chiefe lady and mistresse of the whole world, and hee is of a citie subject to mine. i say that i am of a citie, that is strong in arms, empire, and studies: whereas his can commend it selfe but for studies onely. and although you see me heere to bee a scholler, in appearance meane enough, yet i am not descended of the simplest stocke in rome._ _my houses and publique places, are filled with the ancient statues of my predecessors, and the annales recorde the infinite triumphs of the quintii, brought home by them into the romane capitole, and yeares cannot eate out the glory of our name, but it will live and flourish to all posteritie._ _modest shame makes me silent in my wealth and possessions, my minde truely telling mee, that honest contented povertie, is the most ancient and richest inheritance, of our best and noblest romanes, which opinion, if it bee condemned by the understanding of the ignorant multitude, and heerein wee shall give way to them by preferring riches and worldly treasures, then i can say that i am aboundantly provided, not as ambitious, or greedily covetous, but sufficiently stored with the goods of fortune._ _i know well enough, that you held it as a desired benefit,_ gisippus _being a native of your citie, should also be linked to you by alliance: but i know no reason, why i should not be as neere and deere to you at rome, as if i lived with you heere. considering, when i am there, you have a ready and well wishing friend, to stead you in all beneficiall and serviceable offices, as carefull and provident for your support, yea, a protectour of you and your affaires, as well publique as particular. who is it then, not transported with partiall affection, that can (in reason) more approve your act, then that which my friend_ gisippus _hath done? questionlesse, not any one, as i thinke._ sophronia _is married to_ titus quintus fulvius, _a noble gentleman by antiquitie, a rich citizen of rome, and (which is above all) the friend of_ gisippus: _therefore, such a one as thinkes it strange, is sorrie for it, or would not have it to be; knoweth not what he doth._ _perhaps there may be some, who will say, they doe not so much complain, that_ sophronia _is the wife to_ titus; _but of the manner whereby it was done, as being made his wife secretly, and by theft, not any of her parents, kinred or friends called thereto: no, nor so much as advertised thereof. why gentlemen, this is no miraculous thing, but heeretofore hath oftentimes happened, and therefore no noveltie._ _i cannot count unto you, how many there have beene, who (against the will of their fathers) have made choice of their husbands; nor them that have fled away with their lovers into strange countries, being first friends, before they were wives: nor of them who have sooner made testimonie of marriage by their bellies, then those ceremonies due to matrimonie, or publication thereof by the tongue; so that meere necessity & constraint, hath forced the parents to yeeld consent: which hath not so happened to_ sophronia, _for she was given to me by_ gisippus _discreetly, honestly, and orderly._ _others also may say, that shee is married to him, to whom it belonged not to marrie her. these complaints are foolish, and womanish, proceeding from verie little, or no consideration at all. in these daies of ours, fortune makes no use of novell or inconsiderate meanes, whereby to bring matters to their determined effect. why should it offend me, if a cobler, rather than a scholler, hath ended a businesse of mine, either in private or publique, if the end be well made? well i may take order, if the cobler bee indiscreet, that hee meddle no more with any matters of mine, yet i ought, in courtesie, to thanke him for that which hee did._ _in like manner, if_ gisippus _hath married_ sophronia _well, it is foolish and superfluous, to finde fault with the manner hee used in her marriage. if you mislike his course in the case, beware of him hereafter, yet thanke him because it is no worse._ _neverthelesse, you are to understand, that i sought not by fraud or deceit, (but onely by witte) any opportunitie, whereby any way to sullie the honestie and cleere nobilitie of your bloud, in the person of_ sophronia: _for although in secret i made her my wife, yet i came not as an enemie, to take her perforce, nor (like a ravisher) wronged her virginitie, to blemish your noble titles, or despising your alliance. but fervently, enflamed by her bright beauty, and incited also by her unparalleld vertues, i shaped my course; knowing well enough, that if i tooke the ordinarie way of wiving, by moving the question to you, i should never winne your consent, as fearing, lest i would take her with me to rome, and so conveigh out of your sight, a jewell by you so much esteemed, as she is._ _for this, and no other reason, did i presume to use the secret cunning which now is openly made knowne unto you: and_ gisippus _disposed himselfe thereunto, which otherwise hee never determined to have done, in contracting the marriage for mee, and shee consenting to me in his name._ _moreover, albeit most earnestly i affected her, i sought to procure your union, not like a lover, but as a true husband, nor would i immodestly touch her, till first (as herselfe can testifie) with the words becomming wedlocke, and the ring also i espoused her, demanding of her, if shee would accept mee as her husband, and shee answered mee, with her full consent. wherein, if it may seeme that shee was deceived, i am not any way to be blamed, but she, for not demanding, what, and who i was._ _this then is the great evill, the great offence, and the great injurie committed by my friend_ gisippus, _and by mee as a lover: that_ sophronia _is secretly become the wife of_ titus quintus fulvius. _and for this cause, like spies you watch him, threaten him daily, as if you intended to teare him in pieces. what could you doe more, if hee had given her to a man of the very vilest condition? to a villaine, to a slave? what prisons? what fetters? or what torments are sufficient for this fact? but leaving these frivolous matters, let us come to discourse of more moment, and better beseeming your attention._ _the time is come, that i may no longer continue heere, because_ publius _my father is dead, and i must needs returne to rome, wherefore being minded to take_ sophronia _thither with mee, i was the more willing to acquaint you therewith, as also what else i have said, which otherwise had still beene concealed from you. nor can you but take it in good part, if you be wise, and rest well contented with what is done: considering, if i had any intention eyther to deceive, or otherwise wrong you; i could have basely left her, and made a scorne both of her and you, you not having any power to stay mee heere. but the gods will never permitte that any couragious romane, should ever conceive so vile and degenerate a thought._ sophronia, _by ordination of the gods, by force of humane lawes, and by the laudable consent of my friend_ gisippus, _as also the powerfull command of love is mine. but you perchance, imagining your selves to be wiser then the gods, or any other men whatsoever; may thinke ill of it, and more brutishly then beasts, condemne their working in two kinds, which would be offensive to mee. the one is your detaining of_ sophronia _from mee, of whom you have no power, but what pleaseth mee. the other, is your bitter threatnings against_ gisippus _my deare friend, to whom you are in duty obliged. in both which cases, how unreasonablie soever you carrie your selves, i intend not at this time to presse any further. but rather let mee counsell you like a friend, to cease your hatred and disdaine, and suffer_ sophronia _to be delivered mee, that i may depart contentedly from you as a kinsman, and (being absent) remaine your friend: assuring you, that whether what is done shall please or displease you, if you purpose to proceed any otherwise: i will take_ gisippus _along with mee, and when i come to rome, take such sure order, to fetch her hence, who in justice is mine, even in meere despight of you all, and then you shall feele by sound experience, how powerfull is the just indignation of the wronged romanes._ * * * * * when titus had thus concluded his oration, he arose with a sterne and discontented countenance, and tooke _gisippus_ by the hand, plainly declaring, that he made small account of all the rest that were in the temple; and shaking his head at them, rather menaced then any other wise seemed to care for them. they which tarried, when they were gone, considering partly on the reasons alleadged by _titus_, and partly terrified by his latest speeches; became induced, to like well of his alliance and amitie, as (with common consent) they concluded: that it was much better to accept _titus_ as their kinsman (seeing _gisippus_ had made manifest refusall thereof) than to lose the kinred of the one, and procure the hatred of the other. wherefore they went to seeke _titus_, and said unto him, they were very well contented that _sophronia_ should bee his wife, hee their deare and loving kinsman, and _gisippus_ to remaine their much respected friend. and embracing one another, making a solemne feast, such as in the like cases is necessarilie required, they departed from him, presently sending _sophronia_ to him, who making a vertue of necessity, converted her love (in short time after) to _titus_, in as effectuall manner, as formerly shee had done to _gisippus_, and so was sent away with him to rome, where she was received and welcommed with very great honour. _gisippus_ remaining still at _athens_, in small regard of eyther theirs or his owne friends: not long after by meanes of sundry troublesome citizens; and partialities happening among the common people, was banished from _athens_, and hee, as also all his familie, condemned to perpetuall exile: during which tempestuous time, _gisippus_ was become not onely wretchedly poore, but wandred abroad as a common begger; in which miserable condition he travelled to _rome_, to try if _titus_ would take any acknowledgement of him. understanding that he was living, and one most respected among the romanes, as being a great commander and a senator: he enquired for the place where hee dwelt, and going to be neere about his house, stayed there so long, till _titus_ came home, yet not daring to manifest himselfe, or speake a word to him, in regard of his poore and miserable estate, but strove to have him see him, to the end, that hee might acknowledge and call him by his name; notwithstanding, _titus_ passed by him without either speech, or looking on him. which when _gisippus_ perceived, and making full account, that (at the least) he would remember him, in regard of former courtesies, done to him: confounded with griefe and desperate thoughts, hee departed thence, never meaning to see him any more. now, in regard it was night, he having eaten nothing all that day, nor provided of one penny to buy him any food, wandred he knew not whether, desiring rather to die than live; hee came at last to an old ruinous part of the city, over-spred with briers and bushes, and seldome resorted unto by any: where finding a hollow cave or vault, he entred into it, meaning there to weare away the comfortlesse night, and laying himselfe downe on the hard ground, almost starke naked, and without any warme garments, over-wearied with weeping, at last he fell into a sleepe. it fortuned that two men, who had beene abroad the same night, committing thefts and robberies together; somwhat very earlie in the morning, came to the same cave, intending there to share and divide their booties, and difference happening betweene them about it, hee that was the stronger person, slew there the other, and then went away with the whole purchase. _gisippus_ having heard and seene the manner of this accident, was not a little joyfull, because he had now found a way to death, without laying any violent hand on himselfe; for life being very loathsome to him, it was his only desire to die. wherefore, he would not budge from the place, but taried there so long, till the sergeants and officers of justice (by information of him that did the deede) came thither well attended, and furiously ledde _gisippus_ thence to prison. being examined concerning this bloudy fact, he plainly confessed, that hee himselfe had committed the murder, and afterward would not depart from the cave, but purposely stayed for apprehension, as being truely toucht with compunction for so foule an offence: upon which peremptorie confession, _marcus varro_ being then _prã¦tor_, gave sentence that he should be crucified on a crosse, as it was the usuall manner of death in those dayes. _titus_ chancing to come at the same time into _prã¦torium_, advisedly beholding the face of the condemned man (as hee sate upon the bench) knew him to bee _gisippus_, not a little wondring at this strange accident, the povertie of his estate, and what occasion should bring him thither, especially in the questioning for his life, and before the tribunall of justice. his soule earnestly thirsting, by all possible meanes to helpe and defend him, and no other course could now be taken for safetie of his life, but by accusing himselfe, to excuse and cleare the other of the crime: hee stept from off the judgement bench, and crouding through the throng to the barre, called out to the _prã¦tor_ in this manner. _marcus varro_, recall thy sentence given on the condemned man sent away, because hee is truely guiltlesse and innocent: with one bloudie blow have i offended the gods, by killing that wretched man, whom the serjeants found this morning slaine, wherefore noble _prã¦tor_, let no innocent mans bloud be shed for it, but onely mine that have offended. _marcus varro_ stood like a man confounded with admiration, being very sorrie, for that which the whole assistants had both seene and heard, yet hee could not (with honour) desist from what must needs be done, but would performe the lawes severe injunction. and sending for condemned _gisippus_ backe againe, in the presence of _titus_, thus he spake to him. how becamest thou so madly incensed, as (without any torment inflicted on thee) to confesse an offence by thee never committed? art thou wearie of thy life? thou chargest thy selfe falsly, to be the person who this last night murdered the man in the cave, and there is another that voluntarily also doth confesse his guiltinesse. _gisippus_ lifting up his eyes, and perceiving it was _titus_, conceived immediately, that he had done this onely for his deliverance, as one that remembred him sufficiently, and would not be ungratefull for former kindnesses received. wherefore, the teares flowing abundantly down his cheekes, he said to the judge _varro_, it was none but i that murdered the man, wherefore, i commiserate the case of this noble gentleman _titus_, who speakes now too late for the safety of my life. _titus_ on the other side, said. noble prã¦tor, this man (as thou seest) is a stranger heere, and was found without any weapon, fast asleepe by the dead body: thou mayst then easily perceive, that meerely the miserable condition wherein he is, hath made him desperate, and he would make mine offence the occasion of his death. absolve him, and send me to the crosse, for none but i have deserved to die for this fact. _varro_ was amazed, to observe with what earnest instance each of them strove to excuse the other, which halfe perswaded him in his soule, that they were both guiltlesse. and as he was starting up, with full intent to acquaint them: a yong man, who had stood there all this while, and observed the hard pleading on either side; he crowded into the barre, being named _publius ambustus_, a fellow of lewd life, and utterly out of hopes, as being debauched in all his fortunes, and knowne among the _romaines_ to be a notorious theefe, who verily had committed the murder. well knew his conscience, that none of them were guilty of the crime, wherewith each so wilfully charged himselfe: being therefore truely toucht with remorse, he stept before _marcus varro_, saying. honourable prã¦tor, mine owne horrid and abominable actions, have induced me thus to intrude my selfe, for clearing the strict contention betweene these two persons. and questionlesse, some god or greater power, hath tormented my wretched soule, and so compunctually solicited me, as i cannot chuse, but make open confession of my sinne. here therefore, i doe apparantly publish, that neither of these men is guilty of the offence, wherewith so wilfully each chargeth himselfe. i am the villaine, who this morning murdered the man in the cave, one of no greater honesty then my selfe, and seeing this poore man lie there sleeping, while we were dividing the stolne booties betweene us; i slew my companyon, because i would be the sole possessor. as for noble lord _titus_, he had no reason thus to accuse himselfe, because is a man of no such base quality: let them both then be delivered, and inflict the sentence of death on me. _octavius cã¦sar_, to whom tydings was brought of this rare accident, commanding them al three to be brought before him; would needs understand the whole history, in every particular as all had happened, which was substantially related to him. whereupon, _octavius_ pleased them all three: the two noble friendes, because they were innocent, and the third, for openly revealing the very truth. _titus_ tooke home with him his friend _gisippus_, and after he had sharpely reproved him for his distrust, and cold credence of his friendship: he brought him to _sophronia_, who welcomed him as lovingly, as if he had bin her naturall borne brother, bemoaning his hard and disastrous fortune, and taking especiall care, to convert all passed distresses, into as happy and comfortable a change, fitting him with garments and attendants, beseeming his degree both in nobility and vertue. _titus_, out of his honourable bounty, imparted halfe his lands and rich possessions to him, and afterward gave him in marriage, his owne sister, a most beautifull lady, named _fulvia_, saying to him beside. my deare friend _gisippus_, it remaineth now in thine owne election, whether thou wilt live here still with me, or returne backe to _athens_, with all the wealth which i have bestowed on thee. but _gisippus_, being one way constrayned, by the sentence of banishment from his native city, & then againe, in regard of the constant love, which he bare to so true and thankefull friend as _titus_ was: concluded to live there as a loyall _roman_, where he with his _fulvia_, and _titus_ with his faire _sophronia_, lived long after together in one and the same house, augmenting daily (if possible it might be) their amity beyond all other equalizing. a most sacred thing therefore is cordiall amity, worthy not onely of singuler reverence, but also to be honoured with eternall commendation, as being the onely wise mother of all magnificence and honesty, the sister of charity and gratitude, the enemy to hatred and avarice, and which is alwayes ready (without attending to be requested) to extend all vertuous actions to others, which she would have done to her selfe. her rare and divine effects, in these contrary times of ours, are not to be found between two such persons, which is a mighty fault, and greatly checketh the miserable covetousnesse of men, who respecting nothing but onely their particular benefit; have banished true amity, to the utmost confines of the whole earth, and sent her into perpetuall exile. what love, what wealth, or affinity of kindred, could have made _gisippus_ feele (even in the intyrest part of his soule) the fervent compassion, the teares, the sighes of _titus_, and with such efficacy as plainely appeared: to make him consent, that his faire elected spouse, by him so dearely esteemed, should become the wife of his companion, but onely the precious league of amity? what lawes, what threatnings, what feares, could cause the yong armes of _gisippus_ to abstaine embraces, betaking himselfe to solitary walkes, and obscure places, when in his owne bedde, he might have enjoyed so matchlesse a beauty (who perhaps desired it so much as himselfe) but onely the gracious title of amity? what greatnesse, what merits or precedence, could cause _gisippus_ not to care, for the losse of his kindred, those of _sophronia_, yea, of _sophronia_ her selfe, not respecting the dishonest murmurings of base minded people, their vile and contemptible language, scornes and mockeries, and all to content and satisfie a friend, but onely divine amity? come now likewise to the other side. what occasions could compell noble _titus_, so promptly and deliberatly, to procure his owne death, to rescue his friend from the crosse, and inflict the pain and shame upon himselfe, pretending not see or know _gisippus_ at all, had it not bin wrought by powerfull amity? what cause else could make _titus_ so liberall, in dividing (with such willingnesse) the larger part of his patrimony to _gisippus_, when fortune had dispossest him of his owne, but onely heaven-borne amity? what else could have procured _titus_ without any further dilation, feare or suspition, to give his sister _fulvia_ in marriage to _gisippus_, when he saw him reduced to such extreame poverty, disgrace and misery, but onely infinite amity? to what end doe men care then, to covet and procure great multitudes of kinred, store of brethren, numbers of children, and to encrease (with their owne monyes) plenty of servants: when by the least losse and dammage happening, they forget all duty to father, brother, or master? amity and true friendship is of a quite contrary nature, satisfying (in that sacred bond) the obligation due to all degrees, both of parentage, and all alliences else. saladine, _the great_ soldan _of_ babylon, _in the habite of a merchant, was honourably received and welcommed, into the house of signior_ thorello d'istria. _who travelling to the holy land, prefixed a certaine time to his wife, for his returne backe to her againe, wherein, if he failed, it was lawfull for her to take another husband. by clouding himselfe in the disguise of a faulkner, the_ soldan _tooke notice of him, and did him many great honours. afterward,_ thorello _falling sicke, by magicall art, he was conveighed in one night to_ pavia, _when his wife was to be married on the morrow: where making himselfe knowne to her, all was disappointed, and shee went home with him to his owne house._ the ninth novell. _declaring what an honourable vertue courtesie is, in them that truely know how to use them._ madam _philomena_ having concluded her discourse, and the rare acknowledgement, which _titus_ made of his esteemed friend _gisippus_, extolled justly as it deserved by all the company: the king, reserving the last office to _dioneus_ (as it was at the first granted him) began to speake thus. without all question to the contrary (worthy ladies) nothing can be more truely said, then what madame _philomena_, hath delivered, concerning amity, and her complaint in the conclusion of her novell, is not without great reason, to see it so slenderly reverenced and respected (now-a-dayes) among all men. but if we had met here in duty onely for correcting the abuses of iniquity, and the malevolent courses of this preposterous age; i could proceed further in this just cause of complaint. but because our end aimeth at matters of other nature, it commeth to my memory to tel you of a history, which (perhaps) may seeme somewhat long, but altogether pleasant, concerning a magnificent act of great _saladine_: to the end, that by observing those things which you shall heare in my novell, if we cannot (by reason of our manifold imperfections) intirely compasse the amity of any one; yet (at least) we may take delight, in stretching our kindnesse (in good deeds) so farre as we are able, in hope one day after, some worthy reward will ensue thereon, as thereto justly appertaining. let me tell you then, that (as it is affirmed by many) in the time of the emperour frederick, first of that name, the christians, for the better recovery of the holy land, resolved to make a generall voyage over the seas. which being understood by _saladine_, a very worthy prince, and then _soldan_ of babylon: he concluded with himselfe, that he would (in person) goe see, what preparation the christian potentates made for this warre, that hee might the better provide for himselfe. having setled all things orderly in ã�gypt for the busines, and making an outward appearance, as if he purposed a pilgrimage to _mecha_: he set onward on his journey, habited like a merchant, attended onely with two of his most noble and wisest baschaes, and three waiting servants. when he had visited many christian provinces, and was riding thorow _lombardie_, to passe the mountaines; it fortuned, in his journeying from _millaine_ to _pavia_, and the day being very farre spent, so that night hastened speedily on him: he met with a gentleman, named signior _thorello d'istria_, but dwelling at _pavia_, who with his men, hawkes and hounds, went to a house of his, seated in a singular place, and on the river of _ticinum_. signior _thorello_ seeing such men making towardes him, presently imagined, that they were some gentle-strangers, and such hee desired to respect with honor. wherefore, _saladine_ demanding of one of _thorelloes_ men, how farre (as then) it was to _pavia_, and whether they might reach thither by such an houre, as would admit their entrance into the citty: _thorello_ would not suffer his servant to returne the answer, but replyed thus himselfe. sir (quoth he) you cannot reach _pavia_, but night will abridge you of any entraunce there. i beseech you then sir, answered _saladine_, favour us so much (because we are all strangers in these parts) as to tell us where we may be well lodged. that shall i sir, said _thorello_, and very gladly too. even at the instant sir, as we met with you, i had determined in my mind, to send one of my servants somewhat neere to _pavia_, about a businesse concerning my selfe: he shall go along with you, and conduct you to a place, where you will be very well entertayned. so, stepping to him, who was of best discretion amongst his men, he gave order to him what should bee done, and sent him with them. himselfe, making hast by a farre neerer way, caused supper to be prepared in worthy manner, and the tables to be covered in his garden; and all things being in good readinesse, he sate downe at his doore, to attend the comming of his guests. the servingman, discoursing with the gentlemen on divers occasions, guided them by such unusuall passages, as (before they could discerne it) he brought them to his masters house; where so soone as _thorello_ saw them arrived, he went forth to meet them, assuring them all of most hearty welcome. _saladine_, who was a man of accute understanding, did well perceive, that this knight _thorello_ misdoubted his going with him, if (when he met him) hee should have invited him; and therefore, because he would not be denied, of entertaining him into his house; he made choise of this kinde and honourable course, which caused him to returne this answer. gentle sir, if courtesie in one man to another, do deserve condemning, then may we justly complaine of you, who meeting us upon the way, which you have shortened by your kindnesse; and which we are no way able to deserve, wee are constrained to accept, taking you to bee the mirrour of courtesie. _thorello_ being a knight of ingenious apprehension, and wel languaged, replyed thus. gentlemen; this courtesie (seeing you terme it so) which you receive of me, in regard of that justly belonging to you, as your faces do sufficiently informe mee, is matter of very slender account. but assuredly out of _pavia_, you could not have any lodging, deserving to be termed good. and therefore, let it not bee displeasing to you, if you have a little gone forth of the common rode way, to have your entertainment somewhat bettered, as many travaylers are easily induced to do. having thus spoken, all the people of the house shewed themselves, in serviceable manner to the gentlemen, taking their horses as they dismounted, and _thorello_ himselfe, conducted the three gentlemen, into three severall faire chambers, which in costly manner were prepared for them, where their boots were pluckt off, faire napkins with manchets lay ready, and delicate wines to refresh their wearied spirits, much prety conference being entercoursed, till supper time invited them thence. _saladine_, and they that were with him, spake the latine tongue very readily, by which meanes they were the better understoode; and _thorello_ seemed (in their judgement) to bee the most gracious, compleate, and best spoken gentleman, as ever they met with in all their journey. it appeared also (on the other side) to signiour _thorello_, that his guests were men of great merit, and worthy of much more esteeme, then there he could use towards them: wherefore, it did highly distast him, that he had no more friends there this night to keepe them company, or himselfe better provided for their entertainment, which hee intended (on the morrow) to recompence with larger amends at dinner. heereupon, having instructed one of his men with what hee intended, he sent him to _pavia_, which was not farre off (and where he kept no doore shut) to his wife, named madam _adalietta_; a woman singularly wise, and of a noble spirit, needing little or no direction, especially when she knew her husbands minde. as they were walking in the garden, _thorello_ desired to understand, of whence, and what they were? whereto _saladine_ thus answered. sir, wee are _cyprian_ marchants, comming now from _cyprus_, and are travailing to _paris_, about affaires of importance. now trust me syr, replyed _thorello_, i could heartily wish, that this countrey of ours would yeeld such gentlemen, as your _cyprus_ affordeth marchants. so, falling from one discourse unto another, supper was served in; and looke howe best themselves pleased, so they sate at the table, where (we neede make no doubt) they were respected in honourable order. so soone as the tables were withdrawne, _thorello_ knowing they might be weary, brought them againe to their chambers, where committing them to their good rest, himselfe went to bed soone after. the servant sent to _pavia_, delivered the message to his lady; who, not like a woman of ordinary disposition, but rather truely royall, sent _thorelloes_ servants into the city, to make preparation for a feast indeed, and with lighted torches (because it was somewhat late) they invited the very greatest and noblest persons of the citie, all the roomes being hanged with the richest arras, clothes of golde worke, velvets, silkes, and all other rich adornments, in such manner as her husband had commanded, and answerable to her owne worthy mind, being no way to learne, in what manner to entertaine strangers. on the morrow morning, the gentlemen arose, and mounting on horsebacke with signior _thorello_, he called for his hawkes and hounds, brought them to the river, where he shewed two or three faire flights: but _saladine_ desiring to know, which was the fayrest hostery in all _pavia, thorello_ answered. gentlemen, i will shew you that my selfe, in regard i have occasion to ride thither. which they beleeving, were the better contented, and rode on directly unto _pavia_; arriving there about nine of the clocke, and thinking he guided them to the best inne, he brought them to his owne house; where, above fifty of the worthiest citizens, stood ready to welcome the gentlemen, imbracing them as they lighted from their horsses. which _saladine_, and his associates perceiving, they guessed as it was indeede, and _saladine_ sayd. beleeve me worthy _thorello_, this is not answerable to my demand; you did too much yester-night, and much more then we could desire or deserve: wherefore, you might wel be the sooner discharged of us, and let us travaile on our journey. noble gentlemen, replyed _thorello_ (for in mine eye you seeme no lesse) that courtesie which you met with yester-night, i am to thanke fortune for, more then you, because you were then straited by such necessity, as urged your acceptance of my poore country house. but now this morning, i shall account my selfe much beholding to you (as the like will all these worthy gentlemen here about you) if you do but answer kindnes with kindnes, and not refuse to take a homely dinner with them. _saladine_ and his friends, being conquerd with such potent perswasions, and already dismounted from their horses, saw that all deniall was meerly in vaine: and therefore thankfully condiscending (after some few ceremonious complements were over-past) the gentlemen conducted them to their chambers, which were most sumptuously prepared for them, and having laid aside their riding garments, being a little refreshed with cakes and choice wines: they descended into the dining hall, the pompe whereof i am not able to report. when they had washed, and were seated at the tables, dinner was served in most magnificent sort; so that if the emperor himself had bin there, he could not have bin more sumptuously served. and although _saladine_ and his baschaes were very noble lords, and wonted to see matters of admiration: yet could they do no lesse now, but rather exceeded in marvaile, considering the qualitie of the knight, whom they knew to bee a citizen, and no prince or great lord. dinner being ended, and divers familiar conferences passing amongst them: because it was exceeding hot, the gentlemen of _pavia_ (as it pleased _thorello_ to appoint) went to repose themselves awhile, and he keeping company with his three guests, brought them into a goodly chamber, where, because he would not faile in the least scruple of courtesie, or conceale from them the richest jewell which he had; he sent for his lady and wife, because (as yet) they had not seene her. she was a lady of extraordinary beauty, tall stature, very sumptuously attired, and having two sweet sonnes (resembling angels) she came with them waiting before her, and graciously saluted her guests. at her comming, they arose, and having received hir with great reverence, they seated her in the midst, kindly cherishing the two children. after some gracious language past on eyther side, she demanded of whence, and what they were, which they answered in the same kind as they had done before to her husband. afterward, with a modest smiling countenance, she sayd. worthy gentlemen, let not my weake womanish discretion appeare distastable, in desiring to crave one especiall favour from you, namely, not to refuse or disdaine a small gift, wherewith i purpose to present you. but considering first, that women (according to their simple faculty) are able to bestow but silly gifts: so you would be pleased, to respect more the person that is the giver, then the quality or quantity of the gift. then causing to be brought (for each of them) two goodly gowns or robes (made after the _persian_ manner) the one lyned thorough with cloth of gold, and the other with the costlyest fur; not after such fashion as citizens or marchants use to weare, but rather beseeming lords of greatest account, and three light under-wearing cassocks or mandillions, of carnatian sattin, richly imbroidred with gold and pearles, and lined thorow with white taffata, presenting these gifts to him, she sayd. i desire you gentlemen to receive these meane trifles, such as you see my husband weares the like, and these other beside, considering you are so far from your wives, having travailed a long way already, and many miles more yet to overtake; also marchants (being excellent men) affect to be comely and handsome in their habits; although these are of slender value, yet (in necessity) they may do you service. now was _saladine_ and his baschaes halfe astonyed with admiration, at the magnificent minde of signiour _thorello_, who would not forget the least part of courtesie towardes them, and greatly doubted (seeing the beauty and riches of the garments) least they were discovered by _thorello_. neverthelesse, one of them thus answered the lady. beleeve me madame, these are rich guiftes, not lightly either to be given, or receyved: but in regard of your strict imposition, we are not able to deny them. this being done, with most gracious and courteous demeanour, she departed from them, leaving her husband to keepe them still companie; who furnished their servants also, with divers worthy necessaries fitting for their journey. afterward, _thorello_ (by very much importunitie) wonne them to stay with him all the rest of the day; wherefore, when they had rested themselves awhile, being attyred in their newly given robes; they rode on horsebacke thorow the citty. when supper time came, they supt in most honourable and worthy company, beeing afterwards lodged in most faire and sumptuous chambers, and being risen in the morning, in exchange of their horses (over-wearied with travaile) they found three other very richly furnished, and their men also in like manner provided. which when _saladine_ had perceyved, he tooke his baschaes aside, and spake in this manner. by our greatest gods, i never met with any man, more compleat in all noble perfections, more courteous and kinde then _thorello_ is. if all the christian kings, in the true and heroicall nature of kings, do deale as honourably as i see this knight doeth, the soldane of _babylon_ is not able to endure the comming of one of them, much lesse so many, as wee see preparing to make head against us. but beholding, that both refusall and acceptation, was all one in the minde of _thorello_: after much kinde language had bin intercoursed betweene them, _saladine_ (with his attendants) mounted on horsebacke. signiour _thorello_, with a number of his honourable friends (to the number of an hundred horsse) accompanied them a great distance from the citie, and although it greeved _saladine_ exceedingly, to leave the company of _thorello_, so dearely he was affected to him; but necessity (which controlleth the power of all lawes whatsoever) must needs divide them: yet requesting his returne agayne that way, if possibly it might be granted; which _saladine_ promised but did not performe. well gentlemen (quoth _thorello_ at parting) i know not what you are, neither (against your will) do i desire it: but whether you be marchants or no, remember me in your kindnesse, and so to the heavenly powers i commend you. _saladine_, having taken his leave of all them that were with _thorello_, returned him this answer. sir, it may one day hereafter so happen, as we shall let you see some of our marchandises, for the better confirmation of your beleefe, and our profession. thus parted signior _thorello_ and his friends, from _saladine_ and his company, who verily determined in the heighth of his minde, if he should be spared with life, and the warre (which he expected) concluded: to requite _thorello_ with no lesse courtesie, then hee had already declared to him; conferring a long while after with his baschaes, both of him and his beauteous lady, not forgetting any of their courteous actions, but gracing them all with deserved commendation. but after they had (with very laborious paines) surveyed most of the westerne parts, they all tooke shipping, and returned into _alexandria_: sufficiently informed, what preparation was to be made for their owne defence. and signior _thorello_ being come backe againe to _pavia_, consulted with his privat thoughts (many times after) what these three travailers should be, but came farre short of knowing the truth, till (by experience) hee became better informed. when the time was come, that the christians were to make their passage, and wonderfull great preparations, in all places performed: signiour _thorello_, notwithstanding the teares and intreaties of his wife, determined to be one in so woorthy and honourable a voyage: and having made his provision ready, nothing wanting but mounting on horsebacke, to go where he should take shipping; to his wife (whom he most intirely affected) thus hee spake. madame, i goe as thou seest in this famous voyage, as well for mine honour, as also the benefite of my soule; all our goodes and possessions, i commit to thy vertuous care. and because i am not certaine of my returning backe againe, in regard of a thousand accidents which may happen, in such a countrey as i goe unto: i desire onely but one favour of thee, whatsoever daunger shall befall mee; namely, when any certaine tydings shall be brought mee of my death; to stay no longer before thy second marriage, but one yeare, one month, and one day; to begin on this day of my departing from thee. the lady, who wept exceedingly, thus answered. alas sir: i know not how to carry my selfe, in such extremity of greefe, as now you leave me; but if my life surmount the fortitude of sorrow, and whatsoever shall happen to you for certainty, either life or death: i will live and dye the wife of signiour _thorello_, and make my obsequies in his memory onely. not so madame (replyed her husband) not so; be not overrash in promising any thing, albeit i am well assured, that so much as consisteth in thy strength, i make no question of thy performance. but consider withall (deare heart) thou art a yong woman, beautifull, of great parentage, and no way thereto inferior in the blessings of fortune. thy vertues are many, and universally both divulged and knowen, in which respect, i make no doubt; but divers and sundrie great lords and gentlemen (if but the least rumour of my death be noysed) will make suite for thee to thy parents and brethren, from whose violent solicitings, wouldst thou never so resolutely make resistance, yet thou canst not be able to defend thy selfe; but whether thou wilt or no, thou must yeeld to please them; and this is the only reason, why i would tie thee to this limited time, and not one day or minute longer. _adalietta_, sweetly hugging him in her armes, and melting her selfe in kisses, sighes, and teares on his face, said. well sir, i will do so much as i am able, in this your most kinde and loving imposition: and when i shall bee compelled to the contrary: yet rest thus constantly assured, that i will not breake this your charge, so much as in thought. praying ever heartily to the heavenly powers, that they will direct your course home againe to me, before your prefixed date, or else i shall live in continual languishing. in the knitting up of this wofull parting, embracing and kissing either infinit times, the lady tooke a ring from off her finger, and giving it to her husband, said. if i chaunce to die before i see you againe, remember me when you looke on this. he receiving the ring, and bidding all the rest of his friends farewell, mounted on horsebacke, and rode away wel attended. being come unto _geneway_, he and his company boorded a galley, and (in few dayes after) arrived at _acres_, where they joyned themselves with the christian army, wherein there happened a verie dangerous mortality: during which time of so sharpe visitation (the cause unknowne whence it proceeded) whether thorough the industrie, or rather the good fortune of _saladine_, well-neere all the rest of the christians (which escaped death) were surprized his prisoner (without a blow strucken) and sundred and imprisoned in divers townes and citties. amongest the which number of prisoners, it was signior _thorelloes_ chaunce to be one, and walked in bonds to _alexandria_, where being unknowne, and fearing least he should be discovered: constrained thereto meerly by necessity, hee shewed himselfe in the condition of a faulconer; wherein he was very excellently experienced, and by which means his profession was made knowne to _saladine_, hee delivered out of prison, and created the soldans faulconer. _thorello_ (whom the soldane called by no other name, then the christian, neyther of them knowing the other) sadly now remembred his departure from _pavia_, devising and practising many times, how he might escape thence, but could not compasse it by any possible meanes. wherefore, certaine ambassadours beeing sent by the _genewaye_, to redeeme divers cittizens of theirs, there detained as prisoners, and being ready to returne home againe: he purposed to write to his wife, that he was living, and wold repaire to her so soone as he could, desiring the still continued remembrance** of her limited time. by close and cunning meanes hee wrote the letter, earnestly intreating one of the ambassadors (who knew him perfectly, but made no outward apparance thereof) to deale in such sort for him, that the letter might be delivered to the handes of the abbot _di san pietro in ciel d'oro_, who was (indeede) his uncle. while _thorello_ remayned in this his faulconers condition, it fortuned uppon a day, that _saladine_, conversing with him about his hawkes: _thorello_ chanced to smile, and used such a kinde of gesture or motion with his lippes, which _saladine_ (when he was in his house at _pavia_) had heedfully observed, and by this note, instantly he remembred signior _thorello_, and began to eye him very respectively, perswading himselfe that he was the same man. and therefore falling from their former kinde of discoursing: tell mee christian (quoth _saladine_) what country-man art thou of the west? sir, answered signiour _thorello_, i am by country a lombard, borne in a citty called _pavia_, a poore man, and of as poore condition. so soone as _saladine_ had heard these words; becomming assured in that which (but now) he doubted, he saide within himselfe. now the gods have given me time, wherein i may make knowne to this man, how thankefully i accepted his kinde courtesie, and cannot easily forget it. then, without saying any thing else, causing his guard-robe to be set open, he tooke him with him thither, and sayde. christian, observe well all these garments, and quicken thy remembrance, in telling mee truly, whether thou hast seene any of them before now, or no. signiour _thorello_ looked on them all advisedly, and espyed those two especiall garments, which his wife had given one of the strange merchants; yet he durst not credit it, or that possibly it could be the same, neverthelesse he said. sir, i doe not know any of them, but true it is, that these two doe resemble two such robes, as i was wont to weare my selfe, and these (or the like) were given to three merchants, that happened to visite my poore house. now could _saladine_ containe no longer, but embracing him joyfully in his armes, he said. you are signior _thorello d'istria_, and i am one of those three merchants, to whom your wife gave these roabes: and now the time is come to give you credible intelligence of my merchandise, as i promised at my departing from you, for such a time (i told you) would come at length. _thorello_, was both glad, and bashfull together: glad, that he had entertained such a guest, and bashfully ashamed, that his welcome had not exceeded in more bountifull manner. _thorello_, replyed _saladine_, seeing the gods have sent you so happily to me: account your selfe to be soly lord here, for i am now no more then a private man. i am not able to expresse their counterchanges of courtesie, _saladine_ commanding him to be cloathed in royall garments, and brought into the presence of his very greatest lords, where having spoken liberally in his due commendation, he commanded them to honour him as himselfe, if they expected any grace or favour from him, which every one did immediatly, but (above all the rest) those two baschaes, which accompanied _saladine_ at his house. the greatnesse of this pompe and glory, so suddenly throwne on signior _thorello_, made him halfe forget all matters of _lomberdie_; and so much the rather, because he had no doubt at all, but that his letters, were safely come to the hands of his uncle. here i am to tell you, that in the campe or army of the christians, on the day when _saladine_ made his surprizall, there was a provinciall gentleman dead and buried, who was signior _thorello de dignes_, a man of very honourable and great esteeme, in which respect (signior _thorello d'istria_, knowne throughout the army, by his nobility and valour) whosoever heard that signior _thorello_ was dead: beleeved it to be _thorello d'istria_, and not he of _dignes_, so that _thorello d'istriaes_ unknowne surprizall and thraldome, made it also to passe for an assured truth. beside, many italians returning home, and carrying this report for credible; some were so audaciously presumptuous, as they avouched upon their oathes, that not onely they saw him dead, but were present at his buriall likewise. which rumour comming to the eare of his wife, and likewise to his kinred and hers: procured a great and grievous mourning among them, and all that happened to heare thereof. over-tedious time it would require, to relate at large, the publique griefe and sorrow, with the continuall lamentations of his wife, who (within some few moneths after) became tormented with new marriage solicitings, before she had halfe sighed for the first: the very greatest persons of _lomberdie_ making the motion, being daily followed and furthered by her owne brothers and friends. still (drowned in teares) she returned denyall, till in the end, when no contradiction could prevaile, to satisfie her parents, and the importunate pursuers: she was constrained to reveale, the charge imposed on her by her husband, which shee had vowed infallibly to keepe, and till that very time, she would in no wise consent. while wooing for a second wedding with _adalietta_, proceeded in this manner at _pavia_, it chanced on a day, that signior _thorello_ had espied a man in _alexandria_, whom he saw with the _geneway_ ambassadours, when they set thence towards _geneway_ with their gallies. and causing him to be sent for, he demaunded of him, the successe of the voyage, and when the gallies arrived at _geneway_; whereto he returned him this answere. my lord, our gallies made a very fatall voyage, as it is (already) too well knowne in _creete_, where my dwelling is. for when we drew neere _sicilie_, there suddenly arose a very dangerous north-west-winde, which drove us on the quicke-sands of _barbarie_, where not any man escaped with life, onely my selfe excepted, but (in the wracke) two of my brethren perished. signior _thorello_, giving credit to the mans words, because they were most true indeed, and remembring also, that the time limitted to his wife, drew neere expiring within very few dayes, and no newes now possibly to be sent thither of his life, his wife would questionlesse be marryed againe: he fell into such a deepe conceited melancholly, as food and sleepe forsooke him, whereupon, he kept his bed, setting downe his peremptory resolution for death. when _saladine_ (who dearely loved him) heard thereof, he came in all haste to see him, and having (by many earnest perswasions and entreaties) understood the cause of his melancholly and sickenesse: he very severely reproved him, because he could no sooner acquaint him therewith. many kind and comfortable speeches, he gave him, with constant assurance, that (if he were so minded) he would so order the businesse for him; as he should be at _pavia_, by the same time as he had appointed to his wife, and revealed to him also the manner how. _thorello_ verily beleeved the _soldanes_ promise, because he had often heard the possibility of performance, and others had effected as much, divers times else-where: whereupon he began to comfort himselfe, soliciting the _soldan_ earnestly that it might be accomplished. _saladine_ sent for one of his sorcerers (of whose skill he had formerly made experience) to take a direct course, how signior _thorello_ should be carryed (in one night) to _pavia_, and being in his bed. the magitian undertooke to doe it, but, for the gentlemans more ease, he must first be possessed with an entraunced dead sleep. _saladine_ being thus assured of the deeds full effecting, he came againe to _thorello_, and finding him to be setled for _pavia_ (if possibly it might be accomplished by the determined time, or else no other expectation but death) he said unto him as followeth. signior _thorello_, if with true affection you love your wife, and misdoubt her marriage to some other man: i protest unto you, by the supreme powers, that you deserve no reprehension in any manner whatsoever. for, of all the ladyes that ever i have seene, she is the onely woman, whose carriage, vertues, and civile speaking (setting aside beauty, which is but a fading flowre) deserveth most graciously to be respected, much more to be affected in the highest degree. it were to me no meane favour of our gods, (seeing fortune directed your course so happily hither) that for the short or long time we have to live, we might reigne equally together in these kingdomes under my subjection. but if such grace may not be granted me, yet, seeing it stands mainly upon the perill of your life, to be at _pavia_ againe by your own limitted time, it is my chiefest comfort, that i am therewith acquainted, because i intended to have you conveighed thither, yea, even into your owne house, in such honourable order as your vertues doe justly merit, which in regard it cannot be so conveniently performed, but as i have already informed you, and as the necessity of the case urgently commandeth; accept it as it may be best accomplished. great _saladine_ (answered _thorello_) effects (without words) have already sufficiently warranted your gracious disposition towards me, farre beyond any requitall remayning in me; your word onely being enough for my comfort in this case, either dying or living. but in regard you have taken such order for my departure hence, i desire to have it done with all possible expedition, because to morrow is the very last day, that i am to be absent. _saladine_ protested that it should be done, and the same evening in the great hall of his pallace, commanded a rich and costly bedde to be set up, the mattras formed after the _alexandrian_ manner, of velvet and cloth gold, the quilts, counter-points and coverings, sumptuously imbroydered with orient pearles and precious stones, supposed to be of inestimable value, and two rarely wrought pillowes, such as best beseemed so stately a bedde, the curtaines and vallans every way equall to the other pompe. which being done, he commanded that _thorello_ (who was indifferently recovered) should be attyred in one of his owne sumptuous _saracine_ roabes, the very fairest and richest that ever was seene, and on his head a majesticall turbant, after the manner of his owne wearing, and the houre appearing to be somewhat late, he with many of his best baschaes, went to the chamber where _thorello_ was, and sitting downe a while by him, in teares thus he spake. signior _thorello_, the houre for sundering you and me, is now very neere, and because i cannot beare you company, in regard of the businesse you goe about, and which by no meanes will admit it: i am to take my leave of you in this chamber, and therefore am purposely come to doe it. but before i bid you farewell, let me entreat you, by the love and friendship confirmed betweene us, to be mindfull of me, and to take such order (your affaires being fully finished in _lombardie_) that i may once more enjoy the sight of you here, for a mutuall solace and satisfaction of our mindes, which are now divided by this urgent hast. till which may be granted, let me want no visitation of your kind letters, commanding thereby of me, whatsoever here can possibly be done for you; assuring your selfe, no man living can command me as you doe. signior _thorello_ could not forbeare weeping, but being much hindred thereby, answered in few words. that he could not possibly forget, his gracious favours and extraordinary benefits used towards him, but would accomplish whatsoever hee commaunded, according as heaven did enable him. hereupon, _saladine_ embracing him, and kissing his forehead, said. all my gods goe with you, and guard you from any perill, departing so out of the chamber weeping, and his baschaes (having likewise taken their leave of _thorello_) followed _saladine_ into the hall, whereas the bedde stood readily prepared. because it waxed very late, and the magitian also there attending for his dispatch: the phisitian went with the potion to _thorello_, and perswading him, in the way of friendship, that it was onely to strengthen him after his great weaknes: he drank it off, being thereby immediately entraunced, and so presently sleeping, was (by _saladines_ command) laid on the sumptuous and costly bed, whereon stood an imperiall crowne of infinite value, appearing (by a description engraven on it) that _saladine_ sent it to madame _adalietta_, the wife of _thorello_. on his finger also hee put a ring, wherein was enchased an admirable carbuncle, which seemed like a flaming torche, the value thereof not to bee estimated. by him likewise hee laid a rich sword, with the girdle, hangers, and other furniture, such as seldome can be seene the like. then hee laid a jewell on the pillow by him, so sumptuouslie embelished with pearles and precious stones, as might have beseemed the greatest monarch in the world to weare. last of all, on either side of them, hee set two great basons of pure gold, full of double ducates, many cords of orient pearles, rings, girdles, and other costly jewells (over-tedious to bee recounted) and kissing him once more as hee lay in the bedde, commanded the magitian to dispatch and be gone. instantly, the bedde and _thorello_ in it, in the presence of _saladine_, was invisibly carried thence, and while he sate conferring with his baschaes, the bed, signior _thorello_, and all the rich jewells about him, was transported and set in the church of _san pietro in ciel d'ore_ in _pavia_, according to his own request, and soundly sleeping, being placed directly before the high altar. afterward, when the bells rung to mattines, the sexton entring the church with a light in his hand (where hee beheld a light of greater splendour) and suddenly espied the sumptuous bedde there standing: not only was he smitten into admiration, but hee ranne away also very fearefully. when the abbot and the monkes mette him thus running into the cloyster, they became amazed, and demanded the reason why he ranne in such haste, which the sexton told them. how? quoth the abbot, thou art no childe, or a new-come hither, to be so easilie affrighted in our holy church, where spirits can have no power to walke, god and saint _peter_ (wee hope) are stronger for us then them so: wherefore turne backe with us, and let us see the cause of thy feare. having lighted many torches, the abbot and his monkes entred with the sexton into the church, where they beheld the wonderfull riche bedde, and the knight lying fast a-sleepe in it. while they stood all in amazement, not daring to approach neere the bedde, whereon lay such costly jewells: it chanced that signior _thorello_ awaked, and breathed forth a vehement sigh. the monkes and the abbot seeing him to stirre, ranne all away in feare, crying aloud, god and s. _peter_ defend us. by this time _thorello_ had opened his eyes, and looking round about him, perceived that hee was in the place of _saladines_ promise, whereof hee was not a little joyfull. wherefore, sitting up in the bedde, and particularly observing all the things about him: albeit he knew sufficiently the magnificence of _saladine_, yet now it appeared far greater to him, and imagined more largely thereof, then hee could doe before. but yet, without any other ceremony, seeing the flight of the monkes, hearing their cry, and perceiving the reason; he called the abbot by his name, desiring him not to be afraid, for he was his nephew _thorello_, and no other. when the abbot heard this, hee was ten times worse affrighted then before, because (by publique fame) hee had beene so many moneths dead and buried; but receiving (by true arguments) better assurance of him, and hearing him still call him by his name: blessing himselfe with the signe of the crosse, hee went somewhat neerer to the bed, when _thorello_ said. my loving uncle, and religious holy father, whereof are you afraid? i am your loving nephew, newly returned from beyond the seas. the abbot, seeing his beard to be grown long, and his habit after the arabian fashion, did yet collect some resemblance of his former countenance; and being better perswaded of him, tooke him by the hand, saying: sonne thou art happily returned, yet there is not any man in our citie, but doth verily beleeve thee to bee dead, and therefore doe not much wonder at our feare. moreover, i dare assure thee, that thy wife _adalietta_, being conquered by the controuling command, and threatnings of her kinred (but much against her owne minde) is this very morning to be married to a new husband, and the marriage feast is solemnly prepared, in honour of this second nuptialls. _thorello_ arising out of the bedde, gave gracious salutations to the abbot and his monkes, intreating earnestly of them all, that no word might be spoken of his returne, untill he had compleated an important businesse. afterward, having safely secured the bedde, and all the rich jewells, he fully acquainted the abbot with all his passed fortunes, whereof he was immeasurably joyfully, & having satisfied him, concerning the new elected husband, _thorello_ said unto the abbot. uncle, before any rumour of my returne, i would gladly see my wives behavior at this new briding feast, & although men of religion are seldome seene at such joviall meetings: yet (for my sake) doe you so order the matter, that i (as an arabian stranger) may be a guest under your protection; whereto the abbot very gladly condescended. in the morning, he sent to the bridegroom, and advertised him, that he (with a stranger newly arrived) intented to dine with him, which the gentleman accepted in thankefull manner. and when dinner time came, _thorello_ in his strange disguise went with the abbot to the bridegroomes house, where he was lookt on with admiration of all the guests, but not knowne or suspected by any one; because the abbot reported him to be a _sarracine_, and sent by the soldane (in ambassage) to the king of france. _thorello_ was seated at a by-table, but directly opposite to the new bride, whom hee much delighted to looke on, and easily collected by her sad countenance, that shee was scarcely well pleased with this new nuptialls. she likewise beheld him very often, not in regard of any knowlege she took of him: for the bushiness of his beard, strangeness of habit, (but most of all) firm beleefe of his death, was the maine prevention. at such time as _thorello_ thought it convenient, to approve how farre he was falne out of her remembrance; he took the ring which she gave him at his departure, and calling a young page that waited on none but the bride, said to him in italian: faire youth, goe to the bride, and saluting her from me, tell her, it is a custome observed in my country, that when any stranger (as i am heere) sitteth before a new married bride, as now shee is, in signe that hee is welcome to her feast, she sendeth the same cup (wherein she drinketh her selfe) full of the best wine, and when the stranger hath drunke so much as him pleaseth, the bride then pledgeth him with all the rest. the page delivered the message to the bride, who, being a woman of honourable disposition, and reputing him to be a noble gentleman, to testifie that his presence there was very acceptable to her, shee commanded a faire cuppe of gold (which stood directlie before her) to bee neately washed, and when it was filled with excellent wine, caused it to bee carried to the stranger, and so it was done. _thorello_ having drunke a heartie draught to the bride, conveyed the ring into the cuppe, before any person could perceive it, and having left but small store of wine in it, covered the cuppe, and sent it againe to the bride, who received it very graciously, and to honour the stranger in his countries custome, dranke up the rest of the wine, and espying the ring, shee tooke it forth undetected by any: knowing it to be the same ring which shee gave signior _thorello_ at his parting from her; she fixed her eyes often on it, & as often on him, whom she thought to be a stranger, the cheerfull bloud mounting up into her cheeks, and returning againe with remembrance to her heart, that (howsoever thus disguised) he only was her husband. like one of _bacchus_ froes, up furiously she started, and throwing downe the table before her, cried out aloud: this is my lord and husband, this truely is my lord _thorello_. so running to the table where he sate, without regard of all the riches thereon, down she threw it likewise, and clasping her armes about his necke, hung so mainly on him (weeping, sobbing, and kissing him) as she could not be taken off by any of the company, nor shewed any moderation in this excesse of passion, till _thorello_ spake, and entreated her to be more patient, because this extremity was over-dangerous for her. thus was the solemnitie much troubled, but every one there very glad and joyfull for the recovery of such a famous and worthy knight, who intreated them all to vouchsafe him silence, and so related all his fortunes to them, from the time of his departure, to the instant houre. concluding withall, that hee was no way offended with the new bride-groome, who upon the so constant report of his death, deserved no blame in making election of his wife. the bridegroome, albeit his countenance was somewhat cloudie, to see his hope thus disappointed: yet granted freely, that _adalietta_ was _thorello's_ wife in equitie, and hee could not justly lay any claime to her. she also resigned the crown and rings which she had so lately received of her new spouse, and put that on her finger which she found in the cup, and that crowne was set upon her head, in honor sent her from great _saladine_. in which triumphant manner, she left the new bridegrooms abiding, and repayred home to _thorello's_ house, with such pompe and magnificence as never had the like been seene in _pavia_ before, all the citizens esteeming it as a miracle, that they had so happily recovered signior _thorello_ againe. some part of the jewells he gave to him, who had beene at cost with the marriage feasting, and some to his uncle the abbot, beside a bountie bestowed on the monkes. then he sent a messenger to _saladine_, with letters of his whole successe, and confessing himselfe (for ever) his obliged servant: living many yeeres (after) with his wife _adalietta_, and using greater curtesies to strangers, then ever before he had done. in this manner ended the troubles of signior _thorello_, and the afflictions of his dearely affected lady, with due recompence to their honest and ready courtesies. many strive (in outward shew) to doe the like, who although they are sufficiently able, doe performe it so basely, as it rather redoundeth to their shame, then honour. and therefore if no merit ensue thereon, but onely such disgrace as justly should follow; let them lay the blame upon themselves. _the marquesse of_ saluzzo, _named_ gualtiero, _being constrained by the importunate solliciting of his lords, and other inferiour people, to joyne himselfe in marriage; tooke a woman according to his owne liking, called_ grizelda, _she being the daughter of a poore countriman, named_ janiculo, _by whom he had two children, which he pretended to be secretly murdered. afterward, they being grown to yeres of more stature, and making shew of taking in marriage another wife, more worthy of his high degree and calling: made a seeming publique liking of his owne daughter, expulsing his wife_ grizelda _poorely from him. but finding her incomparable patience; more dearely (then before) hee received her into favour againe, brought her home to his owne pallace, where (with her children) hee caused her and them to be respectively honoured, in despight of all her adverse enemies._ the tenth novell. _set downe as an example or warning to all wealthie men, how to have care of marrying themselves. and likewise to poore and meane women, to be patient in their fortunes, and obedient to their husbands._ questionlesse, the kings novell did not so much exceed the rest in length, but it proved as pleasing to the whole assembly, & past with their generall approbation, till _dioneus_ (in a merry jesting humour) said. the plaine honest simple man, that stood holding the candle, to see the setting on of his mules tayle; deserved two penny-worth of more praise, then all our applauding of signior _thorello_: and knowing himselfe to bee left for the last speaker, thus he began. milde & modest ladies, for ought i can perceive to the contrary, this day was dedicated to none but kings, soldanes, and great potentates, not in favour of any inferiour or meaner persons. and therefore, because i would be loth to dis-ranke my selfe from the rest, i purpose to speake of a lord marquesse, not any matter of great magnificence, but rather in a more humble nature, and sorted to an honest end: which yet i will not advise any to immitate, because (perhaps) they cannot so well digest it, as they did whom my novell concerneth; thus then i begin. it is a great while since, when among those that were lord marquesses of _saluzzo_, the very greatest and worthiest man of them al, was a young noble lord, named _gualtiero_, who having neyther wife nor childe, spent his time in nothing else but hawking & hunting: nor had he any minde of marriage, or to enjoy the benefit of children, wherein many did repute him the wiser. but this being distastfull to his subjects, they very often earnestly solicited him, to match himselfe with a wife, to the end, that hee might not decease without an heire, nor they be left destitute of a succeeding lord; offering themselves to provide him of such a one, so well descended by father and mother, as not only should confirm their hope, but also yeeld him high contentment; whereto the lord marquess thus answered. worthie friends, you would constraine me to the thing, wherewith i never had any intent to meddle, considering, how difficult a case it is to meet with such a woman, who can agree with a man in all his conditions, and how great the number is of them, who daily happen on the contrarie: but most (and worst of all the rest) how wretched and miserable prooves the life of man, who is bound to live with a wife not fit for him. and in saying, you can learn to understand the custome and qualities of children, by behaviour of the fathers and mothers, and so to provide mee of a wife, it is a meere argument of folly: for neither shall i comprehend, or you either, the secret inclinations of parents; i meane of the father, and much lesse the complexion of the mother. but admitte it were within compasse of power to know them; yet it is a frequent sight, and observed every day; that daughters doe resemble neither father nor mother, but that they are naturally governed by their owne instinct. but because you are so desirous to have me fettered in the chains of wedlocke; i am contented to grant what you request. and because i would have no complaint made of any but my selfe, if matters should not happen answerable to expectation; i will make mine owne eyes my electors, and not see by any others sight. giving you this assurance before, that if she whom i shall make choice of, be not of you honoured and respected as your lady and mistresse: it will ensue to your detriment, how much you have displeased me, to take a wife at your request, and against mine owne will. the noble men answered, that they were well satisfied, provided that he tooke a wife. some indifferent space of time before, the beauty, manners, and well-seeming vertues, of a poore countrie-mans daughter, dwelling in no farre distant village, had appeared very pleasing to the lord marquesse, and gave him full perswasion, that with her hee should lead a comfortable life. and therefore without any further search or inquisition, he absolutely resolved to marry her, and having conferred with her father, agreed, that his daughter should be his wife. whereupon, the marquesse made a generall convocation of all his lords, barons, and other of his especiall friends, from all parts of his dominion; and when they were assembled together, hee then spake unto them in manner as followeth. honourable friends, it appeared pleasing to you all; and yet (i thinke) you are of the same minde, that i should dispose my selfe to take a wife: and i thereto condescended, more to yeeld you contentment, then for any particular desire in my selfe. let mee now remember you of your solemne made promise, with full consent to honor and obey her (whosoever) as your soveraigne lady and mistresse, that i shall elect to make my wife: and now the time is come, for my exacting the performance of that promise, and which i look you must constantly keepe. i have made choyce of a yong virgine, answerable to mine owne heart and liking, dwelling not farre off hence, whom i intend to make my wife, and (within few daies) to have her brought home to my pallace. let your care and diligence then extend so farre, as to see that the feast may be sumptuous, and her entertainment to bee most honourable: to the end that i may receive as much contentment in your promise performed, as you shall perceive i doe in my choice. the lords and all the rest, were wondrously joyfull to heare him so well inclined, expressing no lesse by their shouts and jocund suffrages: protesting cordially, that she should be welcommed with pompe and majestie, and honoured of them all, as their liege ladie and soveraigne. afterward, they made preparation for a princely and magnificent feast, as the marquesse did the like, for a marriage of extraordinary state and qualitie, inviting all his kinred, friends, and acquaintance in all parts and provinces, about him. hee made also readie most riche and costly garments, shaped by the body of a comely young gentlewoman, who he knew to be equall in proportion and stature, to her of whom hee hade made his election. when the appointed nuptiall day was come, the lord marques, about nine of the clocke in the morning, mounted on horse-backe, as all the rest did, who came to attend him honourably, and having all things in due readinesse with them, he said: lords, it is time for us to goe fetch the bride. so on hee rode with his traine, to the same poore village whereas shee dwelt, and when hee was come to her fathers house, hee saw the maiden returning very hastily from a well, where shee had beene to fetch a paile of water, which shee set downe, and stood (accompanied with other maidens) to see the passage by of the lord marquesse and his traine. _gualtiero_ called her by her name, which was _grizelda_, and asked her, where her father was: who bashfully answered him, and with an humble courtesie, saying. my gracious lord, hee is in the house. then the marquesse dismounted from his horse, commanding every one to attend him, then all alone hee entred into the poore cottage, where he found the maides father, being named _janiculo_, and said unto him. god speed good father, i am come to espouse thy daughter _grizelda_: but first i have a few demands to make, which i will utter to her in thy presence. then hee turned to the maide, and saide. faire _grizelda_, if i make you my wife, will you doe your best endeavour to please me, in all things which i shall doe or say? will you also be gentle, humble, and patient? with divers other the like questions: whereto she still answered, that she would, so neere as heaven (with grace) should enable her. presently he tooke her by the hand, so led her forth of the poore homely house, and in the presence of all his company, with his owne hands, he took off her meane wearing garments, smocke and all, and cloathed her with those robes of state which he had purposely brought thither for her, and plaiting her haire over her shoulders, hee placed a crowne of gold on her head, whereat every one standing as amazed, and wondring not a little, hee said: _grizelda_, wilt thou have me to thy husband. modestly blushing, and kneeling on the ground, she answered. yes my gracious lord, if you will accept so poore a maiden to be your wife. yes _grizelda_, quoth hee, with this holy kisse, i confirme thee for my wife; and so espoused her before them all. then mounting her on a milke-white palfray, brought thither for her, shee was thus honourably conducted to her pallace. now concerning the marriage feast and triumphes, they were performed with no lesse pompe, then if she had beene daughter to the king of france. and the young bride apparantly declared, that (with her garments) her minde and behavior were quite changed. for indeed shee was (as it were shame to speake otherwise) a rare creature, both of person and perfections, and not onely was shee absolute for beautie, but so sweetely amiable, gracious, and goodlie; as if she were not the daughter of poore _janiculo_, and a countrie shepheardesse, but rather of some noble lord, whereat every one wondred that formerly had knowne her. beside all this, shee was so obedient to her husband, so fervent in all dutifull offices, and patient, without the very least provoking: as hee held himselfe much more then contented, and the onely happy man of the world. in like manner, towards the subjects of her lord and husband, she shewed her selfe alwayes so benigne and gracious; as there was not any one, but the more they lookt on her, the better they loved her, honouring her voluntarily, and praying to the heavens, for her health, dignity and well-fares long continuance. speaking now (quite contrary to their former opinion of the marquesse) honourably and worthily, that he had shewne him selfe a singular wise man, in the election of his wife, which few else (but he) in the world would have done: because their judgement might fall farre short, of discerning those great and precious vertues, veiled under a homely habite, and obscured in a poore countrey cottage. to be briefe, in very short time, not onely the marquisate it selfe, but all neighbouring provinces round about, had no other common talke, but of her rare course of life, devotion, charity, and all good actions else; quite quailing all sinister instructions of her husband, before he received her in marriage. about foure or five yeeres after the birth of her daughter, shee conceived with child againe, and (at the limitted houre of deliverance) had a goodly sonne, to the no little liking of the marquesse. afterward, a strange humour entred into his braine, namely, that by a long continued experience, and courses of intollerable quality; he would needes make proofe of his faire wives patience. first he began to provoke her by injurious speeches, shewing fierce and frowning lookes to her, intimating; that his people grew displeased with him, in regard of his wives base birth and education, and so much the rather, because she was likely to bring children, who (by her blood) were no better then beggars, and murmured at the daughter already borne. which words when _grizelda_ heard, without any alteration of countenance, for the least distemperature in any appearing action she said. my honourable and gracious lord, dispose of me, as you thinke best, for your owne dignity and contentment, for i shall therewith be well pleased: as she that knowes her selfe, farre inferiour to the meanest of your people, much lesse worthy of the honour, whereto you liked to advance me. this answere was very welcome to the marquesse, as apparantly perceiving hereby, that the dignity whereto hee had exalted her, or any particular favours beside, could not infect her with any pride, coynesse, or disdaine. not long after, having told her in plaine and open speeches, that his subjects could not endure her so late borne daughter: he called a trusty servant of his, and having instructed him what he should doe, sent him to _grizelda_, and he being alone with her, looking very sadde, and much perplexed in mind, he saide. madame, except i intend to loose mine owne life, i must accomplish what my lord hath strictly enjoyned me, which is, to take this your yong daughter, and then i must: so breaking off abruptly, the lady hearing his words, and noting his frowning lookes, remembring also what the marquesse himselfe had formerly said; she presently imagined, that he had commanded his servant to kill the childe. suddenly therefore, she tooke it out of the cradle, and having sweetly kissed, and bestowne her blessing on it (albeit her heart throbbed, with the inward affection of a mother) without any alteration of countenance, she tenderly laid it in the servants armes, and said. here friend, take it, and doe with it as thy lord and mine hath commanded thee: but leave it in no rude place, where birds or savage beasts may devoure it, except it be his will to have it so. the servant departing from her with the child, and reporting to the marquesse what his lady had said; he wondered at her incomparable constancy. then he sent it by the same servant to _bologna_, to an honourable lady his kinsewoman, requesting her (without revealing whose child it was) to see it both nobly and carefully educated. at time convenient afterward, being with child againe, and delivered of a princely sonne (then which nothing could be more joyfull to the marquesse) yet all this was not sufficient for him; but with farre ruder language then before, and lookes expressing harsh intentions, he said unto her. _grizelda_, though thou pleasest me wonderfully, by the birth of this princely boy, yet my subjects are not therewith contented, but blunder abroad maliciously; that the grand-child of _janiculo_, a poore countrey pezant, when i am dead and gone, must be their soveraigne lord and master. which makes me stand in feare of their expulsion, and to prevent that, i must be rid of this childe, as well as the other, and then send thee away from hence, that i may take another wife, more pleasing to them. _grizelda_, with a patient sufferent soule, hearing what he had said, returned no other answere but this. most gracious and honourable lord, satisfie and please your owne royall minde, and never use any respect of me: for nothing is precious or pleasing to mee, but what may agree with your good liking. within a while after, the noble marquesse in the like manner as he did before for the daughter, so he sent the same servant for the sonne, and seeming as if he had sent it to have been slaine, conveighed it to be nursed at _bologna_, in company of his sweete sister. whereat the lady shewed no other discontentment in any kinde, then formerly she had done for her daughter, to the no meane marvell of the marquesse, who protested in his soule, that the like woman was not in all the world beside. and were it not for his heedfull observation, how loving and carefull she was of her children, prizing them as dearely as her owne life: rash opinion might have perswaded him, that she had no more in her, then a carnall affection, not caring how many she had, so shee might thus easily be rid of them; but he knew her to be a truely vertuous mother, and wisely liable to endure his severest impositions. his subjects beleeving, that he had caused the children to bee slaine, blamed him greatly, thought him to be a most cruell man, and did highly compassionate the ladies case: who when shee came in company of other gentlewomen, which mourned for their deceased children, would answere nothing else: but that they could not be more pleasing to her, then they were to the father that begot them. within certaine yeares after the birth of these children, the marquesse purposed with himselfe, to make his last and finall proofe of faire _grizeldaes_ patience, and said to some neere about him: that he could no longer endure, to keepe _grizelda_ as his wife, confessing, he had done foolishly, and according to a young giddie braine, when he was so rash in the marriage of her. wherefore he would send to the pope, and purchase a dispensation from him, to repudiate _grizelda_, and take another wife. wherein although they greatly reproved him; yet he told them plainely, that it must needes be so. the lady hearing these newes, and thinking she must returne againe to her poore fathers house, and (perhaps) to her old occupation of keeping sheepe, as in her yonger dayes she had done, understanding withall, that another woman must enjoy him, whom shee dearely loved and honoured; you may well thinke (worthy ladies) that her patience was now put to the maine proofe indeede. neverthelesse, as with an invincible true vertuous courage, she had outstood all the other injuries of fortune; so did she constantly settle her soule, to beare this with an undaunted countenance and behaviour. at such time as was prefixed for the purpose, counterfeit letters came to the marquesse (as sent from _rome_) which he caused to be publikely read in the hearing of his subjects: that the pope had dispensed with him, to leave _griselda_, and marry with another wife, wherefore, sending for her immediatly, in presence of them all, thus he spake to her. woman, by concession sent me from the pope, he hath dispensed with me, to make choyce of another wife, and to free my selfe from thee. and because my predecessors have beene noblemen, and great lords in this country, thou being the daughter of a poore countrey clowne, and their blood and mine notoriously imbased, by my marriage with thee; i intend to have thee no longer my wife, but will returne thee home to thy fathers house, with all the rich dowry thou broughtest me; and then i will take another wife, with whom i am already contracted, better beseeming my birth, and farre more contenting and pleasing to my people. the lady hearing these words (not without much paine and difficulty) restrayned her teares, quite contrary to the naturall inclination of women, and thus answered. great marquesse, i never was so empty of discretion, but did alwayes acknowledge, that my base and humble condition, could not in any manner sute with your high blood and nobility, and my being with you, i ever acknowledged, to proceed from heaven and you, not any merit of mine, but onely as a favour lent me, which you being now pleased to recall backe againe, i ought to be pleased (and so am) that it bee restored. here is the ring, wherewith you espoused me; here (in all humility) i deliver it to you. you command me, to carry home the marriage dowry which i brought with me: there is no need of a treasurer to repay it me, neither any new purse to carry it in, much lesse any sumpter to be laden with it. for (noble lord) it was never out of my memory, that you tooke me starke naked; and if it shall seeme sightly to you, that this body which hath borne two children, and begotten by you, must againe be seene naked; willingly must i depart hence naked. but i humbly beg of your excellency, in recompence of my virginity, which i brought you blamelesse, so much as in thought: that i may have but one of my wedding smocks, onely to conceale the shame of nakednesse, and then i depart rich enough. the marquesse whose heart wept bloody teares, as his eyes would likewise gladly have yeelded their naturall tribute; covered all with a dissembled angry countenance, and starting up, said. goe, give her a smocke onely, and so send her gadding. all there present about him, entreated him to let her have a petticote, because it might not be said, that she who had been his wife thirteene yeares and more, was sent away so poorely in her smocke: but all their perswasions prevailed not with him. naked in her smocke, without hose or shooes, bareheaded, and not so much as a cloth about her necke, to the great griefe and mourning of all that saw her, she went home to her old fathers house. and he (good man) never beleeving, that the marquesse would long keepe his daughter as his wife, but rather expected daily, what now had happened: safely laid up the garments, whereof the marquesse despoyled her, the same morning when he espoused her. wherefore he delivered them to her, and she fell to her fathers houshold businesse, according as formerly she had done; sustayning with a great and unconquerable spirit, all the cruell assaults of her enemy fortune. about such time after, as suted with his owne disposition, the marquesse made publiquely knowne to his subjects, that he meant to joyne in marriage again, with the daughter to one of the counts of _panago_, and causing preparation to be made for a sumptuous wedding; he sent for _grizelda_, and she being come, thus he spake to her. the wife that i have made the new election of, is to arrive here within very few dayes, and at her first comming, i would have her to be most honourably entertained. thou knowest i have no women in my house, that can decke up the chambers, and set all requisite things in due order, befitting for so solemne a feast: and therefore i sent for thee, who knowing (better then any other) all the partes, provision and goods in the house, set every thing in such order, as thou shalt thinke necessary. invite such ladies and gentlewomen as thou wilt, and give them welcome, even as if thou wert the lady of the house: and when the marriage is ended, returne then home to thy father againe. although these words pierced like wonding daggers, the heart of poore (but noble patient) _grizelda_, as being unable to forget the unequal'd love she bare to the marquesse, though the dignitie of her former fortune, more easily slipt out of her remembrance; yet neverthelesse, thus she answered. my gracious lord, i am glad i can doe you any service; wherein you shall find mee both willing and ready. in the same poore garments, as she came from her fathers house, (although shee was turned out in her smocke) she began to sweep and make cleane the chambers, rubbe the stooles and benches in the hall, and ordered every in the kitchin, as if she were the worst maide in all the house, never ceasing or giving over, till all things were in due and decent order, as best beseemed in such a case. after all which was done, the marquesse, having invited all the ladies of the countrey, to be present at so great a feast: when the marriage day came, _grizelda_, in her gowne of countrey gray, gave them welcome, in honourable manner, and graced them all with very cheerefull countenance. _gualtiero_ the marquesse, who had caused his two children to be nobly nourished at _bologna_, with a neere kinswoman of his, who had married with one of the counts of _panago_, his daughter being now aged twelve yeares old, and some-what more, as also the son about sixe or seven. he sent a gentleman expresly to his kindred, to have them come and visite him at _saluzza_, bringing his daughter and sonne with them, attended in very honourable manner, and publishing every where as they came along, that the young virgin (knowne to none but himselfe and them) should be the wife to the marquesse, and that onely was the cause of her comming. the gentleman was not slacke, in the execution of the trust reposed in him: but having made convenient preparation, with the kindred, sonne, daughter, and a worthy company attending on them, arrived at _saluzza_ about dinner time, where wanted no resort, from all neighbouring parts round about, to see the comming of the lord marquesses new spouse. by the lords and ladies she was joyfully entertained, and comming into the great hall, where the tables were readily covered: _grizelda_, in her homely country habite, humbled her selfe before her, saying. gracious welcome, to the new elected spouse of the lord marquesse. all the ladies there present, who had very earnestly importuned _gualtiero_ (but in vaine) that _grizelda_, might better be shut up in some chamber, or else to lend her the wearing of any other garments, which formerly had been her owne, because she should not be so poorely seene among strangers: being seated at the tables, she waited on them very serviceably. the yong virgin was observed by every one, who spared not to say; that the marquesse had made an excellent change: but above them all, _grizelda_ did most commend her, and so did her brother likewise, as young as he was, yet not knowing her to be his sister. now was the marquesse sufficiently satisfied in his soule, that he had seene so much as he desired, concerning the patience of his wife, who in so many hart-grieving trials, was never noated so much as to alter her countenance. and being absolutely perswaded, that this proceeded not from any want of understanding in her, because he knew her to be singularly wise: he thought it high time now, to free her from these afflicting oppressions, and give her such assurance as she ought to have. wherefore, commanding her into his presence, openly before all his assembled friends, smiling on her, he said. what thinkst thou _grizelda_ of our new chosen spouse? my lord (quoth she) i like her exceeding well, and if she be so wise, as she is faire (which verely i thinke she is) i make no doubt but you shall live with her, as the onely happy man of the world. but i humbly entreat your honour (if i have any power in me to prevaile by) that you would not give her such cutting and unkind language, as you did to your other wife: for i cannot thinke her armed with such patience, as should (indeed) support them: as wel in regard she is much yonger, as also her more delicate breeding and education, whereas she who you had before, was brought up in continual toile and travaile. when the marquesse perceyved, that _grizelda_ beleeved verily, this yong daughter of hers should be his wife, and answered him in so honest and modest manner: he commanded her to sit downe by him, and saide. _grizelda_, it is now more then fitte time, that thou shouldst taste the fruite of thy long admired patience, and that they who have thought me cruell, harsh and uncivill natured, should at length observe, that i have done nothing basely, or unadvisedly. for this was a worke premeditated before, for enstructing thee, what it is to be a married wife, and to let them know (whosoever they be) how to take and keepe a wife. which hath begotten (to me) perpetuall joy and happinesse, so long as i have a day to live with thee: a matter whereof i stoode before greatly in feare, and which (in marriage i thought) would never happen to me. it is not unknown to thee, in how many kinds (for my first proofe) i gave thee harsh and unpleasing speeches, which drawing no discontentment from thee, either in lookes, words, or behaviour, but rather such comfort as my soule desired, and so in my other succeedings afterward: in one minute now, i purpose to give thee that consolation, which i bereft thee of in many tempestuous stormes, and make a sweet restauration, for all thy former sower sufferinges. my faire and dearly affected _grizelda_, shee whom thou supposest for my new elected spouse, with a glad and cheerfull hart, imbrace for thine owne daughter, and this also her brother, beeing both of them thy children and mine, in common opinion of the vulgar multitude, imagined to be (by my command) long since slaine. i am thy honourable lord and husband, who doth, and will love thee farre above all women else in the world; giving thee justly this deserved praise and commendation, that no man living hath the like wife, as i have. so, sweetly kissing her infinitely, and hugging her joyfully in his armes (the teares now streaming like new-let-loose rivers, downe her faire face, which no disaster before could force from her) hee brought her, and seated her by her daughter, who was not a little amazed at so rare an alteration. shee having (in zeale of affection) kissed and embraced them both, all else there present being clearely resolved from the former doubt which too long deluded them; the ladies arose jocondly from the tables, and attending on _grizelda_ to her chamber, in signe of a more successefull augury to follow: tooke off her poor contemptible rags, and put on such costly robes, which (as lady marchionesse) she used to weare before. afterward, they waited on her into the hall againe, being their true soveraigne lady and mistresse, as she was no lesse in her poorest garments; where all rejoycing for the new restored mother, & happy recovery of so noble a son and daughter, the festivall continued many months after. now every one thought the marquesse to be a noble and wise prince, though somewhat sharpe and unsufferable, in the severe experiences made of his wife: but (above al) they reputed _grizelda_, to be a most wise, patient, & vertuous lady. the count of _panago_, within few daies after returned backe to _bologna_; and the lord marques, fetching home old _janiculo_ from his country drudgery, to live with him (as his father in law) in his princely palace, gave him honorable maintenance, wherein hee long continued, and ended his daies. afterward, he matched his daughter in a noble marriage: he and _grizelda_ living long time together, in the highest honor that possibly could be. what can now be saide to the contrary, but that poore country cottages, may yeeld as divine & excellent spirits, as the most stately and royall mansions, which breed and bring uppe some, more worthy to be hog-rubbers, then hold any soveraignty over men? where is any other (beside _grizelda_) who not only without a wet eye, but imboldned by a valiant and invincible courage: that can suffer the sharpe rigours, and (never the like heard of proofes) made by the marquesse? perhaps he might have met with another, who would have quitted him in a contrary kinde, and for thrusting her forth of doores in her smocke, could have found better succor somewhere else, rather then walke so nakedly in the cold streets. * * * * * _dioneus_ having thus ended his novel, and the ladies delivering their severall judgements, according to their owne fancies, some holding one conceite, others leaning to the contrary; one blaming this thing, and another commending that, the king lifting his eyes to heaven, and seeing the sun began to fall** low, by rising of the evening starre; without arising from his seat, spake as followeth. discreet ladies, i am perswaded you know sufficiently, that the sense and understanding of us mortals, consisteth not onely (as i think) by preserving in memory things past, or knowledge of them present; but such as both by the one and other, know how to foresee future occasions, are worthily thought wise, and of no common capacity. it will be (to morrow) fifteene dayes, since we departed from the city of _florence_, to come hither for our pastime and comfort, the conservation of our lives, and support of our health, by avoyding those melanchollies, griefes, and anguishes, which we beheld daylie in our city, since the pestilentiall visitation beganne there, wherein (by my judgement) we have done well and honestly. albeit some light novels, perhaps attractive to a little wantonnes, as some say, and our joviall feasting with good cheare, singing and dancing, may seeme matters inciting to incivility, especially in weake and shallow understandings. but i have neither seene, heard, or knowne, any acte, word, or whatsoever else, either on your part or ours, justly deserving to be blamed: but all has bin honest, as in a sweete and hermonious concord, such as might well beseeme the communitie of brethren and sisters; which assuredly, as well in regard of you, as us, hath much contented me. and therefore, least by over-long consuetude, something should take life, which might be converted to a bad construction, & by our country demourance for so many dayes, some captious conceit may wrest out an ill imagination; i am of the minde (if yours be the like) seeing each of us hath had the honor, which now remaineth still on me: that it is very fitting for us, to returne thither from whence we came. and so much the rather, because this sociable meeting of ours, which already hath wonne the knowledge of many dwellers here about us, should not grow to such an increase, as might make our purposed pastime offensive to us. in which respect (if you allow of my advise) i will keepe the crowne till our departing hence; the which i intend shall be to morrow: but if you determine otherwise, i am the man ready to make my resignation. many imaginations passed amongst the ladies, and likewise the men, but yet in the end, they reputed the kings counsell to bee the best and wisest, concluding to do as he thought convenient. whereupon, hee called the master of the housholde, and conferred with him, of the businesse belonging to the next morning, and then gave the company leave to rise. the ladies and the rest, when they were risen, fel some to one kinde of recreation, and others as their fancies served them, even as (before) they had done. and when supper time came, they dispatcht it in very loving manner. then they began to play on instruments, sing and dance, and madame _lauretta_ leading the dance: the king commaunded madame _fiammetta_ to sing a song, which pleasantly she began in this manner. _the song._ the chorus sung by all the rest of the company. _if love were free from jealousie, no lady living, had lesse heart-greeving, or liv'd so happily as i._ _if gallant youth in a faire friend, a woman could content, if vertues prize, valour and hardiment, wit, carriage, purest eloquence, could free a woman from impatience: then i am she can vaunt (if i were wise) all these in one faire flower, are in my power, and yet i boast no more but trueth. if love were free from jealousie, &c._ _but i behold that other women are as wise as i which killes me quite, fearing false sirquedrie. for when my fire begins to flame others desires misguide my aim, and so bereaves me of secure delight. onely through fond mistrust, he is unjust: thus are my comforts hourely hot and cold. if love were free, &c._ _if in my friend, i found like faith, as manly minde i know; mistrust were slaine. but my fresh griefes still grow, by sight of such as do allure, so i can thinke none true, none sure, but all would rob me of my golden gaine. loe thus i dye, in jelousie, for losse of him, on whom i most depend. if love were free, &c._ _let me advise such ladies as in love are bravely bold, not to wrong me, i scorne to be controld. if any one i chance to finde. by winkes, words, smiles, in crafty kinde, seeking for that, which onely mine should be: then i protest, to do my best, and make them know, that they are scarsly wise._ _if love were free from jealousie, i know no lady living, could have lesse heart-greeving, or live so happily as i._ so soone as madam _fiammetta_ had ended her song; _dioneus_, who sate by her, smiling said. truly madam, you may do us a great courtesie, to express your selfe more plainly to us all, least (thorow ignorance) the possession may be imposed on your selfe, and so you remaine the more offended. after the song was past, divers other were sung beside, and it now drawing wel-neere midnight, by the kings command, they all went to bed. and when new day appeared, and all the world awaked out of sleepe, the master of the houshold having sent away the carriages; they returned (under the conduct of their discreet king) to _florence_, where the three gentlemen left the seven ladies at the church of _santa maria novella_, from whence they went with them at the first. and having parted with kinde salutations; the gentlemen went whether themselves best pleased, and the ladies repaired home to their houses. _the end of the tenth and last day._ http://www.freeliterature.org (images generously made available by the internet archive.) the decameron containing an hundred pleasant novels. _wittily discoursed, betweene seaven honourable ladies, and three noble gentlemen._ london, printed by isaac jaggard, 1620. the epistle dedicatory. to the right honourable, sir phillip herbert, knight of the bath at the coronation of our soveraigne lord king james, lord baron of sherland, earle of montgomery, and knight of the most noble order of the garter, &c. _the philosopher zeno (right honourable, and my most worthily esteemed lord) being demaunded on a time by what meanes a man might attaine to happinesse; made answere:_ by resorting to the dead, and having familiar conversation with them. _intimating thereby:_ the reading of ancient and moderne histories, and endeavouring to learne such good instructions, as have bene observed in our predecessors. _a question also was mooved by great king_ ptolomy, _to one of the learned wise interpreters. in what occasions a king should exercise himselfe, whereto thus hee replyed:_ to know those things which formerly have bin done: and to read bookes of those matters which offer themselves dayly, or are fittest for our instant affaires. and lastly, in seeking those things whatsoever, that make for a kingdomes preservation, and the correction of evill manners or examples. _upon these good and warrantable grounds (most noble lord) beside many more of the same nature, which i omit, to avoide prolixity, i dare boldly affirme, that such as are exercised in the reading of histories, although they seeme to be but yong in yeares, and slenderly instructed in worldly matters: yet gravity and gray-headed age speaketh maturely in them, to the no meane admiration of common and vulgar judgement. as contrariwise, such as are ignorant of things done and past, before themselves had any being: continue still in the estate of children, able to speake or behave themselves no otherwise; and, even within the bounds of their native countries (in respect of knowledge or manly capacity) they are no more then well-seeming dumbe images. in due consideration of the precedent allegations, and uppon the command, as also most noble encouragement of your honour from time to time; this volume of singular and exquisite histories, varied into so many and exact natures, appeareth in the worlds view, under your noble patronage and defence, to be safely sheelded from foule-mouthed slander and detraction, which is too easily throwne upon the very best deserving labours. i know (most worthy lord) that many of them have (long since) bene published before, as stolne from the first originall author, and yet not beautified with his sweete stile and elocution of phrases, neither favouring of his singular morall applications. for, as it was his full scope and ayme, by discovering all vices in their ugly deformities, to make their mortall enemies (the sacred vertues) to shine the clearer, being set downe by them, and compared with them: so every true and upright judgement, in observing the course of these well-carried novels, shall plainly perceive, that there is no spare made of reproofe in any degree whatsoever, where sin is embraced, and grace neglected; but the just deserving shame and punishment thereon inflicted, that others may be warned by their example. in imitation of witty_ æsope; _who reciteth not a fable, but graceth it with a judicious morall application; as many other worthy writers have done the like. for instance, let me heere insert one. a poore man, having a pike staffe on his shoulder, and travailing thorow a countrey village, a great mastive curre ran mainly at him, so that hardly he could defend himselfe from him. at the length, it was his chance to kill the dogge: for which, the owner immediately apprehending him, and bringing him before the judge, alledged, that he had slaine his servant, which defended his life, house, and goods, and therefore challenged satisfaction. the judge leaning more in favour to the plaintiffe, as being his friend, neighbour, and familiar, then to the justice and equity of the cause; reprooved the poore fellow somewhat sharpely, and peremptorily commanded him, to make satisfaction, or else he would commit him to prison. that were injustice replyed the poore man, because i kilde the dogge in defence of mine owne life, which deserveth much better respect then a million of such curres. sirra, sirra, saide the judge, then you should have turned the other end of your staffe, and not the pike, so the dogges life had beene saved, and your owne in no danger. true sir (quoth the fellow) if the dog would have turn'd his taile, and bit mee with that, and not his teeth, then we both had parted quietly. i know your honour to be so truly judicious, that your selfe can make the moral allusion, both in defence of my poore paines, and acceptation of the same into your protection: with most humble submission of my selfe, and all my uttermost endeavours, to bee alwayes ready at your service._ _the authors prologue, to the lords, ladies, and gentlewomen._ it is a matter of humanity, to take compassion on the afflicted, and although it be fitting towards all in generall, yet to such as are most tied by bond of duty, who having already stood in neede of comfort, do therefore most needfully deserve to enjoy it. among whom, if ever any were in necessity, found it most precious, and thereby received no small contentment, i am one of them; because from my verie yongest yeeres, even untill this instant: mine affections became extraordinarily enflamed, in a place high and noble, more (perhaps) then beseemed my humble condition, albeit no way distasted in the judgement of such as were discreete, when it came truly to their knowledge and understanding. yet (indeed) it was very painfull for me to endure, not in regard of her cruelty, whom i so deerely loved; as for want of better government in mine owne carriage; being altogether swayed by rash and peevish passions, which made my afflictions more offensive to mee, then either wisedome allowed, or suited with my private particular. but, as counsell in misery is no meane comfort, so the good advice of a worthy friend, by many sound and singular perswasions, wrought such a deliberate alteration; as not onely preserved my life (which was before in extreame perill) but also gave conclusion to my inconsiderate love, which in my precedent refractarie carriage, no deliberation, counsell, evident shame, or whatsoever perill should ensue thereon, could in any manner contradict; beganne to asswage of it selfe in time, bestowing not onely on me my former freedome; but delivering me likewise from infinite perplexities. and because the acknowledgement of good turnes or courtesies received (in my poore opinion) is a vertue among all other highly to bee commended, and the contrary also to be condemned: to shewe my selfe not ingratefull, i determined (so soone as i saw my selfe in absolute liberty) in exchange of so great a benefit bestowne on mee, to minister some mitigation, i will not say to such as releeved me, because their owne better understanding, or blessednesse in fortune, may defend them from any such necessity; but rather to them which truly stand in need. and although that my comfort, may some way or other availe the common needie, yet (methinkes) where greefe is greatest, and calamity most insulteth; there ought to be our paines soundly imployed, and our gravest instructions and advise wholly administred. and who can deny, but that it is much more convenient, to commisserate the distresse of ladies and gentlewomen, then the more able condition of men? they, as being naturally bashfull and timorous, have their soft and gentle soules, often enflamed with amorous afflictions, which lie there closely concealed, as they can best relate the power of them, that have bin subject to the greatest proofe. moreover, they being restrained from their wils and desires, by the severity of fathers, mothers, bretheren, and husbands, are shut up (most part of their time) in their chambers, where constrainedly sitting idle, diversity of straunge cogitations wheele up and downe their braines, forging as many severall imaginations, which cannot be alwayes pleasant and contenting. if melancholly, incited by some amorous or lovely apprehension, oppresse their weake and unresisting hearts: they must be glad to beare it patiently (til by better fortune) such occasions happen, as may overcome so proud an usurpation. moreover, we cannot but confesse, that they are lesse able, then men, to support such oppressions: for if men grow affectionate, wee plainely perceive, when any melancholly troublesome thoughts, or what greefes else can any way concerne them, their soules are not subject to the like sufferings. but admit they should fall into such necessity, they can come and go whither they will, heare and see many singular sights, hawk, hunt, fish, fowle, ride, or saile on the seas, all which exercises have a particular power in themselves, to withdraw amorous passions, and appropriate the will to the pleasing appetite, either by alteration of ayre, distance of place, or protraction of time, to kill sorrow, and quicken delight. wherefore, somewhat to amend this error in humane condition, and where least strength is, as we see to bee in you most gracious ladies and gentlewomen, further off (then men) from all fraile felicities: for such as feele the weighty insultations of proud and imprious love, and thereby are most in neede of comfort (and not they that can handle the needle, wheele, and distaffe) i have provided an hundred novelles, tales, fables, or histories, with judicious moralles belonging to them, for your more delight, and queinter exercise. in a faire and worthy assembly, of seven honourable ladies, and three noble gentlemen, they were recounted within the compasse of ten dayes, during the wofull time of our so late dangerous sicknesse, with apt sonnets or canzons, for the conclusion of each severall day. in which pleasing novels, may be observed many strange accidents of love, and other notable adventures, happening as well in our times, as those of graver antiquity: by reading whereof, you may receyve both pleasure and profitable counsell, because in them you shal perceive, both the sin to be shunned, and the vertue to be embraced; which as i wholly hate the one, so i do (and ever will) honour the others advancement. _the table._ the epistle dedicatory. the authors prologue, to the lords, ladies, and gentlewomen. the first day, governed by madam pampinea. 1. novell. _messire chappelet du prat, by making a false confession, beguiled an holy religious man, and after dyed. and having during his life time, bene a very bad man, at his death was reputed to be a saint, and called s. chappelet._ 2. novell. _abraham a jew, beeing admonished or advised by a friend of his, named jehannot de chevigny, travailed from paris unto rome: and beholding there, the wicked behaviour of men in the church, returned to paris againe, where (neverthelesse) he became a christian._ 3. novell. _melchisedech a jewe, by recounting a tale of three rings, to the great soldan, named saladine, prevented a great danger which was prepared for him._ 4. novell. _a monke having committed an offence, deserving to be very greevously punished; freed himselfe from the paine to be inflicted on him, by wittily reprehending his abbot, with the very same fault._ 5. novell. _lady marquesse of montferrat, with a banket of hens, and divers other gracious speeches beside, repressed the fond love of the king of france._ 6. novell. _an honest plaine meaning man (simply & conscionably) reprehended the malignity, hypocrisie, and misdemeanour of many religious persons._ 7. novell. _bergamino, by telling a tale of a skilfull man, named primasso, and of an abbot of clugni; honestly checked a new kinde of covetousnesse, in master can de la scala._ 8. novell. _guillaume boursieur, with a few quaint & familiar words, checkt the miserable covetousness of signior herminio de grimaldi._ 9. novell. _how the king of cyprus was wittily reprehended, by the words of a gentlewoman of gascoignie, and became vertuously altered from his vicious disposition._ 10. novell. _master albert of bullen, honestly made a lady to blush, that thought to have done as much to him, because she perceived him to be amorously affected towardes her._ the second day, governed by madam philomena. 1. novell. _martellino counterfetting to bee lame of his members, caused himselfe to bee set on the body of saint arriguo, where hee made shew of his sodaine recovery: but when his dissimulation was discovered, he was well beaten, being afterward taken prisoner, and in great danger of being hanged and strangled by the necke, and yet escaped in the end._ 2. novell. _rinaldo de este, after he was robbed by theeves arrived at chasteau guillaume, where he was friendly lodged by a faire widow, and recompenced likewise for all his losses; returning afterward safe and well home unto his owne house._ 3. novell. _of three yong gentlemen, being brethren, and having spent all their landes and possessions vainly, became poore. a nephew of theirs (falling almost into as desperate a condition) became acquainted with an abbot, whom hee afterward found to be the king of englands daughter, and made him her husband in marriage, recompencing all his unckles losses, and seating them again in good estate._ 4. novell. _landolpho ruffolo, falling into poverty, became a pirate on the seas, and beeing taken by the genewayes, hardly escaped drowning: which yet (neverthelesse) he did, upon a little chest or coffer full of very rich jewels, beeing carried thereon to corfu, where he was well entertained by a good woman: and afterward, returned richly home to his owne house._ 5. novell. _andrea de piero, travelling from perouse unto naples to buy horses, was (in the space of one night) surprized by three admirable accidents, out of all which he fortunately escaped, and with a rich ring, returned home to his owne house._ 6. novell. _madame beritola caracalla, was found in an island with two goates, having lost her two sons, and thence travailed into lunigiana: where one of her sonnes became servant to the lord thereof, and was found some-what over-familiar with his maisters daughter, who therefore caused him to be imprisoned. afterward, when the country of sicily rebelled against king charles, the aforesaid sonne chanced to be known by his mother, & was married to his masters daughter. and his brother being found likewise, they both returned to great estate and credite._ 7. novell. _the soldane of babylon sent one of his daughters, to be joyned in marriage with the king of cholcos; who by divers accidents (in the space of foure yeares) happened into the custodie of nine men, and in sundry places. at length, being restored back to her father, she went to the said king of cholcos, as a maide, and as at first she was intended to be his wife._ 8. novell. _count d'angiers being falsely accused, was banished out of france, and left his two children in england in divers places. returning afterward (unknowne) thorough scotland, hee found them advanced unto great dignity: then, repairing in the habit of a servitor, into the king of fraunce his army, and his innocency made publikely knowen, he was reseated in his former honourable degree._ 9. novell. _bernardo, a merchant of geneway, being deceived by another merchant, named ambrosio, lost a great part of his goods: and commanding his innocent wife to be murthered, she escaped, and in the habit of a man, became servant to the soldan. the deceiver being found at last, she compassed such means, that her husband bernardo came into alexandria, and there after due punishment inflicted on the false deceiver, she resumed the garments againe of a woman, and returned home with her husband to geneway._ 10. novell. _pagamino da monaco, a roving pyrate on the seas, caried away the faire wife of signieur ricciardo di chinzica, who understanding where shee was, went thither; and falling into friendship with pagamino, demanded his wife of him; whereto he yeelded, provided, that she would willingly go away with him: shee denied to part thence with her husband, and signior ricciardo dying, shee became the wife of pagamino._ the third day, governed by madame _neiphila_. 1. novell. _massetto di lamporechio, by counterfetting himselfe dumbe, became a gardiner in a monastery of nuns, where he had familiar conversation with them all._ 2. novell. _a querry of the stable belonging to agilulffo, k. of the lombards, found the meanes of accesse to the queenes bedde, without any knowledge or consent in her. this beeing secretly discovered by the king, and the party knowne, hee gave him a marke, by shearing the hair of his head. whereuppon, hee that was so shorne sheared likewise the heads of all his fellowes in the lodging and so escaped the punishment intended towards him._ 3. novell. _under colour of confession and of a most pure conscience, a faire yong gentlewoman, being amorously affected to an honest man; induced a devout and solemne religious friar, to advise her in the meanes (without his suspition or perceiving) how to enjoy the benefit of her friend, and bring her desires to their full effect._ 4. novell. _a yong scholler named felice, enstructed puccio di rinieri, how to become rich in a very short time. while puccio made experience of the instructions taught him; felice obtained the favour of his daughter._ 5. novell. _ricciardo, surnamed the magnifico, gave a horse to signior francesco vergellisi, upon condition; that by his leave and license, he might speak to his wife in his presence, which he did, and she not returning him any answer, made answer to himself on her behalfe, and according to his answer, so the effect followed._ 6. novell. _ricciardo minutolo fel in love with the wife of philippello fighinolfi, and knowing her to bee very jealous of her husband, gave her to understand, that he was greatly enamored of his wife, and had appointed to meete her privatly in a bathing house, on the next day following: where shee hoping to take him tardy with his close compacted mistresse, found her selfe to be deceived by the said ricciardo._ 7. novell. _thebaldo elisei, having received an unkinde repulse by his beloved, departed from florence, & returning thither againe (a long while after) in the habit of a pilgrime, hee spake with her, and made his wrongs knowne unto her. hee delivered her husband from the danger of death, because it was proved that he had slaine thebaldo, he made peace with his brethren, and in the end, wisely enjoyed his hearts desire._ 8. novell. _ferando, by drinking a certaine kind of pouder, was buried for dead & by the abbot who was enamored of his wife, was taken out of his grave, and put into a darke prison, where they made him beleeve that he was in purgatory: afterward when time came that he should be raised to life againe, he was made to keepe a childe, which the abbot had got by his wife._ 9. novell. _juliet of narbona, cured the king of france of a dangerous fistula: in recompence whereof, she requested to enjoy as her husband in mariage, bertrand the count of roussillion. he having maried her against his wil, as utterly despising her, went to florence, where he made love to a yong gentlewoman. juliet, by a queint and cunning policy, compassed the meanes (insted of his chosen friend) to lye with her owne husband, by whom shee had two sonnes; which being afterward made knowne unto the count, hee accepted her into his favour againe, and loved her as his loyall and honourable wife._ 10. novell. _the wonderfull and chaste resolved continencie of faire serictha, daughter to siwalde king of denmarke, who beeing sought and sued unto by many worthy persons, that did affect her dearely, would not looke any man in the face, untill such time as she was maried._ the fourth day, governed by philostratus. 1. novell. _tancrede, prince of salerne, caused the amorous friend of his daughter to be slaine, and sent her his heart in a cup of golde: which afterward she steeped in an impoysoned water, & then drinking it, so dyed._ 2. novell. _friar albert made a yong venetian gentlewoman beleeve, that god cupid was falne in love with her, and he resorted oftentimes unto her, in disguise of the same god: afterward, being frighted by the gentlewomans kindred and friends hee cast himselfe out of her chamber window, and was hidden in a poore mans house. on the day following, in the shape of a wilde or savage man, he was brought upon the rialto of s. mark, & being there publikely knowne by the brethren of his order, he was committed to prison._ 3. novell. _three yong gentlemen affecting three sisters, fled with them into canaie. the eldest of them (through jealousie) becommeth the death of her lover. the second, by consenting to the duke of canaies request, is the meanes of saving her life. afterward, her owne friend killeth her, & thence flyeth away with the elder sister. the third couple, both man and woman are charged with her death, and being committed to prison, they confesse the fact: and fearing death, by corruption of money they prevaile with their keepers, escaping from thence to rhodes, where they died in great poverty._ 4. novell. _gerbino, contrarie to the former plighted faith of his grandfather king gulielmo, soughte with a ship at sea belonging to the king of thunis to take away his daughter, who was then in the same ship. she being slaine by them that had the possession of her, he likewise slew them; and afterward had his owne head smitten off._ 5. novell. _the three brethren to isabella, slew a gentleman that secretly loved her. his ghost appeared to her in her sleepe, and shewed her in what place they had buried his body. she (in silent manner) brought away his head, and putting it into a pot of earth, such as flowers, basile, or other sweet herbes are usually set in, she watered it (a long while) with her teares: whereof her brethren having intelligence; soone after she died, with meere conceite of sorrow._ 6. novell. _a beautifull yong virgin, named andreana, became enamored of a young gentleman, called gabriello. in conference together, shee declared a dreame of hers to him, and he another of his unto her; whereupon gabriello fell down sodainly dead. she, and her chamber-maid were apprehended by the officers belonging unto the seigneury, as they were carrying gabriello, to lay them before his owne doore. the potestate offering violence to the virgin, and she resisting him vertuously: it came to the understanding of her father, who approved the innocence of his daughter, and compassed her deliverance. but she afterward, being wearie of all worldly felicities, entred into religion, & became a nun._ 7. novell. _faire simonida affecting pasquino, and walking with him in a pleasant garden, it fortuned that pasquino rubbed his teeth with a leaf of sage, and immediately fell downe dead. simonida being brought before the bench of justice, and charged with the death of pasquino: she rubbed her teeth likewise, with one of the leaves of the same sage, as declaring what she saw him do, & thereon she dyed also in the same manner._ 8. novell. _jeronimo affecting a yong mayden named silvestra was constrained by the earnest importunity of his mother, to take a journey to paris. at his returne home from thence againe, he found his love silvestra maried. by secret meanes he got entrance into her house and dyed upon the bed lying by her. afterward, his body being caried unto the church to receive buriall, shee likewise died there instantly upon his coarse._ 9. novell. _messer guiglielmo of rossiglione having slaine messer guiglielmo guardastagno, whom he imagined to love his wife, gave her his hart to eat. which she knowing afterward; threw her self out of an high window to the ground: and being dead, was then buried with her friend._ 10. novell. _a physitians wife laid a lover of her maids, supposing him to be dead, in a chest, by reason that he had drunke water which usually was given to procure a sleepy entrancing. two lombard usurers, stealing the chest, in hope of a rich booty, caried it into their owne house, where afterwardes the man awaking, was apprehended for a theefe. the chamber-maid to the physitians wife, going before the bench of justice, accuseth her self for putting the imagined dead body into the chest, whereby he escaped hanging: and the theeves which stole away the chest, were condemned to pay a very great summe of money._ the fift day, governed by madame fiammetta. 1. novell. _chynon, by falling in love, became wise, and by force of armes, winning his faire ladye iphigenia on the seas, was afterward imprisoned at rhodes. being delivered by one name lysimachus with him he recovered his iphigenia againe, and faire cassandra even in the middest of their mariage. they fled with them into candye, where after they had maried them, they wer called home to their owne dwelling._ 2. novell. _faire constance of liparis, fell in love with martuccio gomito: and hearing that hee was dead, desperately she entred into a barke which being transported by the winds to susa in barbary, from thence she went to thunis, where she found him to be living. there she made her selfe knowne to him, and he being in great authority, as a privy counsellor to the king: he maried the saide constance, and returned richly home to her, to the island of liparis._ 3. novell. _pedro bocamazzo, escaping away with a yong damosel which he loved, named angelina, met with theeves in his journey. the damosel flying fearfully into a forest, by chaunce commeth to a castle. pedro being taken by the theeves, & hapning afterward to escape from them, accidentally came to the same castle where angelina was: & marying her, they then returned home to rome._ 4. novell. _ricciardo manardy, was found by messer lizio da valbonna, as he sat fast asleep at his daughters chamber window, having his hand fast in hirs and sleeping in the same manner. whereupon they were joyned together in mariage, and their long loyall love mutually recompenced._ 5. novell. _guidotto of cremona, departing out of this mortall life, left a daughter of his with jacomino of pavia. giovanni di severino, and menghino da minghole, fel both in love with the yong maiden, and fought for her; who being afterward knowne to be the sister to giovanni, shee was given in mariage to menghino._ 6. novell. _guion di procida, being found familiarly conversing with a yong damosel which he loved, and had bene given formerly to frederigo king of sicily: was bound to a stake to bee consumed with fire. from which danger (neverthelesse) hee escaped; being knowne by don rogiero de oria, lorde admirall of sicily, and afterward marryed the damosel._ 7. novell. _theodoro falling in love with violenta, the daughter to his master, named amarigo, and she conceyving with childe by him, was condemned to be hanged. as they were leading him unto the gallowes, beating and misusing him all the way: hee happened to bee knowne by his owne father, whereupon he was released, and afterward injoyed violenta in mariage._ 8. novell. _anastasio, a gentleman of the family of the honesti by loving the daughter to signior paulo traversario, lavishly wasted a great part of his substance, without receiving any love from her againe. by perswasion of some of his kindred and friends, he went to a countrey dwelling of his called chiasso, where hee saw a knight desperately pursue a yong damosell, whom he slew, & afterward gave her to be devoured by his hounds. anastasio invited his friends, and hers also whom he so dearly loved, to take part of a dinner with him, who likewise sawe the same damosell so torne in peeces: which his unkind love perceiving, & fearing least the like ill fortune should happen to her, she accepted anastasio to bee her husband._ 9. novell. _frederigo, of the alberighi family, loved a gentlewoman, and was not requited with like love againe. by bountifull expences, and over liberal invitations, hee wasted and consumed all his lands and goods, having nothing lefte him, but a hawke or faulcon. his unkinde mistresse, happeneth to come visit him, and he not having any other food for her dinner, made a dainty dish of his faulcon for her to feed on. being conquered by this his exceeding kinde courtesie, she changed her former hatred towards him, accepting him as her husband in marriage, and made him a man of wealthy possessions._ 10. novell. _pedro di vinciolo, went to sup at a friends house in the city. his wife (in the meane while) had a yong man whom she loved, at supper with her. pedro returning home upon a sodaine, the young man was hidden under a coope for hens. pedro, in excuse of his so soone coming home, declareth; how in the house of herculano (with whome hee should have supt) a friend of his wives was found, which was the reason of the suppers breaking off. pedroes wife reproving the error of herculanoes wife: an asse (by chance) treades on the young mans fingers that lay hidden under the henne-coope. upon his crying out, pedro steppeth thither, sees him, knowes him, and findeth the fallacie of his wife: with whom (neverthelesse) he groweth to agreement, in regard of some imperfections in himselfe._ the end of the table. the decameron, containing, an hundred pleasant novelles. _wherein, after demonstration made by the author, upon what occasion it hapned, that the persons (of whom we shall speake heereafter) should thus meete together, to make so queint a narration of novels: hee declareth unto you, that they first begin to devise and conferre, under the government of madam pampinea, and of such matters as may be most pleasing to them all._ the induction of the author, to the following discourses. gracious ladies, so often as i consider with my selfe, and observe respectively, how naturally you are enclined to compassion; as many times do i acknowledge, that this present worke of mine, will (in your judgement) appeare to have but a harsh and offensive beginning, in regard of the mournfull remembrance it beareth at the verie entrance of the last pestilentiall mortality, universally hurtfull to all that beheld it, or otherwise came to knowledge of it. but for all that, i desire it may not be so dreadfull to you, to hinder your further proceeding in reading, as if none were to looke thereon, but with sighes and teares. for, i could rather wish, that so fearefull a beginning, should seeme but as an high and steepy hill appeares to them, that attempt to travell farre on foote, and ascending the same with some difficulty, come afterward to walk upon a goodly even plaine, which causeth the more contentment in them, because the attaining thereto was hard and painfull. for, even as pleasures are cut off by griefe and anguish; so sorrowes cease by joyes most sweete and happie arriving. after this breefe molestation, briefe i say, because it is contained within small compasse of writing; immediately followeth the most sweete and pleasant taste of pleasure, whereof (before) i made promise to you. which (peradventure) could not bee expected by such a beginning, if promise stoode not thereunto engaged. and indeed, if i could wel have conveyed you to the center of my desire, by any other way, then so rude and rocky a passage as this is, i would gladly have done it. but because without this narration, we could not demonstrate the occasion how and wherefore the matters hapned, which you shall reade in the ensuing discourses: i must set them downe (even as constrained thereto by meere necessity) in writing after this manner. the yeare of our blessed saviours incarnation, 1348. that memorable mortality happened in the excellent city, farre beyond all the rest in _italy_; which plague, by operation of the superiour bodies, or rather for our enormous iniquities, by the just anger of god was sent upon us mortals. some few yeeres before, it tooke beginning in the easterne partes, sweeping thence an innumerable quantity of living soules: extending it selfe afterward from place to place westward, untill it seized on the said city. where neither humane skill or providence, could use any prevention, notwithstanding it was cleansed of many annoyances, by diligent officers thereto deputed: besides prohibition of all sickly persons enterance, and all possible provision dayly used for conservation of such as were in health, with incessant prayers and supplications of devoute people, for the asswaging of so dangerous a sicknesse. about the beginning of the yeare, it also began in very strange manner, as appeared by divers admirable effects; yet not as it had done in the east countries, where lord or lady being touched therewith, manifest signes of inevitable death followed thereon, by bleeding at the nose. but here it began with yong children, male and female, either under the armpits, or in the groine by certaine swellings, in some to the bignesse of an apple, in others like an egge, and so in divers greater or lesser, which (in their vulgar language) they termed to be a botch or byle. in very short time after, those two infected parts were grown mortiferous, and would disperse abroad indifferently, to all parts of the body; whereupon, such was the qualitie of the disease, to shew it selfe by blacke or blew spottes, which would appeare on the armes of many, others on their thighes, and everie part else of the body: in some great and few, in others small and thicke. now as the byle (at the beginning) was an assured signe of neere approaching death; so prooved the spots likewise to such as had them: for the curing of which sicknesse it seemed, that the physitians counsell, the vertue of medicines, or any application else, could not yeeld any remedy: but rather it plainely appeared, that either the nature of the disease would not endure it, or ignorance in the physitians could not comprehend, from whence the cause proceeded, and so by consequent, no resolution was to be determined. moreover, beside the number of such as were skilfull in art, many more both women and men, without ever having any knowledge in physicke, became physitians: so that not onely few were healed, but (well-neere) all dyed, within three dayes after the saide signes were seene; some sooner, and others later, commonly without either feaver, or any other accident. and this pestilence was yet of farre greater power or violence; for, not onely healthfull persons speaking to the sicke, comming to see them, or ayring cloathes in kindnesse to comfort them, was an occasion of ensuing death: but touching their garments, or any foode whereon the sicke person fed, or any thing else used in his service, seemed to transferre the disease from the sicke to the sound, in very rare and miraculous manner. among which matter of marvell, let me tell you one thing, which if the eyes of many (as well as mine owne) had not seene, hardly could i be perswaded to write it, much lesse to beleeve it, albeit a man of good credit should report it. i say, that the quality of this contagious pestilence was not onely of such efficacy, in taking and catching it one of another, either men or women: but it extended further, even in the apparant view of many, that the cloathes, or any thing else, wherein one died of that disease, being toucht, or lyen on by any beast, farre from the kind or quality of man, they did not onely contaminate and infect the said beast, were it dogge, cat, or any other; but also it died very soone after. mine owne eyes (as formerly i have said) among divers other, one day had evident experience hereof, for some poore ragged cloathes of linnen and wollen, torne from a wretched body dead of that disease, and hurled in the open streete; two swine going by, and (according to their naturall inclination) seeking for foode on every dung-hill, tossed and tumbled the cloathes with their snouts, rubbing their heads likewise uppon them; and immediately, each turning twice or thrice about, they both fell downe dead on the saide cloathes, as being fully infected with the contagion of them: which accident, and other the like, if not far greater, begat divers feares and imaginations in them that beheld them, all tending to a most inhumane and uncharitable end; namely, to flie thence from the sicke, and touching any thing of theirs, by which meanes they thought their health should be safely warranted. some there were, who considered with themselves, that living soberly, with abstinence from all superfluity; it would be a sufficient resistance against all hurtfull accidents. so combining themselves in a sociable manner, they lived as separatists from all other company, being shut up in such houses, where no sicke body should be neere them. and there, for their more security, they used delicate viands and excellent wines, avoiding luxurie, and refusing speech to one another, not looking forth at the windowes, to heare no cries of dying people, or see any coarses carried to buriall; but having musicall instruments, lived there in all possible pleasure. others were of a contrary opinion, who avouched, that there was no other physicke more certaine, for a disease so desperate, then to drinke hard, be merry among themselves, singing continually, walking every where, and satisfying their appetites with whatsoever they desired, laughing, and mocking at every mournefull accident, and so they vowed to spend day and night: for now they would goe to one taverne, then to another, living without any rule or measure; which they might very easilie doe, because every one of them, (as if he were to live no longer in this world) had even forsaken all things that he had. by meanes whereof the most part of the houses were become common, and all strangers, might doe the like (if they pleased to adventure it) even as boldly as the lord or owner, without any let or contradiction. yet in all this their beastly behaviour, they were wise enough, to shun (so much as they might) the weake and sickly: in which misery and affliction of our city, the venerable authority of the lawes, as well divine as humane, was even destroyed, as it were, through want of the awefull ministers of them. for they being all dead, or lying sicke with the rest, or else lived so solitary, in such great necessity of servants and attendants, as they could not execute any office, whereby it was lawfull for every one to doe as he listed. betweene these two rehearsed extremities of life, there were other of a more moderate temper, not being so daintily dieted as the first, nor drinking so dissolutely as the second; but used all things sufficient for their appetites, and without shutting up themselves, walked abroade, some carrying sweete nose-gayes of flowers in their hands; others odoriferous herbes, and others divers kinds of spiceries, holding them to their noses, and thinking them most comfortable for the braine, because the ayre seemed to be much infected, by the noysome smell of dead carkases, and other hurtfull savours. some other there were also of more inhumane minde (howbeit peradventure it might be the surest) saying, that there was no better physicke against the pestilence, nor yet so good; as to flie away from it, which argument mainely moving them, and caring for no body but themselves, very many, both men and women, forsooke the city, their owne houses, their parents, kindred, friends, and goods, flying to other mens dwellings else-where. as if the wrath of god, in punishing the sinnes of men with this plague, would fall heavily upon none, but such as were enclosed within the city wals; or else perswading themselves, that not any one should there be left alive, but that the finall ending of all things was come. now albeit these persons in their diversity of opinions died not all, so undoubtedly they did not all escape; but many among them becomming sicke, and making a generall example of their flight and folly, among them that could not stirre out of their beds, they languished more perplexedly then the other did. let us omit, that one citizen fled after another, and one neighbour had not any care of another, parents nor kinred never visiting them, but utterly they were forsaken on all sides: this tribulation pierced into the hearts of men, and with such a dreadfull terror, that one brother forsooke another; the unkle the nephew, the sister the brother, and the wife her husband: nay, a matter much greater, and almost incredible; fathers and mothers fled away from their owne children, even as if they had no way appertained to them. in regard whereof, it could be no otherwise, but that a countlesse multitude of men and women fell sicke; finding no charity among their friends, except a very few, and subjected to the avarice of servants, who attended them constrainedly, for great and unreasonable wages, yet few of those attendants to be found any where too. and they were men or women but of base condition, as also of groser understanding, who never before had served in any such necessities, nor indeed were any way else to be imployed, but to give the sicke person such things as he called for, or to awaite the houre of his death; in the performance of which services, oftentimes for gaine, they lost their owne lives. in this extreame calamity, the sicke being thus forsaken of neighbours, kinred, and friends, standing also in such need of servants; a custome came up among them, never heard of before, that there was not any woman, how noble, young, or faire soever shee was, but falling sicke, shee must of necessity have a man to attend her, were he young or otherwise, respect of shame or modesty no way prevailing, but all parts of her body must be discovered to him, which (in the like urgency) was not to be seene by any but women: whereon ensued afterward, that upon the parties healing and recovery, it was the occasion of further dishonesty, which many being more modestly curious of, refused such disgracefull attending, chusing rather to die, then by such helpe to be healed. in regard whereof, as well through the want of convenient remedies, (which the sicke by no meanes could attain unto) as also the violence of the contagion, the multitude of them that died night and day, was so great, that it was a dreadfull sight to behold, and as much to heare spoken of. so that meere necesssity (among them that remained living) begat new behaviours, quite contrary to all which had beene in former times, and frequently used among the city inhabitants. the custome of precedent dayes (as now againe it is) was, that women, kinred, neighbours, and friends, would meete together at the deceased parties house, and there, with them that were of neerest alliance, expresse their hearts sorrow for their friends losse. if not thus, they would assemble before the doore, with many of the best cittizens and kindred, and (according to the quality of the deceased) the clergy met there likewise, and the dead body was carried (in comely manner) on mens shoulders, with funerall pompe of torch-light, and singing, to the church appointed by the deceased. but these seemely orders, after that the fury of the pestilence began to encrease, they in like manner altogether ceased, and other new customes came in their place; because not onely people died, without having any women about them, but infinites also past out of this life, not having any witnesse, how, when, or in what manner they departed. so that few or none there were, to deliver outward shew of sorrow and grieving: but insteed thereof, divers declared idle joy and rejoycing, a use soone learned of immodest women, having put off al feminine compassion, yea, or regard of their owne welfare. very few also would accompany the body to the grave, and they not any of the neighbours, although it had beene an honourable cittizen, but onely the meanest kinde of people, such as were grave-makers, coffin-bearers, or the like, that did these services onely for money, and the beere being mounted on their shoulders, in all haste they would runne away with it, not perhaps to the church appointed by the dead, but to the neerest at hand, having some foure or sixe poore priests following, with lights or no lights, and those of the silliest; short service being said at the buriall, and the body unreverently throwne into the first open grave they found. such was the pittifull misery of poore people, and divers, who were of better condition, as it was most lamentable to behold; because the greater number of them, under hope of healing, or compelled by poverty, kept still within their houses weake and faint, thousands falling sick daily, and having no helpe, or being succoured any way with foode or physicke, all of them died, few or none escaping. great store there were, that died in the streetes by day or night, and many more beside, although they died in their houses; yet first they made it knowne to their neighbours, that their lives perished, rather by the noysome smell of dead and putrified bodies, then by any violence of the disease in themselves. so that of these and the rest, dying in this manner every where, the neighbours observed one course of behaviour, (moved thereto no lesse by feare, that the smell and corruption of dead bodies should harme them, then charitable respect of the dead) that themselves when they could, or being assisted by some bearers of coarses, when they were able to procure them, wold hale the bodies (alreadie dead) out of their houses, laying them before their doores, where such as passed by, especially in the mornings, might see them lying in no meane numbers. afterward, bieres were brought thither, and such as might not have the helpe of bieres, were glad to lay them on tables, and bieres have bin observed, not onely to be charged with two or three dead bodies at once, but many times it was seene also, that the wife with the husband, two or three brethren together; yea, the father and the mother, have thus beene carried along to the grave upon one biere. moreover, oftentimes it hath bene seene, that when two priests went with one crosse to fetch the body; there would follow (behind) three or foure bearers with their bieres, and when the priests intended the buriall but of one bodie, sixe or eight more have made up the advantage, and yet none of them being attended by any seemly company, lights, teares, or the very least decencie, but it plainly appeared, that the verie like account was then made of men or women, as if they had bene dogges or swine. wherein might manifestly bee noted, that that which the naturall course of things could not shewe to the wise, with rare and little losse, to wit, the patient support of miseries and misfortunes, even in their greatest height: not onely the wise might now learne, but also the verie simplest people; & in such sort, that they should alwaies be prepared against all infelicities whatsoever. hallowed ground could not now suffice, for the great multitude of dead bodies, which were daily brought to every church in the city, and every houre in the day; neither could the bodies have proper place of buriall, according to our ancient custome: wherefore, after that the churches and church-yards were filled, they were constrained to make use of great deepe ditches, wherein they were buried by hundreds at once, ranking dead bodies along in graves, as merchandizes are laide along in ships, covering each after other with a small quantity of earth, & so they filled at last up the whole ditch to the brim. now, because i would wander no further in everie particularity, concerning the miseries happening in our citie: i tell you, that extremities running on in such manner as you have heard; little lesse spare was made in the villages round about; wherein (setting aside enclosed castles, which were now filled like to small cities) poore labourers and husband-men, with their whole families, dyed most miserably in out-houses, yea, and in the open fieldes also; without any assistance of physicke, or helpe of servants; & likewise in the high-wayes, or their ploughed landes, by day or night indifferently, yet not as men, but like brute beasts. by meanes whereof, they became lazie and slothfull in their daily endeavours, even like to our citizens; not minding or medling with their wonted affaires: but, as awaiting for death every houre, imployed all their paines, not in caring any way for themselves, their cattle, or gathering the fruits of the earth, or any of their accustomed labours; but rather wasted and consumed, even such as were for their instant sustenance. whereupon, it fell so out, that their oxen, asses, sheepe, and goates, their swine, pullen, yea their verie dogges, the truest and faithfullest servants to men, being beaten and banished from their houses, went wildly wandring abroad in the fields, where the corne grew still on the ground without gathering, or being so much as reapt or cut. many of the fore-said beasts (as endued with reason) after they had pastured themselves in the day time, would returne full fed at night home to their houses, without any government of heardsmen, or any other. how many faire palaces! how many goodly houses! how many noble habitations, filled before with families of lords and ladies, were then to be seene emptie, without any one there dwelling, except some silly servant? how many kindreds, worthy of memory! how many great inheritances! and what plenty of riches, were left without any true successours? how many good men! how many woorthy women! how many valiant and comely yong men, whom none but _galen, hippocrates,_ and _æsculapius_ (if they were living) could have reputed any way unhealthfull; were seene to dine at morning, with their parents, friends, and familiar confederates, and went to sup in another world with their predecessors? it is no meane breach to my braine, to make repetition of so many miseries; wherefore, being willing to part with them as easily as i may: i say that our citie being in this case, voide of inhabitants, it came to passe (as afterward i understoode by some of good credite) that in the venerable church of s. _marie la neufue_, on a tuesday morning, there being then no other person, after the hearing of divine service, in mourning habits (as the season required) returned thence seven discreet yong gentlewomen, all allyed together, either by friendship, neighbour-hood, or parentage. she among them that was most entred into yeares, exceeded not eight and twenty, and the yongest was no lesse then eighteene; being of noble descent, faire forme, adorned with exquisite behaviour, and gracious modesty. their names i could report, if just occasion did not forbid it, in regard of the occasions following by them related, and because times heereafter shall not taxe them with reproofe; the lawes of pleasure being more straited now adayes (for the matters before revealed) then at that time they were, not onely to their yeares, but to many much riper. neither will i likewise minister matter to rash heades (over-readie in censuring commendable life) any way to impaire the honestie of ladies, by their idle detracting speeches. and therefore, to the end that what each of them saith, may be comprehended without confusion; i purpose to stile them by names, wholly agreeing, or (in part) conformable to their qualities. the first and most aged, we will name _pampinea_; the second _fiammetta_; the third _philomena_; the fourth _æmilia_; the fift _lauretta_; the sixt _neiphila_; and the last we terme (not without occasion) _elissa_, or _eliza_. all of them being assembled at a corner of the church, not by any deliberation formerly appointed, but meerely by accident, and sitting as it were in a round ring: after divers sighs severally delivered, they conferred on sundry matters answerable to the sad qualitie of the time, and within a while after, madam _pampinea_ began in this manner. faire ladies, you may (no doubt as well as i) have often heard, that no injury is offered to any one, by such as make use but of their owne right. it is a thing naturall for everie one which is borne in this world, to aide, conserve, and defend her life so long as shee can; and this right hath bene so powerfully permitted, that although it hath sometimes happened, that (to defend themselves) men have beene slaine without any offence: yet lawes have allowed it to be so, in whose solicitude lieth the best living of all mortals. how much more honest and just is it then for us, and for every other well-disposed person, to seeke for (without wronging any) and to practise all remedies that wee can, for the conservation of our lives? when i well consider, what we have heere done this morning, and many other already past; remembring (withall) what likewise is proper and convenient for us: i conceive (as all you may do the like) that everie one of us hath a due respect of her selfe, and then i mervaile not, but rather am much amazed (knowing none of us to be deprived of a womans best judgement) that wee seeke not after some remedies for our selves, against that, which every one among us, ought (in reason) to feare. heere we meete and remaine (as it seemeth to mee) in no other manner, then as if we would or should be witnesses, to all the dead bodies at rest in their graves; or else to listen, when the religious sisters here dwelling (whose number now are well-neere come to be none at all) sing service at such houres as they ought to do; or else to acquaint all commers hither (by our mourning habites) with the quality and quantitie of our hearts miseries. and when we part hence, we meete with none but dead bodies; or sicke persons transported from one place to another; or else we see running thorow the city (in most offensive fury) such as (by authoritie of publike lawes) were banished hence, onely for their bad and brutish behaviour in contempt of those lawes, because now they know, that the executors of them are dead and sicke. and if not these, more lamentable spectacles present themselves to us, by the base rascality of the citie; who being fatted with our blood, tearme themselves grave-makers, and in meere contemptible mockerie of us, are mounted on horse-backe, gallopping everie where, reproaching us with our losses and misfortunes, with lewd and dishonest songs: so that we can hear nothing else but such and such are dead, and such and such lie a dying; heere hands wringing, and everie where most pittifull complaining. if we returne home to our houses (i know not whether your case bee answerable to mine) when i can finde none of all my family, but onely my poore waiting chamber-maide; so great are my feares, that the verie haire on my head declareth my amazement, and wheresoever i go or sit downe, me thinkes i see the ghostes and shadowes of deceased friends, not with such lovely lookes as i was wont to behold them, but with most horrid and dreadfull regards, newly stolne upon them i know not how. in these respects, both heere, else-where, and at home in my house, methinkes i am alwaies ill, and much more (in mine owne opinion) then any other bodie, not having meanes or place of retirement, as all we have, and none to remaine heere but onely we. moreover, i have often heard it said, that in tarrying or departing, no distinction is made in things honest or dishonest; onely appetite will be served; and be they alone or in company, by day or night, they do whatsoever their appetite desireth: not secular persons onely, but such as are recluses, and shut up within monasteries, breaking the lawes of obedience, and being addicted to pleasures of the flesh, are become lascivious and dissolute, making the world beleeve, that whatsoever is convenient for other women, is no way unbeseeming them, as thinking in that manner to escape. if it be so, as manifestlie it maketh shew of it selfe; what do we here? what stay we for? and whereon do we dreame? why are we more respectlesse of our health, then all the rest of the citizens? repute we our selves lesse precious then all the other? or do we beleeve, that life is linked to our bodies with stronger chaines, then to others, and that therefore we should not feare any thing that hath power to offend us? wee erre therein, and are deceived. what brutishnesse were it in us, if wee should urge any such beleefe? so often as wee call to minde, what, and how many gallant yong men and women, have beene devoured by this cruell pestilence; wee may evidently observe a contrary argument. wherefore, to the end, that by being over-scrupulous and carelesse, we fall not into such danger, whence when we would (perhaps) we cannot recover our selves by any meanes: i thinke it meete (if your judgement therein shall jumpe with mine) that all of us as we are (at least, if we will doe as divers before us have done, and yet daily endeavour to doe) shunning death by the honest example of other, make our retreate to our countrey houses, wherewith all of us are sufficiently furnished, and thereto delight our selves as best we may, yet without transgressing (in any act) the limits of reason. there shall we heare the pretty birds sweetly singing, see the hilles and plaines verdantly flourishing; the corne waving in the field like the billowes of the sea; infinite store of goodly trees, and the heavens more fairely open to us, then here we can behold them: and although they are justly displeased, yet will they not there denie us better beauties to gaze on, then the walles in our city (emptied of inhabitants) can affoord us. moreover, the ayre is much fresh and cleere, and generally, there is farre greater abundance of all things whatsoever, needefull at this time for preservation of our health, and lesse offence or molestation then wee find here. and although countrey people die, as well as heere our citizens doe, the griefe notwithstanding is so much the lesse, as the houses and dwellers there are rare, in comparison of them in our city. and beside, if we well observe it, here wee forsake no particular person, but rather wee may tearme our selves forsaken; in regard that our husbands, kinred, and friends, either dying, or flying from the dead, have left us alone in this great affliction, even as if we were no way belonging unto them. and therefore, by following this counsell, wee cannot fall into any reprehension; whereas if we neglect and refuse it, danger, distresse, and death, (perhaps) may ensue thereon. wherefore, if you thinke good, i would allow it for well done, to take our waiting women, with all such things as are needfull for us, and (as this day) betake our selves to one place, to morrow to another, taking there such pleasure and recreation, as so sweete a season liberally bestoweth on us. in which manner we may remaine, till we see (if death otherwise prevent us not) what ende the gracious heavens have reserved for us. i would have you also to consider, that it is no lesse seemely for us to part hence honestly, then a great number of other women to remaine here immodestly. the other ladies and gentlewomen, having heard madam _pampinea_, not onely commended her counsell, but desiring also to put it in execution; had already particularly consulted with themselves, by what means they might instantly depart from thence. neverthelesse, madam _philomena_, who was very wise, spake thus. albeit faire ladies, the case propounded by madam _pampinea_ hath beene very wel delivered; yet (for all that) it is against reason for us to rush on, as we are over-ready to doe. remember that we are all women, and no one among us is so childish, but may consider, that when wee shall be so assembled together, without providence or conduct of some man, we can hardly governe our selves. we are fraile, offensive, suspicious, weake spirited, and fearefull: in regard of which imperfections, i greatly doubt (if we have no better direction then our owne) this society will sooner dissolve it selfe, and (perchance) with lesse honour to us, then if we never had begunne it. and therefore it shall be expedient for us, to provide before wee proceede any further. madam _elissa_ hereon thus replied. most true it is, that men are the chiefe or head of women, and without their order, sildome times doe any matters of ours sort to commendable ende. but what meanes shal we make for men? we all know well enough, that the most part of our friends are dead, and such as are living, some be dispearsed here, others there, into divers places and companies, where we have no knowledge of their being. and to accept of strangers, would seeme very inconvenient; wherefore as we have such care of our health, so should wee be as respective (withall) in ordering our intention: that wheresoever wee aime at our pleasure and contentment, reproofe and scandall may by no meanes pursue us. while this discourse thus held among the ladies, three young gentlemen came forth of the church (yet not so young, but the youngest had attained to five and twenty yeeres) in whom, neither malice of the time, loss of friends or kinred, nor any fearefull conceit in themselves, had the power to quench affection; but (perhaps) might a little coole it, in regard of the queazy season. one of them called himselfe _pamphilus_, the second _philostratus_, and the last _dioneus_. each of them was very affable and well conditioned, and walked abroade (for their greater comfort in such a time of tribulation) to trie if they could meete with their faire friends, who (happily) might all three be among these seaven, and the rest kinne unto them in one degree or other. no sooner were these ladies espyed by them, but they met with them also in the same advantage; whereupon madam _pampinea_ (amiably smiling) saide. see how graciously fortune is favourable to our beginning, by presenting our eyes with three so wise and worthy young gentlemen, who will gladly be our guides and servants, if we doe not disdaine them the office. madam _neiphila_ beganne immediatly to blush, because one of them had a love in the company, and saide; good madam _pampinea_ take heed what you say, because (of mine owne knowledge) nothing can be spoken but good of them all; and i thinke them all to be absolutely sufficient, for a farre greater employment then is here intended: as being well worthy to keepe company, not onely with us, but them of more faire and precious esteeme then we are. but because it appeareth plainely enough, that they beare affection to some here among us: i feare, if wee should make the motion, that some dishonour or reproofe may ensue thereby, and yet without blame either in us or them. that is nothing at all, answered madam _philomena_, let mee live honestly, and my conscience not checke me with any crime; speake then who can to the contrary, god and truth shal enter armes for me. i wish that they were as willing to come, as all wee are to bid them welcome: for truly (as madam _pampinea_ saide) wee may very well hope that fortune will bee furtherous to our purposed journey. the other ladies hearing them speake in such manner, not onely were silent to themselves, but all with one accord and consent saide, that it were well done to call them, and to acquaint them with their intention, entreating their company in so pleasant a voyage. whereupon, without any more words, madam _pampinea_ mounting on her feete (because one of the three was her kinsman) went towards them, as they stood respectively observing them; and (with a pleasing countenance) giving them a gracious salutation, declared to them their deliberation, desiring (in behalfe of all the rest) that with a brotherly and modest minde, they would vouchsafe to beare them company. the gentlemen imagined at the first apprehension, that this was spoken in mockage of them, but when they better perceived, that her words tended to solemne earnest; they made answer, that they were all heartily ready to doe them any service. and without any further delaying, before they parted thence, tooke order for their aptest furnishing with all convenient necessaries, and sent word to the place of their first appointment. on the morrow, being wednesday, about breake of day, the ladies, with certaine of their attending gentlewomen, and the three gentlemen, having three servants to waite on them; left the city to beginne their journey, and having travelled about a leagues distance, arrived at the place of their first purpose of stay; which was seated on a little hill, distant (on all sides) from any high way, plentifully stored with faire spreading trees, affoording no meane delight to the eye. on the top of all stood a stately pallace, having a large and spacious court in the middest, round engirt with galleries, hals and chambers, every one separate alone by themselves, and beautified with pictures of admirable cunning. nor was there any want of gardens, meadowes, and other pleasant walkes, with welles and springs of faire running waters, all encompassed with branching vines, fitter for curious and quaffing bibbers, then women sober and singularly modest. this pallace the company found fully fitted and prepared, the beddes in the chambers made and daintily ordered, thickly strewed with variety of flowers, which could not but give them the greater contentment. _dioneus_, who (above the other) was a pleasant young gallant, and full of infinite witty conceits, saide; your wit (faire ladies) hath better guided us hither, then our providence. i know not how you have determined to dispose of your cares; as for mine owne, i left them at the city gate, when i came thence with you: and therefore let your resolution be, to spend the time here in smiles and singing (i meane, as may fittest agree with your dignity) or else give me leave to goe seeke my sorrowes againe, and so to remaine discontented in our desolate city. madam _pampinea_ having in like manner shaken off her sorrowes, delivering a modest and bashfull smile, replied in this manner. _dioneus_, well have you spoken, it is fit to live merrily, and no other occasion made us forsake the sicke and sad citie. but, because such things as are without meane or measure, are subject to no long continuance. i, who began the motion, whereby this society is thus assembled, and ayme at the long lasting thereof: doe hold it very convenient, that wee should all agree, to have one chiefe commaunder among us, in whom the care and providence should consist, for direction of our merriment, performing honour and obedience to the party, as to our patrone and sole governour. and because every one may feele the burthen of sollicitude, as also the pleasure of commaunding, and consequently have a sensible taste of both, whereby no envie may arise on any side: i could wish, that each one of us (for a day onely) should feele both the burthen and honour, and the person so to be advanced, shall receive it from the election of us all. as for such as are to succeede, after him or her that hath had the dayes of dominion: the party thought fit for succession, must be named so soone as night approacheth. and being in this eminencie (according as he or she shall please) hee may order and dispose, how long the time of his rule shall last, as also of the place and manner, where best we may continue our delight. these words were highly pleasing to them all, and, by generall voyce, madame _pampinea_ was chosen queene for the first day. whereupon, madame _philomena_ ranne presently to a bay-tree, because she had often heard, what honour belonged to those branches, and how worthy of honour they were, that rightfully were crowned with them, plucking off divers branches, she made of them an apparant and honourable chaplet, placing it (by generall consent) upon her head, and this, so long as their company continued, manifested to all the rest, the signall of dominion and royall greatnesse. after that madame _pampinea_ was thus made queene, she commanded publique silence, and causing the gentlemens three servants, and the waiting women also (being foure in number) to be brought before her, thus shee began. because i am to give the first example to you all, whereby (proceeding on from good to better) our company may live in order and pleasure, acceptable to all, and without shame to any: i create _parmeno_ (servant to _dioneus_) maister of the houshold, hee taking the care and charge of all our trayne, and for whatsoever appertaineth to our hall service. i appoint also that _silisco_ (servant to _pamphilus_) shall be our dispencer and treasurer, performing that which _parmeno_ shall commaund him. and that _tindaro_ serve as groome of the chamber, to _philostratus_ his maister, and the other two, when his fellowes (impeached by their offices) cannot be present. _misia_ my chambermaid, and _licisca_ (belonging to philomena) shall serve continually in the kitchin, and diligently make ready such vyands, as shall be delivered them by _parmeno. chimera_, wayting-woman to _lauretta_, and _stratilia_ (appertaining to _fiammetta_) shall have the charge and governement of the ladies chambers, and preparing all places where we shall be present. moreover, we will and commaund every one of them (as they desire to deserve our grace) that wheresoever they goe or come, or whatsoever they heare or see: they especially respect to bring us tydings of them. after shee had summarily delivered them these orders, very much commended of every one; shee arose fairely, saying. heere wee have gardens, orchards, meadowes, and other places of sufficient pleasure, where every one may sport & recreate themselves: but so soone as the ninth houre striketh, then all to meete here againe, to dine in the coole shade. this jocund company having received licence from their queene to disport themselves, the gentlemen walked with the ladies into a goodly garden, making chaplets and nosegayes of divers flowers, and singing silently to themselves. when they had spent the time limitted by the queene, they returned into the house, where they found that _parmeno_ had effectually executed his office. for, when they entred into the hall, they saw the tables covered with delicate white naperie, and the glasses looking like silver, they were so transparantly cleare, all the roome beside streawed with floures of juniper. when the queene and all the rest had washed; according as _parmeno_ gave order, so every one was seated at the table: the vyands (delicately drest) were served in, and excellent wines plentifully delivered, none attending but the three servants, and little or no loud table-talke passing among them. dinner being ended, and the tables withdrawne (all the ladies, and the gentlemen likewise, being skilfull both in singing and dauncing, and playing on instruments artificially) the queene commaunded, that divers instruments should be brought, and (as she gave charge) _dioneus_ tooke a lute, and _fiammetta_ a violl _de gamba_, and began to play an excellent daunce. whereupon the queene, with the rest of the ladies, and the other two young gentlemen (having sent their attending servants to dinner) paced foorth a daunce very majestically. and when the daunce was ended, they sung sundry excellent canzonets, out-wearing so the time, untill the queene commaunded them all to rest, because the houre did necessarily require it. the gentlemen having their chambers farre severed from the ladies, curiously strewed with flowers, and their beds adorned in exquisite manner, as those of the ladies were not a jote inferiour to them: the silence of the night bestowed sweet rest on them all. in the morning, the queene and all the rest being risen, accounting overmuch sleepe to be very hurtfull: they walked abroade into a goodly meadowe, where the grasse grew verdantly, and the beames of the sunne heated not over-violently, because the shades of faire spreading trees gave a temperate calmenesse, coole and gentle winds fanning their sweet breath pleasingly among them. all of them being there set downe in a round ring, and the queene in the middest, as being the appointed place of eminencie, she spake in this manner. you see (faire company) that the sunne is highly mounted, the heate (else-where) too extreme for us, and therefore here is our fittest refuge, the aire being so coole, delicate, and acceptable, and our folly well worthie reprehension, if we should walke further, and speede worse. heere are tables, cards, and chesse, as your dispositions may be addicted. but if mine advice might passe for currant, i would admit none of those exercises, because they are too troublesome both to them that play, and such as looke on. i could rather wish, that some quaint discourse might passe among us, a tale or fable related by some one, to urge the attention of all the rest. and so wearing out the warmth of the day, one prety novell will draw on another, until the sun be lower declined, and the heates extremity more diminished, to solace our selves in some other place, as to our minds shal seeme convenient. if therefore what i have sayde be acceptable to you (i purposing to follow in the same course of pleasure) let it appeare by your immediate answer; for, til the evening, i think we can devise no exercise more commodious for us. the ladies & gentlemen allowed of the motion, to spend the time in telling pleasant tales; whereupon the queene saide: seeing you have approoved mine advice, i grant free permission for this first day, that every one shall relate, what to him or her is best pleasing. and turning her selfe to _pamphilus_ (who was seated on her right hand) gave him favour, with one of his novels, to begin the recreation: which he not daring to deny, and perceiving generall attention prepared for him, thus he began. _messire chappelet du prat, by making a false confession, beguyled an holy religious man, and after dyed. and having (during his life time) bene a verie bad man, at his death was reputed to be a saint, and called s. chappelet._ the first novell. _wherein is contained, how hard a thing it is, to distinguish goodnesse from hypocrisie; and how (under the shadow of holinesse) the wickednes of one man, may deceive many._ it is a matter most convenient (deare ladies) that a man ought to begin whatsoever he doth, in the great and glorious name of him, who was the creator of all thinges. wherefore, seeing that i am the man appointed, to begin this your invention of discoursing novelties: i intend to begin also with one of his wonderfull workes. to the end, that this beeing heard, our hope may remaine on him, as the thing onely permanent, and his name for ever to be praised by us. now, as there is nothing more certaine, but that even as temporall things are mortall and transitory, so are they both in and out of themselves, full of sorrow, paine, and anguish, and subjected to infinite dangers: so in the same manner, we live mingled among them, seeming as part of them, and cannot (without some error) continue or defend ourselves, if god by his especiall grace and favour, give us not strength and good understanding. which power we may not beleeve, that either it descendeth to us, or liveth in us, by any merites of our owne; but of his onely most gracious benignity. mooved neverthelesse, and entreated by the intercessions of them, who were (as we are) mortals; and having diligently observed his commandements, are now with him in eternall blessednes. to whom (as to advocates and procurators, informed by the experience of our frailty) wee are not to present our prayers in the presence of so great a judge; but only to himselfe, for the obtaining of all such things as his wisedome knoweth to be most expedient for us. and well may we credit, that his goodnesse is more fully enclined towards us, in his continuall bounty and liberality; then the subtilty of any mortal eye, can reach into the secret of so divine a thought: and sometimes therefore we may be beguiled in opinion, by electing such and such as our intercessors before his high majesty, who perhaps are farre off from him, or driven into perpetuall exile, as unworthy to appeare in so glorious a presence. for he, from whom nothing can be hidden, more regardeth the sincerity of him that prayeth, then ignorant devotion, committed to the trust of a heedlesse intercessor; and such prayers have alwaies gracious acceptation in his sight. as manifestly will appeare, by the novell which i intend to relate; manifestly (i say) not as in the judgement of god, but according to the apprehension of men. there was one named, _musciatto francesi_, who from beeing a most rich and great merchant in _france_, was become a knight, and preparing to go into _tuscany_, with monsieur _charles without land_, brother to the king of _france_ (who was desired and incited to come thither by pope _boniface_) found his affaires greatly intricated here and there (as oftentimes the matters of merchants fall out to bee) and that very hardly hee should sodainly unintangle them, without referring the charge of them to divers persons. and for all he tooke indifferent good order, onely he remained doubtfull, whom he might sufficiently leave, to recover his debts among many _burgundians_. and the rather was his care the more herein, because he knew the _burgundians_ to be people of badde nature, rioters, brablers, full of calumny, and without any faithfulnesse; so that he could not bethinke himselfe of any man (how wicked soever he was) in whom he might repose trust to meete with their lewdnesse. having a long while examined his thoughts upon this point, at last hee remembred one master _chappelet du prat_, who ofttimes had resorted to his house in _paris_. and because he was a man of little stature, yet handsome enough, the french not knowing what this word _chappelet_ might mean, esteeming he should be called rather (in their tongue) _chappell_; imagined, that in regard of his small stature, they termed him _chappelet_, and not _chappell_, and so by the name of _chappelet_ he was every where known, and by few or none acknowledged for _chappel_. this master _chappelet_, was of so good and commendable life; that, being a notarie, he held it in high disdaine, that any of his contractes (although he made but few) should be found without falshoode. and looke how many soever hee dealt withall, he would be urged and required thereto, offering them his paines and travaile for nothing, but to be requited otherwise then by money; which prooved to bee his much larger recompencing, and returned to him the farre greater benefit. hee tooke the onely pleasure of the world, to beare false witnesse, if hee were thereto entreated, and (oftentimes) when hee was not requested at all. likewise, because in those times, great trust and beleefe was given to an oath, he making no care or conscience to be perjured: greatly advantaged himselfe by law suites, in regard that many matters relyed upon his oath, and delivering the truth according to his knowledge. he delighted (beyond measure) and addicted his best studies, to cause enmities & scandals between kindred and friends, or any other persons, agreeing well together; and the more mischiefe he could procure in this kind, so much the more pleasure and delight tooke he therein. if he were called to kil any one, or to do any other villanous deede, he never would make deniall, but go to it very willingly; and divers times it was wel knowen, that many were cruelly beaten, ye slaine by his hands. hee was a most horrible blasphemer of god and his saints, upon the very least occasion, as being more addicted to choller, then any other man could be. never would he frequent the church, but basely contemned it, with the sacraments and religious rites therein administred, accounting them for vile and unprofitable things: but very voluntarily would visit tavernes, and other places of dishonest accesse, which were continually pleasing unto him, to satisfie his lust and inordinate lubricitie. hee would steale both in publike and private, even with such a conscience, as if it were given to him by nature so to do. he was a great glutton and a drunkarde, even till he was not able to take any more: being also a continuall gamester, and carrier of false dice, to cheate with them the verie best friendes he had. but why do i waste time in such extent of words? when it may suffice to say, that never was there a worse man borne; whose wickednesse was for long time supported, by the favour, power, and authoritie of monsieur _musciatto_, for whose sake many wrongs and injuries were patiently endured, as well by private persons (whom hee would abuse notoriously) as others of the court, betweene whom he made no difference at all in his vile dealing. this master _chappelet_, being thus remembred by _musciatto_ (who very well knew his life and behaviour) he perfectly perswaded himselfe, that this was a man apt in all respects, to meete with the treachery of the burgundians: whereupon, having sent for him, thus he beganne. _chappelet_, thou knowest how i am wholly to retreate my selfe from hence, and having some affaires among the burgundians, men full of wickednesse and deceite; i can bethinke my selfe of no meeter a man then _chappelet_, to recover such debts as are due to me among them. and because it falleth out so well, that thou art not now hindered by any other businesse; if thou wilt undergoe this office for me, i will procure thee favourable letters from the court, and give thee a reasonable portion in all thou recoverest. master _chappelet_, seeing himselfe idle, and greedy after worldly goods, considering _mounsieur musciatto_ (who had beene alwayes his best buckler) was now to depart from thence, without any dreaming on the matter, and constrained thereto (as it were) by necessity, set downe his resolution, and answered that hee would gladly doe it. having made their agreement together, and received from _musciatto_ his expresse procuration, as also the kings gracious letters; after that _musciatto_ was gone on his journey, master _chappelet_ went to _dijon_ [sidenote: to borgogna saith the italian.], where he was unknowne (well neere) of any. and there (quite from his naturall disposition) he beganne benignely and graciously, in recovering the debts due; which course he tooke the rather, because they should have a further feeling of him in the ende. being lodged in the house of two florentine brethren, that lived on their monies usance; and (for _mounsieur musciattoes_ sake) using him with honour and respect: it fortuned that he fell sicke, and the two brethren sent for physicions to attend him, allowing their servants to be diligent about him, making no spare of any thing, which gave the best likelyhood of restoring his health. but all their paines proved to no purpose, because he (honest man) being now growne aged, and having lived all his life time very disordredly, fell day by day (according to the physicions judgement) from bad to worse, as no other way appeared but death, whereat the brethren greatly greeved. upon a day, neere to the chamber where the sicke man lay, they entred into this communication. what shall we doe (quoth the one to the other) with this man? we are much hindered by him, for to send him away (sicke as he is) we shall be greatly blamed thereby, and it will be a manifest note of our weake wisedome: the people knowing that first of all we gave him entertainement, and have allowed him honest physical attendance, and he not having any way injuried or offended us, to let him be suddenly expulsed our house (sicke to death as he is) it can be no way for our credit. on the other side, we are to consider also, that he hath bin so badde a man, as he will not now make any confession thereof, neither receive the blessed sacrament of the church, and dying so without confession; there is no church that will accept his body, but it must be buried in prophane ground, like to a dogge. and yet if he would confesse himselfe, his sinnes are so many and monstrous; as the like case also may happen, because there is not any priest or religious person, that can or will absolve him. and being not absolved, he must be cast into some ditch or pit, and then the people of the towne, as well in regard of the account we carry heere, (which to them appeareth so little pleasing, as we are daily pursued with their worst words) as also coveting our spoile and overthrow; upon this accident will cry out and mutiny against us; _beholde these lombard dogs, which are not to be received into the church, why should we suffer them to live heere among us?_ in furious madnesse will they come upon us, and our house, where (peradventure) not contented with robbing us of our goods, our lives will remaine in their mercy and danger; so that, in what sort soever it happen, this mans dying heere, must needs be banefull to us. master _chappelet_, who (as we have formerly saide) was lodged neere to the place where they thus conferred, having a subtle attention (as oftentimes we see sicke persons to bee possessed withall) heard all these speeches spoken of him, and causing them to be called unto him, thus hee spake. i would not have you to be any way doubtfull of me; neither that you shold receive the least damage by me: i have heard what you have said, and am certaine, that it will happen according to your words, if matters should fall out as you conceite; but i am minded to deale otherwise. i have committed so many offences against our lord god, in the whole current of my life; that now i intend one action at the hour of my death, which i trust will make amends for all. procure therefore, i pray you, that the most holy and religious man that is to be found (if there bee any one at all) may come unto me, and referre the case then to me, for i will deale in such sort for you and my selfe, that all shall be well, and you no way discontented. the two brethren, although they had no great hope in his speeches, went yet to a monastery of gray-friars, and requested; that some one holy and learned man, might come to heare the confession of a _lombard_, that lay verie weake and sicke in their house. and one was granted unto them, beeing an aged religious frier, a great read master in the sacred scriptures, a very venerable person, who beeing of good and sanctified life, all the citizens held him in great respect & esteem, and on he went with them to their house. when he was come up into the chamber where master _chappelet_ lay, and being there seated downe by him; he beganne first to comfort him very lovingly, demanding also of him, howe many times he had bin at confession? whereto master _chappelet_ (who never had bin shriven in all his life time) thus replied. holy father, i alwayes used (as a common custome) to bee confessed once (at the least) every weeke, albeit sometimes much more often, but true it is, that being faln into this sicknesse, now eight dayes since; i have not bene confest, so violent hath bene the extremity of my weakenesse. my sonne (answered the good old man) thou hast done well, and so keep thee still hereafter in that minde: but i plainly perceive, seeing thou hast so often confessed thy selfe, that i shall take the lesse labour in urging questions to thee. master _chappelet_ replied: say not so good father, for albeit i have bene so oftentimes confessed, yet am i willing now to make a generall confession, even of all sinnes comming to my remembrance, from the very day of my birth, until this instant houre of my shrift. and therefore i intreate you (holy father) to make a particular demand of every thing, even as if i had never bene confessed at al, and to make no respect of my sicknesse: for i had rather be offensive to mine owne flesh, then by favouring or allowing it ease, to hazard the perdition of my soule, which my redeemer bought with so precious a price. these words were highly pleasing to the holy frier, and seemed to him as an argument of a good conscience: wherefore, after hee had much commended this forwardnesse in him, he began to demand of him if he had never offended with any woman? whereunto master _chappelet_ (breathing foorth a great sigh) answered. holy father, i am halfe ashamed to tell you the truth in this case, as fearing least i should sinne in vaine-glory. whereto the confessor replyed: speake boldly sonne, and feare not; for in telling the truth, be it in confession or otherwise, a man can never sinne. then sayde maister _chappelet_, father, seeing you give me so good an assurance, i will resolve you faithfully heerein. i am so true a virgin-man in this matter, even as when i issued forth of my mothers wombe. o sonne (quoth the frier) how happie and blessed of god art thou? well hast thou lived, and therein hast not meanly merited: having hadde so much libertie to doo the contrary if thou wouldst, wherein very few of us can so answer for our selves. afterward, he demanded of him, how much displeasing to god hee had beene in the sinne of gluttony? when (sighing againe greatly) he answered: too much, and too often, good father. for, over and beside the fasts of our lent season, which everie yeare ought to bee dulie observed by devout people, i brought my selfe to such a customarie use, that i could fast three dayes in every weeke, with bread and water. but indeede (holy father) i confesse, that i have drunke water with such a pleasing appetite and delight (especially in praying, or walking on pilgrimages) even as greedy drunkards do, in drinking good wine. and many times i have desired such sallades of small hearbes, as women gather abroad in the open fields, and feeding onely upon them, without coveting after any other kinde of sustenance; hath seemed much more pleasing to me, then i thought to agree with the nature of fasting, especially, when as it swerveth from devotion, or is not done as it ought to bee. sonne, sonne, replied the confessour, these sinnes are naturall, and very light, and therefore i would not have thee to charge thy conscience with them, more then is needfull. it happeneth to every man (how holy soever he be) that after he hath fasted over-long, feeding will be welcome to him, and drinking good drinke after his travaile. o sir (said maister _chappelet_) never tell me this to comfort me, for well you know, and i am not ignorant therein, that such things as are done for the service of god, ought all to be performed purely, and without any blemish of the minde; what otherwise is done, savoureth of sinne. the friar being well contented with his words, said: it is not amisse that thou understandest it in this manner, and thy conscience thus purely cleared, is no little comfort to me. but tell me now concerning avarice, hast thou sinned therein? by desiring more then was reasonable, or withholding from others, such things as thou oughtst not to detaine? whereto maister _chappelet_ answered. good father, i would not have you to imagine, because you see me lodged here in the house of two usurers, that therefore i am of any such disposition. no truly sir, i came hither to no other end, but onely to chastise and admonish them in friendly manner, to cleanse their mindes from such abhominable profit: and assuredly, i should have prevailed therein, had not this violently sicknesse hindered mine intention. but understand (holy father) that my parents left me a rich man, and immediatly after my fathers death, the greater part of his goods i gave away for gods sake, and then, to sustaine mine owne life, and to helpe the poore members of jesus christ, i betooke my selfe to a meane estate of merchandise, desiring none other then honest gaine thereby, and evermore whatsoever benefit came to me; i imparted halfe thereof to the poore, converting mine owne small portion about my necessary affaires, which that other part would scarcely serve to supply: yet alwayes god gave thereto such a mercifull blessing, that my businesse dayly thrived more and more, arising still from good to better. well hast thou done therein good sonne, said the confessour: but how often times hast thou beene angry? oh sir (said maister _chappelet_) therein i assure yee, i have often transgressed. and what man is able to forbeare it, beholding the dayly actions of men to be so dishonest? no care of keeping gods commaundements, nor any feare of his dreadfull judgements. many times in a day, i have rather wished my selfe dead then living, beholding youth pursuing idle vanities, to sweare and forsweare themselves, tipling in tavernes, and never haunting churches; but rather affecting the worlds follies, then any such duties as they owe to god. alas sonne (quoth the friar) this is a good and holy anger, and i can impose no penance on thee for it. but tell me, hath not rage or furie at any time so over-ruled thee, as to commit murther or manslaughter, or to speake evill of any man, or to doe any other such kinde of injurie? oh father (answered maister _chappelet_) you that seeme to be a man of god, how dare you use any such vile words? if i had had the very least thought, to doe any such act as you speake, doe you thinke that god would have suffered me to live? these are deedes of darknesse, fit for villaines and wicked livers; of which hellish crue, when at any time i have happened to meete with some one of them; i have said, goe, god convert thee. worthy, and charitable words, replied the friar; but tell me sonne, didst thou ever beare false witnesse against any man, or hast spoken falsly, or taken ought from any one, contrary to the will of the owner? yes indeede father, said maister _chappelet_, i have spoken ill of another, because i have sometime seene one of my neighbours, who with no meane shame of the world, would doe nothing else but beate his wife: and of him once i complained to the poore mans parents, saying, that he never did it, but when he was overcome with drinke. those were no ill words, quoth the friar; but i remember, you said that you were a merchant: did you ever deceive any, as some merchants use to doe? truly father, answered maister _chappelet_, i thinke not any, except one man, who one day brought me money which he owed me, for a certaine piece of cloath i solde him, and i put it into a purse without accounting it: about a moneth afterward, i found that there were foure small pence more then was due to me. and never happening to meete with the man againe, after i had kept them the space of a whole yeare, i then gave them away to foure poore people for gods sake. a small matter, said the friar, & truly payed back again to the owner, in bestowing them upon the poore. many other questions hee demaunded of him, whereto still he answered in the same manner: but before he proceeded to absolution, maister _chappelet_ spake thus. i have yet one sinne more, which i have not revealed to you: when being urged by the friar to confesse it, he said. i remember, that i should afford one day in the weeke, to cleanse the house of my soule, for better entertainement to my lord and saviour, and yet i have done no such reverence to the sunday or sabaoth, as i ought to have done. a small fault sonne, replied the friar. o no (quoth maister _chappelet_) doe not terme it a small fault, because sunday being a holy day, is highly to be reverenced: for, as on that day, our blessed lord arose from death to life. but (quoth the confessour) hast thou done nothing else on that day? yes, said he, being forgetfull of my selfe, once i did spet in gods church. the friar smiling, said: alas sonne, that is a matter of no moment, for wee that are religious persons, doe use to spet there every day. the more is your shame, answered maister _chappelet_, for no place ought to be kept more pure and cleane then the sacred temple, wherein our dayly sacrifices are offered up to god. in this manner he held on an houre and more, uttering the like transgressions as these; and at last began to sigh very passionately, and to shed a few teares, as one that was skilfull enough in such dissembling prankes; whereat the confessour being much mooved, said: alas sonne, what aylest thou? oh father (quoth _chappelet_) there remaineth yet one sinne more upon my conscience, whereof i never at any time made confession, so shamefull it appeareth to me to disclose it; and i am partly perswaded, that god will never pardon me for that sinne. how now sonne? said the friar, never say so; for if all the sinnes that ever were committed by men, or shall be committed so long as the world endureth, were onely in one man, and he repenting them, and being so contrite for them, as i see thou art; the grace and mercy of god is so great, that upon penitent confession, he will freely pardon him, and therefore spare not to speak it boldly. alas father (said _chappelet_, still in pretended weeping) this sinne of mine is so great, that i can hardly beleeve (if your earnest prayers doe not assist me) that ever i shall obtaine remission for it. speake it sonne, said the friar, and feare not, i promise that i will pray to god for thee. master _chappelet_ still wept and sighed, and continued silent, notwithstanding all the confessors comfortable perswasions; but after hee had helde him a long while in suspence, breathing forth a sighe, even as if his very heart would have broken, he saide; holy father, seeing you promise to pray to god for me, i will reveale it to you: know then, that when i was a little boy, i did once curse my mother; which he had no sooner spoken, but he wrung his hands, and greeved extraordinarily. oh good son, saide the friar, doth that seeme so great a sinne to thee? why, men doe daily blaspheme our lord god, and yet neverthelesse, upon their hearty repentance, he is alwayes ready to forgive them; and wilt not thou beleeve to obtaine remission, for a sinne so ignorantly committed? weepe no more deare sonne, but comfort thy selfe, and rest resolved, that if thou wert one of them, who nayled our blessed saviour to his crosse; yet being so truly repentant, as i see thou art, he would freely forgive thee. say you so father? quoth _chappelet_. what? mine owne deare mother? that bare me in her wombe nine moneths, day and night, and afterwards fed me with her breasts a thousand times, can i be pardoned for cursing her? oh no, it is too haynous a sinne, and except you pray to god very instantly for me, he will not forgive me. when the religious man perceived, that nothing more was to be confessed by master _chappelet_; he gave him absolution, and his owne benediction beside, reputing him to be a most holy man, as verily beleeving all that he had said. and who would not have done the like, hearing a man to speake in that manner, and being upon the very point of death? afterward, he saide unto him; master _chappelet_, by gods grace you may be soone restored to health, but if it so come to passe, that god doe take your blessed and well disposed soule to his mercy, will it please you to have your body buried in our convent? whereto master _chappelet_ answered; i thanke you father for your good motion, and sorry should i be, if my friends did bury me any where else, because you have promised, to pray to god for me; and beside, i have alwayes carried a religious devotion to your order. wherefore, i beseech you, so soone as you are come home to your convent, prevaile so much by your good meanes, that the holy eucharist, consecrated this morning on your high altar, may be brought unto me: for although i confesse my selfe utterly unworthy, yet i purpose (by your reverend permission) to receive it, as also your holy and latest unction; to this ende, that having lived a greevous sinner, i may yet (at the last) die a christian. these words were pleasing to the good olde man, and he caused every thing to be performed, according as master _chappelet_ had requested. the two brethren, who much doubted the dissembling of _chappelet_, being both in a small partition, which sundered the sicke mans chamber from theirs, heard and understood the passage of all, betweene him and the ghostly father, being many times scarcely able to refrain from laughter, at the fraudulent course of his confession. and often they said within themselves; what manner of man is this, whom neither age, sicknesse, nor terror of death so neere approaching, and sensible to his owne soule, nor that which is much more, god, before whose judgement he knowes not how soone he shall appeare, or else be sent to a more fearefull place; none of these can alter his wicked disposition, but that he will needes die according as he hath lived? notwithstanding, seeing he had so ordered the matter, that he had buriall freely allowed him, they cared for no more. after that _chappelet_ had received the communion, and the other ceremonies appointed for him; weakenesse encreasing on him more and more, the very same day of his goodly confession, he died (not long after) towards the evening. whereupon the two brethren tooke order, that all needefull things should be in a readinesse, to have him buried honourably; sending to acquaint the fathers of the convent therewith, that they might come to say their _vigilles_, according to precedent custome, and then on the morrow to fetch the body. the honest friar that had confessed him, hearing he was dead, went to the prior of the convent, and by sound of the house bell, caused all the brethren to assemble together, giving them credibly to understand, that master _chappelet_ was a very holy man, as appeared by all the parts of his confession, and made no doubt, but that many miracles would be wrought by his sanctified body, perswading them to fetch it thither with all devoute solemnity and reverence; whereto the prior, and all the credulous brethren presently condiscended very gladly. when night was come, they went all to visit the dead body of master _chappelet_, where they used an especiall and solemne _vigill_; and on the morrow, apparrelled in their richest coapes and vestiments, with books in their hands, and the crosse borne before them, singing in the forme of a very devoute procession, they brought the body pompeously into their church, accompanied with all the people of the towne, both men and women. the father confessor, ascending up into the pulpit, preached wonderfull things of him, and the rare holinesse of his life; his fastes, his virginity, simplicity, innocency, and true sanctity, recounting also (among other especiall observations) what _chappelet_ had confessed, as this most great and greevous sinne, and how hardly he could be perswaded, that god would grant him pardon for it. whereby he tooke occasion to reprove the people then present, saying; and you (accursed of god) for the verie least and trifling matter hapning, will not spare to blaspheme god, his blessed mother, and the whole court of heavenly paradise: oh, take example by this singular man, this saint-like man, nay, a verie saint indeede. many additions more he made, concerning his faithfulnesse, truth, & integrity; so that, by the vehement asseveration of his words (whereto all the people there present gave credible beleefe) he provoked them unto such zeale and earnest devotion; that the sermon was no sooner ended, but (in mighty crowds and throngs) they pressed about the biere, kissing his hands and feete, and all the garments about him were torne in peeces, as precious reliques of so holy a person, and happy they thought themselves, that could get the smallest peece or shred or anie thing that came neere to his body, and thus they continued all the day, the body lying still open, to be visited in this manner. when night was come, they buried him in a goodly marble tombe, erected in a faire chappell purposely; and for many dayes after following, it was most strange to see, how the people of the country came thither on heapes, with holy candles and other offerings, with images of waxe fastened to the tombe, in signe of sacred and solemne vowes, to this new created saint. and so farre was spread the fame and renowne of his sanctity, devotion, and integrity of life, maintained constantly by the fathers of the convent; that if any one fell sicke in neede, distresse, or adversity, they would make their vowes to no other saint but him: naming him (as yet to this day they do) saint _chappelet_, affirming upon their oathes, that infinite miracles were there daily performed by him, and especially on such, as came in devotion to visit his shrine. in this manner lived and died master _chappelet du prat_, who before he became a saint, was as you have heard: and i will not deny it to be impossible, but that he may be at rest among other blessed bodies. for, although he lived lewdly and wickedly, yet such might be his contrition in the latest extreamity, that (questionlesse) he might finde mercie. but, because such things remaine unknowne to us, and speaking by outwarde appearance, vulgar judgement will censure otherwise of him, and thinke him to be rather in perdition, then in so blessed a place as paradice. but referring that to the omnipotent appointment, whose clemencie hath alwayes beene so great to us, that he regards not our errors, but the integrity of our faith, making (by meanes of our continuall mediator) of an open enemy, a converted sonne and servant. and as i began in his name, so will i conclude, desiring that it may evermore be had in due reverence, and referre we our selves thereto in all our necessities, with this setled assurance, that he is alwayes readie to heare us. and so he ceased. _abraham a jew, being admonished or advised by a friend of his, named jehannot de chevigny, travailed from paris unto rome: and beholding there the wicked behaviour of men in the church, returned backe to paris again, where yet (neverthelesse) he became a christian._ the second novell. _wherein is contained and expressed, the liberality and goodnesse of god, extended to the christian faith._ the novell recited by _pamphilus_ was highly pleasing to the company, and much commended by the ladies: and after it had beene diligently observed among them, the queen commanded madam _neiphila_ (who was seated neerest to _pamphilus_) that, in relating another of hers, she should follow on in the pastime thus begun. she being no lesse gracious in countenance, then merrily disposed; made answer, that shee would obey her charge, and began in this manner. _pamphilus_ hath declared to us by his tale, how the goodnesse of god regardeth not our errors, when they proceede from things which wee cannot discerne. and i intend to approove by mine, what argument of infallible truth, the same benignity delivereth of it selfe, by enduring patiently the faults of them, that (both in word and worke) should declare unfaigned testimony of such gracious goodnesse, and not to live so dissolutely as they doe. to the end, that others illumined by their light of life, may beleeve with the stronger constancy of minde. as i have heeretofore heard (gracious ladies) there lived a wealthy marchant in _paris_, being a mercer, or seller of silkes, named _jehannot de chevigny_, a man of faithful, honest, and upright dealing; who held great affection and friendship with a very rich jew, named _abraham_, that was a merchant also, and a man of very direct conversation. _jehannot_ well noting the honesty and loyall dealing of this jew, began to have a religious kind of compassion in his soule, much pittying, that a man so good in behaviour, so wise and discreete in all his actions, should be in danger of perdition thorow want of faith. in which regard, lovingly he began to entreate him, that he would leave the errors of his jewish beleefe, and follow the truth of christianity, which he evidently saw (as being good and holy) daily to prosper and enlarge it selfe, whereas (on the contrary) his profession decreased, and grew to nothing. the jew made answer, that he beleeved nothing to be so good & holy, as the jewish religion, and having beene borne therein, therein also he purposed to live and dye, no matter whatsoever, being able to remove him from that resolution. for all this stiffe deniall, _jehannot_ would not so give him over; but pursued him still day by day, reitterating continually his former speeches to him: delivering infinite excellent and pregnant reasons, that merchants themselves were not ignorant, how farre the christian faith excelled the jewish falshoods. and albeit the jew was a very learned man in his owne law, yet notwithstanding, the intire amity hee bare to _jehannot_, or (perhaps) his words fortified by the blessed spirit, were so prevalent with him: that the jew felt a pleasing apprehension in them, though his obstinacie stood (as yet) farre off from conversion. but as hee thus continued strong in opinion, so _jehannot_ left not hourely to labour him: in so much that the jew, being conquered by such earnest and continuall importunity, one day spake to _jehannot_ thus. my worthy friend _jehannot_, thou art extremely desirous, that i should convert to christianity, and i am well contended to doe it, onely upon this condition. that first i will journey to rome, to see him (whom thou sayest) is gods generall vicar here on earth, and to consider on the course of his life and manners, and likewise of his colledge of cardinals. if he and they doe appeare such men to me, as thy speeches affirmes them to be, and thereby i may comprehend, that thy faith and religion is better then mine, as (with no meane paines) thou endeavourest to perswade me: i will become a christian as thou art, but if i finde it otherwise, i will continue a jew as i am. when _jehannot_ heard these words, he became exceeding sorrowfull, saide within himselfe. i have lost all the paines, which i did thinke to be well imployed, as hoping to have this man converted here: for, if he goe to the court of rome, and behold there the wickednes of the priests lives; farewell all hope in me, of ever seeing him to become a christian. but rather, were he already a christian, without all question, he would turne jew: and so (going neerer to _abraham_) he said. alas my loving friend, why shouldst thou undertake such a tedious travell, and so great a charge, as thy journey from hence to rome will cost thee? consider, that to a rich man (as thou art) travaile by land or sea is full of infinite dangers. doest thou not thinke, that here are religious men enow, who will gladly bestowe baptisme upon thee. to me therefore it plainely appeareth, that such a voyage is to no purpose. if thou standest upon any doubt or scruple, concerning the faith whereto i wish thee; where canst thou desire conference with greater doctours, or men more learned in all respects, then this famous citie doth affoord thee, to resolve thee in any questionable case? thou must thinke, that the prelates are such there, as here thou seest them to be, and yet they must needes be in much better condition at rome, because they are neere to the principall pastour. and therefore, if thou wilt credit my counsell, reserve this journey to some time more convenient, when the jubilee of generall pardon happeneth, and then (perchance) i will beare thee company, and goe along with thee as in vowed pilgrimage. whereto the jew replied. i beleeve _jehannot_, that all which thou hast said may be so. but, to make short with thee, i am fully determined (if thou wouldst have me a christian, as thou instantly urgest me to be) to goe thither, for otherwise, i will continue as i am. _jehannot_ perceiving his setled purpose, said: goe then in gods name. but perswaded himselfe, that hee would never become a christian, after hee had once seene the court of rome: neverthelesse, he counted his labour not altogether lost, in regard he bestowed it to a good end, and honest intentions are to be commended. the jew mounted on horse-backe, and made no lingering in his journey to rome, where being arrived, he was very honourably entertained by other jewes dwelling in rome. and during the time of his abiding there (without revealing to any one, the reason of his comming thither) very heedfully he observed, the manner of the popes life, of the cardinals, prelates, and all the courtiers. and being a man very discreete and judicious, he apparantly perceived, both by his owne eye, and further information of friends; that from the highest to the lowest (without any restraint, remorse of conscience, shame, or feare of punishment) all sinned in abhominable luxurie, and not naturally onely, but in foule sodomie, so that the credit of strumpets and boyes was not small, and yet might be too easily obtained. moreover, drunkards, belly-gods, and servants of the paunch, more then of any thing else (even like brutish beasts after their luxurie) were every where to be met withall. and, upon further observation, hee saw all men so covetous and greedy of coyne, that every thing was bought and solde for ready money, not onely the blood of men, but (in plaine termes) the faith of christians, yea, and matters of divinest qualities, how, or to whomsoever appertaining, were it for sacrifices or benefices, whereof was made no meane merchandize, and more brokers were there to be found (then in _paris_ attending upon all trades) of manifest symonie, under the nice name of negotiation, and for gluttony, not sustentation: even as if god had not knowne the signification of vocables, nor the intentions of wicked hearts, but would suffer himselfe to be deceived by the outward names of things, as wretched men commonly use to doe. these things, and many more (fitter for silence, then publication) were so deepely displeasing to the jew, being a most sober and modest man; that he had soone seene enough, resolving on his returne to _paris_, which very speedily he performed. and when _jehannot_ heard of his arrivall, crediting much rather other newes from him, then ever to see him a converted christian; he went to welcome him, and kindly they feasted one another. after some fewe dayes of resting, _jehannot_ demaunded of him; what he thought of our holy father the pope and his cardinals, and generally of all the other courtiers? whereto the jew readily answered; it is strange _jehannot_, that god should give them so much as he doth. for i will truly tell thee, that if i had beene able to consider all those things, which there i have both heard and seene: i could then have resolved my selfe, never to have found in any priest, either sanctity, devotion, good worke, example of honest life, or any good thing else beside. but if a man desire to see luxury, avarice, gluttony, and such wicked things, yea, worse, if worse may be, and held in generall estimation of all men; let him but goe to _rome_, which i thinke rather to be the forge of damnable actions, then any way leaning to grace or goodnesse. and, for ought i could perceive, me thinkes your chiefe pastour, and (consequently) all the rest of his dependants, doe strive so much as they may (with all their engine arte and endeavour) to bring to nothing, or else to banish quite out of the world, christian religion, whereof they should be the support and foundation. but because i perceive, that their wicked intent will never come to passe, but contrariwise, that your faith enlargeth itselfe, shining every day much more cleare and splendant: i gather thereby evidently, that the blessed spirit is the true ground and defence thereof, as being more true and holy then any other. in which respect, whereas i stood stiffe and obstinate against the good admonitions, and never minded to become a christian: now i freely open my heart unto thee, that nothing in the world can or shall hinder me, but i will be a christian, as thou art. let us therefore presently goe to the church, and there (according to the true custome of your holy faith) helpe me to be baptized. _jehannot_, who expected a farre contrary conclusion, then this, hearing him speake it with such constancy; was the very gladdest man in the world, and went with him to the church of _nostre dame_ in _paris_, where he requested the priests there abiding, to bestow baptisme on _abraham_, which they joyfully did, hearing him so earnestly to desire it. _jehannot_ was his godfather, and named him _john_, and afterward, by learned divines he was more fully instructed in the grounds of our faith; wherein he grew of greatly understanding, and led a very vertuous life. _melchisedech a jew, by recounting a tale of three rings, to the great soldan, named saladine, prevented a great danger which was prepared for him._ the third novell. _whereby the author, approving the christian faith, sheweth, how beneficiall a sodaine and ingenious answer may fall out to bee, especially when a man finds himselfe in some evident danger._ madame _neiphila_ having ended her discourse, which was well allowed of by all the company; it pleased the queene, that madam _philomena_ should next succeede in order, who thus began. the tale delivered by _neiphila_, maketh mee remember a doubtfull case, which sometime hapned to another jew. and because that god, and the truth of his holy faith, hath bene already very wel discoursed on: it shall not seeme unfitting (in my poore opinion) to descend now into the accidents of men. wherefore, i will relate a matter unto you, which being attentively heard and considered; may make you much more circumspect, in answering to divers questions and demands, then (perhaps) otherwise you would be. consider then (most woorthy assembly) that like as folly or dulnesse, many times hath overthrowne some men from place of eminencie, into most great and greevous miseries: even so, discreet sense and good understanding, hath delivered many out of irksome perils, and seated them in safest security. and to prove it true, that folly hath made many fall from high authority, into poore and despised calamity; may be avouched by infinite examples, which now were needeless to remember: but, that good sense and able understanding, may proove to be the occasion of great desolation, without happy prevention, i will declare unto you in very few words, and make it good according to my promise. _saladine_, was a man so powerfull and valiant, as not onely his very valour made him soldan of babylon, but also gave him many signall victories, over kings of the sarrazens, and of christians likewise. having in divers warres, and other magnificent employments of his owne, wasted all his treasure, and (by reason of some sodaine accident happening to him) standing in neede to use some great summe of money, yet not readily knowing where, or how to procure it; he remembred a rich jew named _melchisedech_, that lent out money to use or interest in the city of _alexandria_. this man he imagined best able to furnish him, if he could be won to do it willingly: but he was knowne to be so gripple and miserable, that hardly any meanes would drawe him to it. in the end, constrained by necessity, and labouring his wits for some apt device whereby he might have it: he concluded, though hee might not compell him to do it, yet by a practise shadowed with good reason to ensnare him. and having sent for him entertained him very familiarly in his court, and sitting downe by him, thus began. honest man, i have often heard it reported by many, that thou art very skilfull, and in cases concerning god, thou goest beyond all other of these times: wherefore, i would gladly be informed by thee, which of those three lawes or religions, thou takest to be truest; that of the jew, the other of the sarazen, or that of the christian? the jew, being a very wise man, plainly perceived, that _saladine_ sought to entrap him in his answer, and so to raise some quarrell against him. for, if he commended any one of those lawes above the other, he knew that _saladine_ had what he aymed at. wherefore, bethinking himselfe to shape such an answer, as might no way trouble or entangle him: summoning all his sences together, and considering, that dallying with the soldane might redound to his no meane danger, thus he replied. my lord, the question propounded by you, is faire and worthy, & to answer mine opinion truly thereof, doth necessarily require some time of consideration, if it might stand with your liking to allow it: but if not, let me first make entrance to my reply, with a pretty tale, and well worth the hearing. i have oftentimes heard it reported, that (long since) there was a very wealthy man, who (among other precious jewels of his owne) had a goodly ring of great valew; the beauty and estimation whereof, made him earnestly desirous to leave it as a perpetuall memory and honour to his successors. whereupon, he willed and ordained, that he among his male children, with whom this ring (being left by the father) should be found in custody after his death; hee and none other was to bee reputed his heire, and to be honoured and reverenced by all the rest, as being the prime and worthiest person. that sonne, to whom this ring was left by him, kept the same course to his posterity, dealing (in all respects) as his predecessor had done; so that (in short time) the ring (from hand to hand) had many owners by legacie. at length, it came to the hand of one, who had three sonnes, all of them goodly and vertuous persons, and verie obedient to their father: in which regard, he affected them all equally, without any difference or partiall respect. the custome of this ring being knowne to them, each one of them (coveting to beare esteeme above the other) desired (as hee could best make his meanes) his father, that in regard he was now grown very old, he would leave that ring to him, whereby he should bee acknowledged for his heire. the good man, who loved no one of them more then the other, knew not how to make his choise, nor to which of them he should leave the ring: yet having past his promise to them severally, he studied by what meanes to satisfie them all three. wherefore, secretly having conferred with a curious and excellent goldsmith, hee caused two other rings to bee made, so really resembling the first made ring, that himself (when he had them in his hand) could not distinguish which was the right one. lying upon his death-bed, and his sonnes then plying him by their best opportunities, he gave to each of them a ring. and they (after his death) presuming severally upon their right to the inheritance & honour, grew to great contradiction and square: each man producing then his ring, which were so truly all alike in resemblance, as no one could know the right ring from the other. and therefore, suite in law, to distinguish the true heire to his father; continued long time, and so it dooth yet to this very day. in like manner my good lord, concerning those three lawes given by god the father, to three such people as you have propounded: each of them do imagine that they have the heritage of god, and his true law, and also duely to performe his commandements; but which of them do so indeede, the question (as of the three ringes) is yet remaining. _saladine_ well perceyving, that the jew was too cunning to be caught in his snare, and had answered so well, that to doe him further violence, would redound unto his perpetuall dishonour; resolved to reveale his neede and extremity, and try if he would therein friendly sted him. having disclosed the matter, and how he purposed to have dealt with him, if he had not returned so wise an answer; the jew lent him so great a sum of money as hee demanded, and _saladine_ repayed it againe to him justly, giving him other great gifts beside: respecting him as his especiall friend, and maintaining him in very honourable condition, neere unto his owne person. _a monke, having committed an offence, deserving to be very grievously punished; freede himselfe from the paine to be inflicted on him, by wittily reprehending his abbot, with the very same fault._ the fourth novell. _wherein may be noted, that such men as will reprove those errors in others, which remaine in themselves, commonly are the authors of their owne reprehension._ so ceased madam _philomena_, after the conclusion of her tale, when _dioneus_ sitting next unto her, (without tarrying for any other command from the queene, knowing by the order formerly begunne, that he was to follow in the same course) spake in this manner. gracious ladies, if i faile not in understanding your generall intention; we are purposely assembled here to tell tales, and especially such as may please our selves. in which respect, because nothing should be done disorderly, i hold it lawfull for every one (as our queene decreed before her dignity) to relate such a novelty, as (in their owne judgement) may cause most contentment. wherefore having heard, that by the good admonitions of _jehannot de chevigny_, _abraham_ the jew was advised to the salvation of his soule, and _melchisedech_ (by his witty understanding) defended his riches from the traines of _saladine_: i now purpose to tell you in a few plaine words, (without feare of receiving any reprehension) how cunningly a monke compassed his deliverance, from a punishment intended towards him. there was in the country of _lunigiana_ (which is not farre distant from our owne) a monastery, which sometime was better furnished with holinesse and religion, then nowadayes they are; wherein lived (among divers other) a young novice monke, whose hot and lusty disposition (being in the vigour of his yeeres) was such, as neither fastes nor prayers had any great power over him. it chanced on a fasting day about high noone, when all the other monkes were asleepe in their dormitaries or dorters, this frolicke friar was walking alone in their church, which stood in a very solitary place, where ruminating on many matters by himselfe, hee espied a pretty hansome wench (some husbandmans daughter in the countrey, that had beene gathering rootes and hearbes in the field) uppon her knees before an altar, whom he had no sooner seene, but immediately hee felt effeminate temptations, and such as ill fitted with his profession. lascivious desire, and no religious devotion, made him draw neere her, and whether under shrift (the onely cloake to compasse carnall affections) or some other as close conference, to as pernicious and vile a purpose, i know not: but so farre he prevailed upon her frailety, and such a bargaine passed betweene them, that (from the church) he wonne her to his chamber, before any person could perceive it. now, while this yong lusty monke (transported with over-fond affection) was more carelesse of his dalliance, then he should have beene; the lord abbot, being newly arisen from sleepe, and walking softly about the cloyster, came to the monkes dorter doore, where hearing what noyse was made between them, and a feminine voyce, more strange then hee was wont to heare; he layed his eare close to the chamber doore, and plainly perceived, that a woman was within. wherewith being much moved, he intended suddenly to make him open the doore; but (upon better consideration) hee conceived it farre more fitting for him, to returne backe to his owne chamber, and tary untill the monke should come forth. the monke, though his delight with the damosel was extraordinary, yet feare and suspition followed upon it: for, in the very height of all his wantonnesse, he heard a soft treading about the doore. and prying thorow a small crevice in the same doore, perceived apparantly, that the abbot himselfe stood listening there, and could not be ignorant, but that the maide was with him in the chamber. as after pleasure ensueth paine, so the veneriall monke knew well enough (though wanton heate would not let him heede it before) that most greevous punishment must be inflicted on him; which made him sad beyond all measure. neverthelesse, without disclosing his dismay to the young maiden, he began to consider with himselfe on many meanes, whereby to find out one that might best fit his turne. and suddenly conceited an apt stratagem, which sorted to such effect as he would have it: whereupon seeming satisfied for that season, hee tolde the damosell, that (being carefull of her credit) as he had brought her in unseen of any, so he would free her from thence again, desiring her to tarrie there (without making any noyse at all) until such time as he returned to her. going forth of the chamber, and locking it fast with the key, he went directly to the lord abbots lodging, and delivering him the saide key (as every monke used to doe the like, when he went abroade out of the convent) setting a good countenance on the matter, boldly saide; my lord, i have not yet brought in all my part of the wood, which lieth ready cut downe in the forrest; and having now convenient time to doe it, if you please to give me leave, i will goe and fetch it. the abbot perswading himselfe, that he had not beene discovered by the monke, and to be resolved more assuredly in the offence committed; being not a little jocund of so happy an accident, gladly tooke the key, and gave him leave to fetch the wood. no sooner was he gone, but the abbot beganne to consider with himselfe, what he were best to doe in this case, either (in the presence of all the other monkes) to open the chamber doore, that so the offence being knowne to them all, they might have no occasion of murmuring against him, when he proceeded in the monkes punishment; or rather should first understand of the damosell her selfe, how, and in what manner shee was brought thither. furthermore, he considered, that shee might be a woman of respect, or some such mans daughter, as would not take it well, to have her disgraced before all the monkes. wherefore he concluded, first to see (himselfe) what shee was, and then (afterward) to resolve upon the rest. so going very softly to the chamber, and entring in, locked the doore fast with the key, when the poore damosell thinking it had beene the gallant young monke; but finding it to be the lord abbot, shee fell on her knees weeping, as fearing now to receive publike shame, by being betrayed in this unkinde manner. my lord abbot looking demurely on the maide, and perceiving her to be faire, feate, and lovely; felt immediately (although he was olde) no lesse spurring on to fleshly desires, then the young monke before had done; whereupon he beganne to conferre thus privately with himselfe. why should i not take pleasure, when i may freely have it? cares and molestations i endure every day, but sildome find such delights prepared for me. this is a delicate sweete young damosell, and here is no eye that can discover me. if i can enduce her to doe as i would have her, i know no reason why i should gaine-say it. no man can know it, or any tongue blaze it abroade; and sinne so concealed, is halfe pardoned. such a faire fortune as this is, perhaps hereafter will never befall me; and therefore i hold it wisedome, to take such a benefit when a man may enjoy it. upon this immodest meditation, and his purpose quite altered which he came for; he went neerer to her, and very kindly began to comfort her, desiring her to forbeare weeping, and (by further insinuating speeches) acquainted her with his amorous intention. the maide, who was made neither of yron nor diamond, and seeking to prevent one shame by another, was easily wonne to the abbots will, which caused him to embrace and kisse her often. our lusty young novice monke, whom the abbot imagined to be gone for wood, had hid himselfe aloft upon the roofe of the dorter, where, when he saw the abbot enter alone into the chamber, hee lost a great part of his former feare, promising to himselfe a kinde of perswasion, that somewhat would ensue to his better comfort; but when he beheld him lockt into the chamber, then his hope grew to undoubted certainty. a little chincke or crevice favoured him, whereat he could both heare and see, whatsoever was done or spoken by them: so, when the abbot thought hee had staide long enough with the damosell, leaving her still there, and locking the doore fast againe, hee returned thence to his owne chamber. within some short while after, the abbot knowing the monke to be in the convent, and supposing him to be lately returned with the wood, determined to reprove him sharpely, and to have him closely imprisoned, that the damosell might remaine solie to himselfe. and causing him to be called presently before him, with a very stearne and angry countenance giving him many harsh and bitter speeches, commanded, that he should be clapt in prison. the monke very readily answered, saying. my good lord, i have not yet beene so long in the order of saint _benedict_, as to learne all the particularities thereto belonging. and beside sir, you never shewed mee or any of my brethren, in what manner we young monkes ought to use women, as you have otherwise done for our custome of prayer and fasting. but seeing you have so lately therein instructed mee, and by your owne example how to doe it: i heere solemnely promise you, if you please to pardon me but this one error, i will never faile therein againe, but dayly follow what i have seene you doe. the abbot, being a man of quicke apprehension, perceived instantly by this answere; that the monke not onely knew as much as he did, but also had seene (what was intended) that hee should not. wherefore, finding himselfe to be as faulty as the monke, and that hee could not shame him, but worthily had deserved as much himselfe; pardoning him, and imposing silence on eithers offence: they convayed the poore abused damosell forth of their doores, she purposing (never after) to transgresse in the like manner. _the lady marquesse of_ montferrat, _with a banquet of hennes, and divers other gracious speeches beside, repressed the fond love of the king of_ france. the fift novell. _declaring, that wise and vertuous ladies, ought to hold their chastitie in more esteeme, then the greatnesse and treasures of princes: and that a discreete lord should not offer modestie violence._ the tale reported by _dioneus_, at the first hearing of the ladies, began to rellish of some immodestie, as the bashfull blood mounting up into their faces, delivered by apparant testimonie. and beholding one another with scarse-pleasing lookes, during all the time it was in discoursing, no sooner had hee concluded: but with a fewe milde and gentle speeches, they gave him a modest reprehension, and meaning to let him know, that such tales ought not to be tolde among women. afterward, the queene commaunded madame _fiammetta_, (sitting on a banke of flowers before her) to take her turne as next in order: and she, smiling with such a virgin-blush, as very beautifully became her, began in this manner. it is no little joy to me, that wee understand so well (by the discourses already past) what power consisteth in the delivery of wise and ready answeres; and because it is a great part offence and judgement in men, to affect women of great birth and quality, then themselves, as also an admirable fore-sight in women, to keepe off from being surprized in love, by lords going beyond them in degree: a matter offereth it selfe to my memory, well deserving my speech and your attention, how a gentlewoman (both in word and deede) should defend her honour in that kind, when importunity laboureth to betray it. the marquesse of _montferrat_ was a worthy and valiant knight, who being captaine generall for the church, the necessary service required his company on the seas, in a goodly army of the christians against the turkes. upon a day, in the court of king _philip_, sirnamed the one eyed king (who likewise made preparation in _france_, for a royall assistance to that expedition) as many speeches were delivered, concerning the valour and manhood of this marquesse: it fortuned, that a knight was then present, who knew him very familiarly, and hee gave an addition to the former commendation, that the whole world contained not a more equall couple in mariage, then the marquesse & his lady. for, as among all knights, the marquesse could hardly be paraleld for armes and honour; even so his wife, in comparison of all other ladies, was scarcely matchable for beauty and vertue. which words were so waighty in the apprehension of king _philip_, that suddainly (having as yet never seene her) he began to affect her very earnestly, concluding to embarque himselfe at _gennes_ or _genoua_, there to set forward on the intended voyage, and journeying thither by land: hee would shape some honest excuse to see the lady marquesse, whose lord being then from home, opinion perswaded him over-fondly, that he should easily obtaine the issue of his amorous desire. when hee was come within a dayes journey, where the lady marquesse then lay; he sent her word, that she should expect his company on the morrow at dinner. the lady, being singularly wise and judicious; answered the messenger, that she reputed the kings comming to her, as an extraordinary grace and favour, and that hee should be most heartily welcome. afterward, entring into further consideration with her selfe, what the king might meane by this private visitation, knowing her husband to be from home, and it to be no meane barre to his apter entertainement: at last she discreetly conceited (and therein was not deceived) that babling report of her beauty and perfections, might thus occasion the kings comming thither, his journy lying else a quite contrary way. notwithstanding, being a princely lady, and so loyall a wife as ever lived, shee intended to give him her best entertainement: summoning the chiefest gentlemen in the country together, to take due order (by their advise) for giving the king a gracious welcome. but concerning the dinner, and diet for service to his table; that remained onely at her owne disposing. sending presently abroade, and buying all the hennes that the country afforded; shee commaunded her cookes, that onely of them (without any other provision beside) they should prepare all the services that they could devise. on the morrow, the king came according to his promise, and was most honourable welcommed by the lady, who seemed in his eye (farre beyond the knights speeches of her) the fairest creature that ever he had seene before; whereat he mervailed not a little, extolling her perfections to be peerelesse, which much the more enflamed his affections, and (almost) made his desires impatient. the king being withdrawne into such chambers, as orderly were prepared for him, and as beseemed so great a prince: the houre of dinner drawing on, the king and the lady marquesse were seated at one table, and his attendants placed at other tables, answerable to their degrees of honour. plenty of dishes being served in, and the rarest wines that the countrey yeelded, the king had more minde to the faire lady marquesse, then any meate that stood on the table. neverthelesse, observing each service after other, and that all the viands (though variously cooked, and in divers kindes) were nothing else but hennes onely; he began to wonder, and so much the rather, because he knew the countrey to be of such quality, that it affoorded all plenty both of fowles and venyson: beside, after the time of his comming was heard, they had respite enough, both for hawking and hunting; and therefore it encreased his marvell the more, that nothing was provided for him, but hennes onely: wherein to be the better resolved, turning a merry countenance to the lady, thus he spake. madam, are hennes onely bred in this countrey, and no cockes? the lady marquesse, very well understanding his demand, which fitted her with an apt opportunity, to thwart his idle hope, and defend her owne honour; boldly returned the king this answere. not so my lord, but women and wives, howsoever they differ in garments and graces one from another; yet notwithstanding, they are all heere as they be in other places. when the king heard this reply, he knew well enough the occasion of his henne dinner, as also, what vertue lay couched under her answer; perceiving apparantly, that wanton words would prove but in vaine, and such a woman was not easily to be seduced; wherefore, as hee grew enamored on her inconsiderately, so he found it best fitting for his honour, to quench this heate with wisedome discreetely. and so, without any more words, or further hope of speeding in so unkingly a purpose, dinner being ended, by a sudden departing, he smoothly shadowed the cause of his comming, and thanking her for the honour shee had done him, commended her to her chaste disposition, and posted away with speede to _gennes_. _an honest plaine meaning man, (simply and conscionably) reprehended the malignity, hypocrisie, and misdemeanour of many religious persons._ the sixt novell. _declaring, that in few, discreete, and well placed words, the covered craft of church-men may be justly reproved, and their hypocrisie honestly discovered._ madam _æmilia_ sitting next to the gentle lady _fiammetta_, perceiving the modest chastisement, which the vertuous lady marquesse had given to the king of _france_, was generally graced by the whole assembly; began (after the queene had thereto appointed her) in these words. nor will i conceale the deserved reprehension, which an honest simple lay-man, gave to a covetous holy father, in very few words; yet more to be commended, then derided. not long since (worthy ladies) there dwelt in our owne native city, a friar minor, an inquisitor after matters of faith, who, although he laboured greatly to seeme a sanctified man, and an earnest affecter of christian religion, (as all of them appeare to be in outward shew;) yet he was a much better inquisitor after them, that had their purses plenteously stored with money, then of such as were slenderly grounded in faith. by which diligent continued care in him, he found out a man, more rich in purse, then understanding; and yet not so defective in matters of faith, as misguided by his owne simple speaking, and (perhaps) when his braine was well warmed with wine, words fell more foolishly from him, then in better judgement they could have done. being on a day in company, (very little differing in quality from himselfe) he chanced to say; that he had beene at such good wine, as god himselfe did never drinke better. which words (by some sicophant then in presence) being carried to this curious inquisitor, and he well knowing, that the mans faculties were great, and his bagges swolne up full with no meane abundance: _cum gladiis & fustibus_; with booke, bell, and candle, he raysed an hoast of execrations against him, and the sumner cited him with a solemne processe to appeare before him, understanding sufficiently, that this course would sooner fetch money from him, then amend any misbeliefe in the man; for no further reformation did he seeke after. the man comming before him, he demanded, if the accusation intimated against him, was true or no? whereto the honest man answered, that he could not denie the speaking of such words, and declared in what manner they were uttered. presently the inquisitor, most devoutly addicted to saint _john_ with the golden beard, saide; what? doest thou make our lord a drinker, and a curious quaffer of wines, as if he were a glutton, belly-god, or a taverne haunter, as thou, and other drunkards are. being an hypocrite, as thou art, thou thinkest this to be but a light matter, because it may seeme so in thine owne opinion: but i tell thee plainly, that it deserveth fire and faggot, if i should proceede in justice to inflict it on thee: with these, and other such like threatning words, as also a very stearn and angry countenance, he made the man believe himselfe to be an epicure, and that hee denied the eternity of the soule; whereby he fell into such a trembling feare, as doubting indeed, least he should be burned, that, to be more mercifully dealt withall, he rounded him in the eare, and (by secret means) so annointed his hands with saint _johns_ golden grease, (a very singular remedy against the disease pestilentiall in covetous priests, especially friars minors, that dare touch no money) as the case became very quickly altered. this soveraigne unction was of such vertue (though _galen_ speakes not a word thereof among all his chiefest medicines) and so farre prevailed; that the terrible threatening words of fire and fagot, became meerely frozen up, and gracious language blew a more gentle and calmer ayre; the inquisitor delivering him an hallowed crucifixe, creating him a souldier of the crosse (because he had payed crosses good store for it) and even as if he were to travell under that standard to the holy land; so did hee appoint him a home-paying pennance, namely, to visit him thrice every weeke in his chamber, and to annoint his hands with the selfe-same yellow unguent, and afterward, to heare a masse of the holy crosse, visiting him also at dinner time, which being ended, to doe nothing all the rest of the day, but according as he directed him. the simple man, yet not so simple, but seeing that this weekely greasing the inquisitors hands, would (in time) graspe away all his gold; grew weary of this annointing, and beganne to consider with himselfe, how to stay the course of this chargeable penance: and comming one morning, (according to his injunction) to heare masse, in the gospell he observed these wordes; _you shall receive an hundred for one, and so possesse eternall life_; which saying he kept perfectly in his memory, and, as hee was commanded, at dinner time, he came to the inquisitor, finding him (among his fellowes) seated at the table. the inquisitor presently demanded of him, whether he had heard masse that morning, or no? yes sir, replied the man very readily. hast thou heard any thing therein (quoth the inquisitor) whereof thou art doubtfull, or desirest to be further informed? surely sir, answered the plaine meaning man, i make no doubt of any thing i have heard, but doe beleeve all constantly; onely one thing troubleth me much, and maketh me very compassionate of you, and of all these holy fathers your brethren, perceiving in what wofull and wretched estate you will be, when you shall come into another world. what words are these, quoth the inquisitor? and why art thou moved to such compassion of us? o good sir, saide the man, doe you remember the words in the gospell this morning? you shall receive an hundred for one. that is very true, replied the inquisitor, but what moveth thee to urge those words? i will tell you sir, answered the plaine fellow, so it might please you to be not offended. since the time of my resorting hither, i have daily seene many poore people at your doore, and (out of your abundance) when you and your brethren have fed sufficiently, every one hath had a good messe of pottage: now sir, if for every dishfull given, you are sure to receive an hundred againe, you will all be meerely drowned in pottage. although the rest (sitting at the table with the inquisitor) laughed heartily at this jest; yet he found himselfe toucht in another nature, having (hypocritically) received for one poore offence, above three hundred peeces of gold, and not a mite to be restored againe. but fearing to be further disclosed, yet threatning him with another processe in law, for abusing the words of the gospell; he was content to dismisse him for altogether, without any more golden greasing in the hand. _bergamino, by telling a tale of a skilfull man, named_ primasso, _and of an abbot of clugni; honestly checked a new kinde of covetousnesse, in master_ can de la scala. the seaventh novell. _approving, that it is much unfitting for a prince, or great person, to be covetous; but rather to be liberall to all men._ the curteous demeanour of madam _æmilia_, and the quaintnesse of her discourse, caused both the queene, and the rest of the company, to commend the invention of carrying the crosse, and the golden oyntment appointed for pennance. afterward, _philostratus_, who was in order to speake next, began in this manner. it is a commendable thing (faire ladies) to hit a but that never stirreth out of his place: but it is a matter much more admirable, to see a thing (suddenly appearing, and sildome or never frequented before) to be as suddenly hit by an ordinary archer. the vicious and polluted lives of priests, yeeldeth matter of it selfe in many things, deserving speech and reprehension, as a true but of wickednesse, and well worthy to be sharply shot at. and therefore, though that honest meaning man did wisely, in touching master inquisitor to the quicke, with the hypocriticall charity of monkes and friars, in giving such things to the poore, as were more meete for swine, or to be worse throwne away; yet i hold him more to be commended, who (by occasion of a former tale, and which i purpose to relate) pleasantly reproved master _can de la scala_, a magnifico and mightie lord, for a sudden and unaccustomed covetousnesse appearing in him, figuring by other men, that which he intended to say of him, in manner following. master _can de la scala_, as fame ranne abroade of him in all places, was (beyond the infinite favours of fortune towards him) one of the most notable and magnificent lords that ever lived in _italy_, since the dayes of _fredericke_ the second emperour. he determining to procure a very solemne assembly at _verona_, and many people being met there from divers places, especially gentlemen of all degrees; suddenly (upon what occasion i know not) his minde altered, and hee would not goe forward with his intention. most of them hee partly recompenced which were come thither, and they dismissed to depart at their pleasure, one onely man remained unrespected, or in any kinde sort sent away, whose name was _bergamino_, a man very pleasantly disposed, and so wittily ready in speaking and answering, as none could easily credit it, but such as heard him; and although his recompence seemed over long delayed, yet hee made no doubt of a beneficiall ending. by some enemies of his, master _can de la scala_ was incensed, that whatsoever he gave or bestowed on him; was as ill imployed and utterly lost, as if it were throwne into the fire, and therefore he neither did or spake any thing to him. some fewe dayes being passed over, and _bergamino_ perceiving, that hee was neither called, nor any account made of, notwithstanding many manly good parts in him; observing beside, that hee found a shrewd consumption in his purse, his inne, horses, and servants being chargeable to him: he began to grow extremely melancholly, and yet hee attended in expectation day by day, as thinking it farre unfitting for him, to depart before he was bidden farewell. having brought with him thither three goodly rich garments, which had beene given him by sundry lords, for his more sightly appearance at this great meeting: the importunate host being greedy of payment, first he delivered him one of them, and yet not halfe the score being wiped off, the second must needes follow, and beside, except he meant to leave his lodging, hee must live upon the third so long as it would last, till hee saw what end his hopes would sort to. it fortuned, during the time of living thus upon his latest refuge, that he met with maister _can_ one day at dinner, where he presented himselfe before him, with a discontented countenance: which master _can_ well observing, more to distaste him, then take delight in any thing that could come from him, he said. _bergamino_, how chearest thou? thou art very melancholly, i pray thee tell us why? _bergamino_ suddenly, without any premeditation, yet seeming as if he had long considered thereon, reported this tale. sir, i have heard of a certaine man, named _primasso_, one skilfully learned in the grammar, and (beyond all other) a very witty and ready versifier: in regard whereof, he was so much admired, and farre renowned, that such as never saw him, but onely heard of him, could easily say, this is _primasso_. it came to passe, that being once at _paris_, in poore estate, as commonly hee could light on no better fortune (because vertue is slenderly rewarded, by such as have the greatest possessions) he heard much fame of the abbot of _clugni_, a man reputed (next to the pope) to be the richest prelate of the church. of him he heard wonderfull and magnificent matters, that he alwayes kept an open and hospitable court, and never made refusall of any (from whence so ever hee came or went) but they did eate and drinke freely there; provided, that they came when the abbot was set at the table. _primasso_ hearing this, and being an earnest desirer, to see magnificent and vertuous men; he resolved to goe see this rare bounty of the abbot, demaunding how far he dwelt from _paris_. being answered, about some three leagues thence; _primasso_ made account, that if he went on betimes in the morning, he should easily reach thither before the houre for dinner. being instructed in the way, and not finding any to walke along with him; fearing, if he went without some furnishment, and should stay long there for his dinner, he might (perhaps) complaine of hunger: he therefore caried three loaves of bread with him, knowing that he could meete with water every where, albeit he used to drinke but little. having aptly convayed his bread about him, he went on his journey, and arrived at the lord abbots court, an indifferent while before dinner time: wherefore, entring into the great hall, and so from place to place, beholding the great multitude of tables, bountifull preparation in the kitchin, and what admirable provision there was for dinner; he said to himselfe, truly this man is more magnificent, then fame hath made him, because shee speakes too sparingly of him. while thus he went about, considering on all these things, he saw the maister of the abbots houshold (because then it was the houre of dinner) commaund water to be brought for washing hands, and every one sitting downe at the table: it fell to the lot of _primasso_, to sit directly against the doore, whereat the abbot must enter into the hall. the custome in this court was such, that no foode should be served to any, of the tables, untill the lord abbot was himselfe first sette: whereupon, every thing being fitte and readie, the maister of the houshold, went to tell his lord, that nothing now wanted but his presence onely. the abbot comming from his chamber to enter the hall, looking about him, as hee was wont to doe; the first man hee saw was _primasso_, who being but in homely habite, and he having not seene him before to his remembrance; a present bad conceite possessed his braine, that he never saw an unworthier person, saying within himselfe: see how i give my goods away to be devoured. so returning backe to his chamber againe, commaunded the doore to be made fast, demaunding of every man neere about him, if they knew the base knave that sate before his entrance into the hall, and all his servants answered no. _primasso_ being extreamely hungry, with travailing on foote so farre, and never used to fast so long; expecting still when meate would be served in, and that the abbot came not at all: drew out one of his loaves which hee brought with him, and very heartily fell to feeding. my lord abbot, after he had stayed within an indifferent while, sent forth one of his men, to see if the poore fellow was gone, or no. the servant told him, that he still stayed there, and fed upon dry bread, which it seemed he had brought thither with him. let him feede on his owne (replyed the abbot) for he shall taste of none of mine this day. gladly wold the abbot, that _primasso_ should have gone thence of himselfe, and yet held it scarsely honest in his lordship, to dismisse him by his owne command. _primasso_ having eaten one of his loaves, and yet the abbot was not come; began to feede upon the second: the abbot still sending to expect his absence, and answered as he was before. at length, the abbot not comming, and _primasso_ having eaten up his second loafe, hunger compeld him to begin with the third. when these newes were carried to the abbot, sodainly he brake forth and saide. what new kinde of needy tricke hath my braine begotte this day? why do i grow disdainfull against any man whatsoever? i have long time allowed my meate to be eaten by all commers that did please to visit me, without exception against any person, gentleman, yeoman, poore or rich, marchant or minstrill, honest man or knave, never refraining my presence in the hall, by basely contemning one poore man. beleeve me, covetousnesse of one mans meate, doth ill agree with mine estate and calling. what though he appeareth a wretched fellow to mee? he may be of greater merit then i can imagine, and deserve more honour then i am able to give him. having thus discoursed with himselfe, he would needs understande of whence and what he was, and finding him to be _primasso_, come onely to see the magnificence which he had reported of him, knowing also (by the generall fame noysed every where of him) that he was reputed to bee a learned, honest, and ingenious man: he grew greatly ashamed of his own folly, and being desirous to make him an amends, strove many waies how to do him honour. when dinner was ended, the abbot bestowed honourable garments on him, such as beseemed his degree and merit, and putting good store of money in his purse, as also giving him a good horsse to ride on, left it at his owne free election, whether hee would stay there still with him, or depart at his pleasure. wherewith _primasso_ being highly contented, yeelding him the heartiest thankes he could devise to doe, returned to _paris_ on horse-back, albeit he came poorly thether on foot. master _can de la scala_, who was a man of good understanding, perceyved immediately (without any further interpretation) what _bergamino_ meant by this morall, and smiling on him, saide: _bergamino_, thou hast honestly expressed thy vertue and necessities, and justly reprooved mine avarice, niggardnesse, and base folly. and trust me _bergamino_, i never felt such a fit of covetousness come upon me, as this which i have dishonestly declared to thee: and which i will now banish from me, with the same correction as thou hast taught mee. so, having payed the host all his charges, redeeming also his robes or garments, mounting him on a good gelding, and putting plenty of crownes in his purse, hee referd it to his owne choise to depart, or dwell there still with him. _guillaume boursier, with a few quaint and familiar words, checkt the miserable covetousnesse of signior_ herminio de grimaldi. the eight novell. _which plainly declareth, that a covetous gentleman, is not worthy of any honour or respect._ madam _lauretta_, sitting next to _philostratus_, when she had heard the witty conceite of _bergamino_; knowing, that shee was to say somewhat, without injunction or command, pleasantly thus began. this last discourse (faire and vertuous company) induceth mee to tell you, how an honest courtier reprehended in like manner (and nothing unprofitably) base covetousnesse in a merchant of extraordinary wealth. which tale, although (in effect) it may seeme to resemble the former; yet perhaps, it will prove no lesse pleasing to you, in regard it sorted to as good an end. it is no long time since, that there lived in _genes_ or _geneway_, a gentleman named signior _herminio de grimaldi_, who (as every one wel knew) was more rich in inheritances, and ready summes of currant mony, then any other knowne citizen in _italy_. and as hee surpassed other men in wealth, so did he likewise excell them in wretched avarice, being so miserably greedy and covetous, as no man in the world could be more wicked that way; because, not onely he kept his purse lockt up from pleasuring any, but denied needful things to himself, enduring many miseries & distresses, onely to avoide expences, contrary to the _genewayes_ generall custome, who alwayes delighted to be decently cloathed, and to have their dyet of the best. by reason of which most miserable basenesse, they tooke from him the sir-name of _grimaldi_, whereof hee was in right descended: and called him master _herminio_ the covetous mizer, a nickname very notably agreeing with his gripple nature. it came to passe, that in this time of his spending nothing, but multiplying daily by infinite meanes, that a civill honest gentleman (a courtier, of ready wit, and discoursive in languages) came to _geneway_, being named _guillaume boursier_. a man very farre differing from divers courtiers in these dayes, who for soothing shamefull and gracelesse manners, in such as allow them maintenance, are called and reputed to bee gentlemen, yea especiall favourites: whereas much more worthily, they should be accounted as knaves and villaines, being borne and bred in all filthinesse, and skilfull in every kinde of basest behaviour, not fit to come in princes courts. for, whereas in passed times, they spent their dayes and paines in making peace, when gentlemen were at warre or dissention, or treating on honest marriages, betweene friends and familiars, & (with loving speeches) would recreate disturbed mindes, desiring none but commendable exercises in court, and sharpely reprooving (like fathers) disordred life, or ill actions in any, albeit with recompence little, or none at all: these upstarts now adayes, employ all their paines in detractions, sowing questions and quarrels betweene one another, making no spare of lyes & falshoods. nay which is worse, they will do this in the presence of any man, upbraiding him with injuries, shames, and scandals (true or not true) upon the very least occasion. and by false and deceitfull flatteries and villanies of their own inventing, they make gentlemen to become as vile as themselves. for which detestable qualities, they are better beloved and respected of theyr misdemeanour'd lords, and recompenced in more bountifull manner, then men of vertuous carriage and desert. which is an argument sufficient, that goodnesse is gone up to heaven, and hath quite forsaken these loathed lower regions, where men are drowned in the mud of all abhominable vices. but returning where i left (being led out of my way by a just and religious anger against such deformity) this gentleman, master _guillaume boursier_, was willingly seene, and gladly welcommed by all the best men in _geneway_. having remayned some few dayes in the city, & (among other matters) heard much talke of the miserable covetousness of master _herminio_, he grew verie desirous to have a sight of him. master _herminio_ had already understood, that this gentleman, master _guillaume boursier_, was vertuously disposed, and (how covetously soever he was inclined) having in him some sparkes of noble nature; gave him very good words, and gracious entertainement, discoursing with him on divers occasions. in company of other _genewayes_ with him, he brought him to a new erected house of his, a building of great cost and beauty, where, after he had shewen him all the variable rarities, he beganne thus. master _guillaume_, no doubt but you have heard and seene many things, and you can instruct me in some quaint conceit or devise, to be fairely figured in painting, at the entrance into the great hall of my house. master _guillaume_ hearing him speake so simply, returned him this answere; sir, i cannot advise you in any thing, so rare or unseen as you talke of: but how to sneeze (after a new manner) upon a full and overcloyed stomacke, to avoide base humours that stupifie the braine, or other matters of the like quality. but if you would be taught a good one indeede, and had a disposition to see it fairely effected; i could instruct you in an excellent embleme, wherewith (as yet) you never came acquainted. master _herminio_ hearing him say so, and expecting no such answere as he had saide; good master _guillaume_, tell me what it is, and on my faith i will have it fairely painted. whereto master _guillaume_ suddenly replied: doe nothing but this sir; paint over the portall at your halles entrance, the lively picture of liberality, to bid all your friends better welcome, then hitherto they have beene. when master _herminio_ heard these words, he became possessed with such a sudden shame, that his complexion changed from the former palenesse, and answered thus. master _guillaume_, i will have your advice so truly figured over my gate, and shee shall give so good welcome to all my guests, that both you, and all these gentlemen shall say; i have both seene her, and am become reasonably acquainted with her. from that time forward, the words of master _guillaume_ were so effectuall with signior _herminio_, that he became the most bountifull and best house-keeper, which lived in his time in _geneway_; no man more honouring and friendly welcoming both strangers and citizens, then he continually used to doe. _the king of cyprus was wittily reprehended, by the words of a gentlewoman of gascoignie, and became vertuously altered from his vicious disposition._ the ninth novell. _giving all men to understand, that justice is necessary in a king, above all things else whatsoever._ the last command of the queene, remained upon madam _elissa_, or _eliza_, who without any delaying, thus beganne. young ladies, it hath often beene seene, that much paine hath beene bestowed, and many reprehensions spent in vaine, till a word happening at adventure, and perhaps not purposely determined, hath effectually done the deede: as appeareth by the tale of madam _lauretta_, and another of mine owne, wherewith i intend briefly to acquaint you, approving, that when good words are discreetly observed, they are of soveraigne power and vertue. in the dayes of the first king of _cyprus_, after the conquest made in the holy land by _godfrey_ of _bullen_, it fortuned, that a gentlewoman of _gascoignie_, travelling in pilgrimage, to visit the sacred sepulcher in _jerusalem_, returning home againe, arrived at _cyprus_, where shee was villanously abused by certaine base wretches. complaining thereof, without any comfort or redresse, shee intended to make her moane to the king of the countrey. whereupon it was tolde her, that therein shee should but loose her labour, because hee was so womanish, and faint-hearted; that not onely he refused to punish with justice the offences of others, but also suffered shamefull injuries done to himselfe. and therefore, such as were displeased by his negligence, might easily discharge their spleene against him, and doe him what dishonour they would. when the gentlewoman heard this, despairing of any consolation, or revenge for her wrongs, shee resolved to checke the kings deniall of justice, and comming before him weeping, spake in this manner. sir, i presume not into your presence, as hoping to have redresse by you, for divers dishonourable injuries done unto me; but, as a full satisfaction for them, doe but teach me how you suffer such vile abuses, as daily are offered to your selfe. to the ende, that being therein instructed by you, i may the more patiently beare mine owne; which (as god knoweth) i would bestow on you very gladly, because you know so well how to endure them. the king, who (till then) had beene very bad, dull, and slothfull, even as sleeping out his time of governement; beganne to revenge the wrongs done to this gentlewoman very severely, and (thenceforward) became a most sharpe justicer, for the least offence offered against the honour of his crowne, or to any of his subjects beside. _master_ albert _of bullen, honestly made a lady to blush, that thought to have done as much to him, because shee perceived him, to be amorously affected towards her._ the tenth novell. _wherein is declared, that honest love agreeth with people of all ages._ after that madam _eliza_ sate silent, the last charge and labour of the like employment, remained to the queene her selfe; whereupon shee beganne thus to speake: honest and vertuous young ladies, like as the starres (when the ayre is faire and cleere) are the adorning and beauty of heaven, and flowers (while the spring time lasteth) doe graciously embellish the meadowes; even so sweete speeches and pleasing conferences, to passe the time with commendable discourses, are the best habit of the minde, and an outward beauty to the body: which ornament of words, when they appeare to be short and sweete, are much more seemely in women, then in men; because long and tedious talking (when it may be done in lesser time) is a greater blemish in women, then in men. among us women, this day, i thinke few or none have therein offended, but as readily have understood short and pithy speeches, as they have beene quicke and quaintly delivered. but when answering suteth not with understanding, it is generally a shame in us, and all such as live; because our moderne times have converted that vertue, which was within them who lived before us, into garments of the bodie, and shew whose habites were noted to bee most gaudie, fullest of imbroyderies, and fantastick fashions: she was reputed to have most matter in her, and therefore to be more honoured and esteemed. never considering, that whosoever loadeth the backe of an asse, or puts upon him the richest braverie; he becommeth not thereby a jote the wiser, or merriteth any more honour then an asse should have. i am ashamed to speake it, because in detecting other, i may (perhaps) as justly taxe my selfe. such imbroydered bodies, tricked and trimmed in such boasting bravery, are they any thing else but as marble statues, dumbe, dull, and utterly insensible? or if (perchaunce) they make an answere, when some question is demaunded of them; it were much better for them to be silent. for defence of honest devise and conference among men and women, they would have the world to thinke, that it proceedeth but from simplicity and precise opinion, covering their owne folly with the name of honesty: as if there were no other honest woman, but shee that conferres onely with her chamber-maide, laundresse, or kitchin-woman, as if nature had allowed them (in their owne idle conceite) no other kinde of talking. most true it is, that as there is a respect to be used in the action of other things; so, time and place are necessarily to be considered, and also whom we converse withall; because sometimes it happeneth, that a man or woman, intending (by a word of jest and merriment) to make another body blush or be ashamed: not knowing what strength of wit remaineth in the opposite, doe convert the same disgrace upon themselves. therefore, that we may the more advisedly stand upon out owne guard, and to prevent the common proverbe, _that women (in all things) make choyse of the woorst:_ i desire that this dayes last tale, which is to come from my selfe, may make us all wise. to the end, that as in gentlenesse of minde we conferre with other; so by excellency in good manners, we may shew our selves not inferiour to them. it is not many yeares since (worthy assembly) that in _bulloigne_ there dwelt a learned physitian, a man famous for skill, and farre renowned, whose name was master _albert_, and being growne aged, to the estimate of threescore and tenne yeares: hee had yet such a sprightly disposition, that though naturall heate and vigour had quite shaken hands with him, yet amorous flames and desires had not wholly forsaken him. having seene (at a banquet) a very beautifull woman, being then in the estate of widdowhood, named (as some say) madame _margaret de chisolieri_, shee appeared so pleasing in his eye; that his sences became no lesse disturbed, then as if he had beene of farre younger temper, and no night could any quietnesse possesse his soule, except (the day before) he had seene the sweet countenance of this lovely widdow. in regard whereof, his dayly passage was by her doore, one while on horsebacke, and then againe on foote; as best might declare his plaine purpose to see her. both shee and other gentlewomen, perceiving the occasion of his passing and repassing; would privately jest thereat together, to see a man of such yeares and discretion, to be amorously addicted, or over-swayed by effeminate passions. for they were partly perswaded, that such wanton ague fits of love, were fit for none but youthfull apprehensions, as best agreeing with their chearefull complexion. master _albert_ continuing his dayly walkes by the widdowes lodging, it chaunced upon a feastivall day, that shee (accompanied with divers other women of great account) being sitting at her doore; espied master _albert_ (farre off) comming thitherward, and a resolved determination among themselves was set downe, to allow him favourable entertainement, and to jest (in some merry manner) at his loving folly, as afterward they did indeede. no sooner was he come neere, but they all arose, and courteously invited him to enter with them, conducting him into a goodly garden, where readily was prepared choyse of delicate wines and banquetting. at length, among other pleasant and delightfull discourses, they demanded of him: how it was possible for him, to be amorously affected towards so beautifull a woman, both knowing and seeing, how earnestly she was sollicited by many gracious, gallant, and youthfull spirits, aptly suting with her yeares and desires? master _albert_ perceiving, that they had drawne him in among them, onely to scoffe and make a mockery of him; set a merry countenance on the matter, and honestly thus answered. beleeve mee gentlewoman (speaking to the widdowe her selfe) it should not appeare strange to any of wisedome and discretion, that i am amorously enclined, and especially to you, because you are well worthy of it. and although those powers, which naturally appertaine to the exercises of love, are bereft and gone from aged people; yet goodwill thereto cannot be taken from them, neither judgement to know such as deserve to be affected: for, by how much they exceede youth in knowledge and experience, by so much the more hath nature made them meet for respect and reverence. the hope which incited me (being aged) to love you, that are affected of so many youthfull gallants, grew thus. i have often chaunced into divers places, where i have seene ladies and gentlewomen, being disposed to a collation or rere-banquet after dinner, to feede on lupines, and young onions or leekes, and although it may be so, that there is little or no goodnesse at all in them; yet the heads of them are least hurtfull, and most pleasing in the mouth. and you gentlewomen generally (guided by unreasonable appetite) will hold the heads of them in your hands, and feede upon the blades or stalkes; which not onely are not good for any thing, but also are of very bad savour. and what know i (lady) whether among the choise of friends, it may fit your fancy to doe the like? for, if you did so, it were no fault of mine to be chosen of you, but thereby were all the rest of your suters the sooner answered. the widdowed gentlewoman, and all the rest in her company, being bashfully ashamed of her owne and their folly, presently said. master _albert_, you have both well and worthily chastised our over-bold presumption, and beleeve mee sir, i repute your love and kindnesse of no meane merit, comming from a man so wise and vertuous: and therefore (mine honour reserved) commaund my uttermost, as alwayes ready to do you any honest service. master _albert_, arising from his seat, thanking the faire widdow for her gentle offer; tooke leave of her and all the company, and she blushing, as all the rest were therein not much behinde her, thinking to checke him, became chidden her selfe, whereby (if wee be wise) let us all take warning. the sunne was now somewhat farre declined, and the heates extremity well worne away, when the tales of the seaven ladies and three gentlemen were thus finished, whereupon their queene pleasantly said. for this day (faire company) there remaineth nothing more to be done under my regiment, but onely to bestow a new queene upon you, who (according to her judgement) must take her turne, and dispose what next is to be done, for continuing our time in honest pleasure. and although the day should endure till darke night, in regard, that when some time is taken before, the better preparation may be made for occasions to follow, to the end also, that whatsoever the new queene shall please to appoint, may be the better fitted for the morrow: i am of opinion, that at the same houre as we now cease, the following dayes shall severally begin. and therefore, in reverence to him that giveth life to all things, and in hope of comfort by our second day; madame _philomena_, a most wise young lady, shall governe as queene this our kingdome. so soone as she had thus spoken, arising from her seate of dignity, and taking the lawrell crowne from off her owne head; she reverently placed it upon madame _philomenaes_, she first of all humbly saluting her, and then all the rest, openly confessing her to be their queene, made gracious offer to obey whatsoever she commaunded. _philomena_, her cheekes delivering a scarlet tincture, to see her selfe thus honoured as their queene, and well remembring the words, so lately uttered by madame _pampinea_; that dulnesse or neglect might not be noted in her, tooke cheerefull courage to her, and first of all, she confirmed the officers, which _pampinea_ had appointed the day before, then shee ordained for the morrowes provision, as also for the supper so neere approaching, before they departed away from thence, and then thus began. lovely companions, although that madam _pampinea_, more in her owne courtesie, then any matter of merit remaining in mee, hath made me your queene: i am not determined, to alter the forme of our intended life, nor to be guided by mine owne judgement, but to associate the same with your assistance. and because you may know what i intend to do, and so (consequently) adde or diminish at your pleasure; in verie few words, you shall plainly understand my meaning. if you have well considered on the course, which this day hath bene kept by madam _pampinea_, me thinkes it hath bene very pleasing and commendable; in which regard, untill by over-tedious continuation, or other occasions of irkesome offence, it shall seeme injurious, i am of the minde, not to alter it. holding on the order then as we have begun to do, we will depart from hence to recreate our selves awhile, and when the sun groweth towards setting, we will sup in the fresh and open ayre: afterward, with canzonets and other pastimes, we will out-weare the houres till bed time. to morrow morning, in the fresh and gentle breath thereof, we will rise & walke to such places, as every one shall finde fittest for them, even as already this day we have done; untill due time shall summon us hither againe, to continue our discoursive tales, wherein (me thinkes) consisteth both pleasure and profit, especially by discreete observation. very true it is, that some things which madam _pampinea_ coulde not accomplish, by reason of her so small time of authority, i will beginne to undergo, to wit, in restraining some matters whereon we are to speake, that better premeditation may passe upon them. for, when respite and a little leysure goeth before them, each discourse will savour of the more formality; and if it might so please you, thus would i direct the order. as since the beginning of the world, all men have bene guided (by fortune) thorow divers accidents and occasions: so beyond all hope & expectation, the issue and successe hath bin good and succesfull, and accordingly should every one of our arguments be chosen. the ladies, and the yong gentlemen likewise, commended her advice, and promised to imitate it; onely _dioneus_ excepted, who when every one was silent, spake thus. madam, i say as all the rest have done, that the order by you appointed, is most pleasing and worthy to bee allowed. but i intreate one speciall favour for my selfe, and to have it confirmed to me, so long as our company continueth; namely, that i may not be constrained to this law of direction, but to tell my tale at liberty, after mine owne minde, and according to the freedome first instituted. and because no one shall imagine, that i urge this grace of you, as being unfurnished of discourses in this kinde, i am well contented to be the last in every dayes exercise. the queene, knowing him to be a man full of mirth and matter, began to consider very advisedly, that he would not have mooved this request, but onely to the end, that if the company grew wearied by any of the tales re-counted, hee would shut uppe the dayes disport with some mirthfull accident. wherefore willingly, and with consent of al the rest he had his suite granted. so, arising all, they walked to a christall river, descending downe a little hill into a vally, graciously shaded with goodly trees; where washing both their hands and feete, much pretty pleasure passed among them; till supper time drawing nere, made them returne home to the palace. when supper was ended, and bookes and instruments being laide before them, the queene commanded a dance, & that madam _æmilia_, assisted by madam _lauretta_ and _dioneus_, shold sing a sweet ditty. at which command, _lauretta_ undertooke the dance, and led it, _æmilia_ singing this song ensuing. _the song. so much delight my beauty yeelds to mee, that any other love, to wish or prove; can never sute it selfe with my desire. therein i see, upon good observation, what sweete content due understanding lends: olde or new thoughts cannot in any fashion rob me of that, which mine owne soule commends. what object then, (mongst infinites of men) can i ever finde to dispossesse my minde, and plant therein another new desire? so much delight, &c. but were it so, the blisse that i would chuse, is, by continuall sight to comfort me: so rare a presence never to refuse, which mortall tongue or thought, what ere it be; must still conceale, not able to reveale, such a sacred sweete, for none other meete, but hearts enflamed with the same desire. so much delight, &c._ the song being ended, the chorus whereof was aunswered by them all, it passed with generall applause: and after a few other daunces, the night being well run on, the queene gave ending to this first dayes recreation. so, lights being brought, they departed to their severall lodgings, to take their rest till the next morning. _the end of the first day._ the second day. _wherein, all the discourses are under the government of madam philomena: concerning such men or women, as (in divers accidents) have beene much molested by fortune, and yet afterward, contrary to their hope and expectation, have had a happy and successefull deliverance._ already had the bright sunne renewed the day every where with his splendant beames, and the birds sate merrily singing on the blooming branches, yeelding testimony thereof to the eares of all hearers; when the seven ladies, and the three gentlemen (after they were risen) entered the gardens, and there spent some time in walking, as also making of nose-gayes and chaplets of flowers. and even as they had done the day before, so did they now follow the same course; for, after they had dined, in a coole and pleasing aire they fell to dancing, and then went to sleepe awhile, from which being awaked, they tooke their places (according as it pleased the queene to appoint) in the same faire meadow about her. and she, being a goodly creature, and highly pleasing to beholde, having put on her crowne of laurell, and giving a gracious countenance to the whole company; commanded madam _neiphila_ that her tale should begin this daies delight. whereupon she, without returning any excuse or deniall, began in this manner. martellino _counterfetting to be lame of his members, caused himselfe to be set on the body of saint_ arriguo, _where he made shew of his sudden recovery; but when his dissimulation was discovered, he was well beaten, being afterward taken prisoner, and in great danger of being hanged and strangled by the necke, and yet he escaped in the ende._ the first novell. _wherein is signified, how easie a thing it is, for wicked men to deceive the world, under the shadow and colour of miracles: and that such trechery (oftentimes) redoundeth to the harme of the deviser._ faire ladies, it hath happened many times, that hee who striveth to scorne and floute other men, and especially in occasions deserving to be respected, proveth to mocke himselfe with the selfe-same matter, yea, and to his no meane danger beside. as you shall perceive by a tale, which i intend to tell you, obeying therein the command of our queene, and according to the subject by her enjoyned. in which discourse, you may first observe, what great mischance happened to one of our citizens; and yet afterward, how (beyond all hope) he happily escaped. not long since there lived in the city of _trevers_, an _almaine_ or _germaine_, named _arriguo_, [sidenote: or arrigo.] who being a poore man, served as a porter, or burden-bearer for money, when any man pleased to employ him. and yet, notwithstanding his poore and meane condition, he was generally reputed, to be of good and sanctified life. in which regard (whether it were true or no, i know not) it happened, that when he died (at least as the men of _trevers_ themselves affirmed) in the very instant houre of his departing, all the belles in the great church of _trevers_, (not being pulled by the helpe of any hand) beganne to ring: which being accounted for a miracle, every one saide; that this _arriguo_ had been, and was a saint. and presently all the people of the city ran to the house where the dead body lay, and carried it (as a sanctified body) into the great church, where people, halt, lame, and blinde, or troubled with any other diseases, were brought about it, even as if every one should forth-with be holpen, onely by their touching the bodie. it came to passe, that in so great a concourse of people, as resorted thither from all parts; three of our cittizens went to _trevers_, one of them being named _stechio_, the second _martellino_, and the third _marquiso_, all being men of such condition, as frequented princes courts, to give them delight by pleasant & counterfeited qualities. none of these men having ever beene at _trevers_ before, seeing how the people crowded thorow the streetes, wondred greatly thereat: but when they knew the reason, why the throngs ranne on heapes in such sort together, they grew as desirous to see the shrine, as any of the rest. having ordered all affaires at their lodging, _marquiso_ saide; it is fit for us to see this saint, but i know not how we shall attaine thereto, because (as i have heard) the place is guarded by germane souldiers, and other warlike men, commanded thither by the governours of this city, least any outrage should be there committed: and beside, the church is so full of people, as wee shall never compasse to get neere. _martellino_ being also as forward in desire to see it, presently replied: all this difficulty cannot dismay me, but i will goe to the very body of the saint it selfe. but how? quoth _marquiso_. i will tell thee, answered _martellino_. i purpose to goe in the disguise of an impotent lame person, supported on the one side by thy selfe, and on the other by _stechio_, as if i were not able to walke of my selfe: and you two thus sustaining me, desiring to come neere the saint to cure me; every one will make way, and freely give you leave to goe on. this devise was very pleasing to _marquiso_ and _stechio_, so that (without any further delaying) they all three left their lodging, and resorting into a secret corner aside, _martellino_ so writhed and mishaped his hands, fingers, and armes, his legges, mouth, eyes, and whole countenance, that it was a dreadfull sight to looke upon him, and whosoever beheld him, would verily have imagined, that hee was utterly lame of his limbes, and greatly deformed in his body. _marquiso_ and _stechio_, seeing all sorted so well as they could wish, tooke and led him towards the church, making very pitious moane, and humbly desiring (for gods sake) of every one that they met, to grant them free passage, whereto they charitably condiscended. thus leading him on, crying still; beware there before, and give way for gods sake, they arrived at the body of saint _arriguo_, that (by his helpe) he might be healed. and while all eyes were diligently observing, what miracle would be wrought on _martellino_, hee having sitten a small space upon the saints bodie, and being sufficiently skilfull in counterfeiting; beganne first to extend forth one of his fingers, next his hand, then his arme, and so (by degrees) the rest of his body. which when the people saw, they made such a wonderfull noyse in praise of saint _arriguo_, even as if it had thundered in the church. now it chanced by ill fortune, that there stood a _florentine_ neere to the body, who knew _martellino_ very perfectly; but appearing so monstrously misshapen, when he was brought into the church, hee could take no knowledge of him. but when he saw him stand up and walke, hee knew him then to be the man indeede; whereupon he saide. how commeth it to passe, that this fellow should be so miraculously cured, that never truly was any way impotent? certaine men of the city hearing these words, entred into further questioning with him, demanding, how he knew that the man had no such imperfection? well enough (answered the _florentine_) i know him to be as direct in his limbes and body, as you; i, or any of us all are: but indeede, he knowes better how to dissemble counterfeit trickes, then any man else that ever i saw. when they heard this, they discoursed no further with the _florentine_, but pressed on mainely to the place where _martellino_ stood, crying out aloude. lay holde on this traytor, a mocker of god, and his holy saints, that had no lamenesse in his limbes; but to make a mocke of our saint and us, came hither in false and counterfeit manner. so laying hands uppon him, they threw him against the ground, haling him by the haire on his head, and tearing the garments from his backe, spurning him with their feete, and beating him with their fists, that many were much ashamed to see it. poore _martellino_ was in a pittifull case, crying out for mercy, but no man would heare him; for, the more he cried, the more still they did beat him, as meaning to leave no life in him, which _stechio_ and _marquiso_ seeing, considered with themselves, that they were likewise in a desperate case; and therefore, fearing to be as much misused, they cryed out among the rest; kill the counterfeit knave, lay on loade, and spare him not; neverthelesse, they tooke care how to get him out of the peoples handes, as doubting, least they would kill him indeede, by their extreame violence. sodainly, _marquiso_ bethought him how to do it, and proceeded thus. all the sergeants for justice standing at the church doore, hee ran with all possible speede to the _potestates_ lieutenant, and said unto him. good my lord justice, helpe me in an hard case; yonder is a villaine that hath cut my purse, i desire he may bee brought before you, that i may have my money againe. he hearing this, sent for a dozen of the sergeants, who went to apprehend unhappy _martellino_, and recover him from the peoples fury, leading him on with them to the palace, no meane crowds thronging after him, when they heard that he was accused to bee a cut-purse. now durst they meddle no more with him, but assisted the officers; some of them charging him in like manner, that he had cut theyr purses also. upon these clamours and complaints, the _potestates_ lieutenant (being a man of rude quality) tooke him sodainly aside, and examined him of the crimes wherewith he was charged. but _martellino_, as making no account of these accusations, laughed, and returned scoffing answeres. whereat the judge, waxing much displeased, delivered him over to the strappado, and stood by himselfe, to have him confesse the crimes imposed on him, and then to hang him afterward. beeing let downe to the ground, the judge still demaunded of him, whether the accusations against him were true, or no? affirming, that it nothing avayled him to deny it: whereupon hee thus spake to the judge. my lord, i am heere ready before you, to confesse the truth; but i pray you, demaund of all them that accuse me, when and where i did cut their purses, & then i will tell you that, which (as yet) i have not done, otherwise i purpose to make you no more answers. well (quoth the judge) thou requirest but reason; & calling divers of the accusers, one of them saide, that he lost his purse eight dayes before; another saide six, another foure, and some saide the very same day. which _martellino_ hearing, replyed. my lord, they al lie in their throats, as i will plainly prove before you. i would to god i had never set foote within this city, as it is not many houres since my first entrance, and presently after mine arrivall, i went (in an evill houre i may say for me) to see the saints body, where i was thus beaten as you may beholde. that all this is true which i say unto you, the seigneuries officer that keeps your booke of presentations, will testifie for me, as also the host where i am lodged. wherefore good my lord, if you finde all no otherwise, then as i have said, i humbly entreate you, that upon these bad mens reportes and false informations, i may not be thus tormented, and put in perill of my life. while matters proceeded in this manner, _marquiso_ and _stechio_, understanding how roughly the _potestates_ lieutenant dealt with _martellino_ and that he had already given him the strappado; were in heavy perplexity, saying to themselves; we have carried this businesse very badly, redeeming him out of the frying-pan, and flinging him into the fire. whereupon, trudging about from place to place, & meeting at length with their host, they told him truly how all had happened, whereat hee could not refraine from laughing. afterward, he went with them to one master _alexander agolante_, who dwelt in _trevers_, and was in great credite with the cities cheefe magistrate, to whom hee related the whole discourse; all three earnestly entreating him, to commisserate the case of poore _martellino_. master _alexander_, after he had laughed heartily at this hotte peece of service, went with him to the lord of _trevers_; prevailing so well with him, that he sent to have _martellino_ brought before him. the messengers that went for him, found him standing in his shirt before the judge, very shrewdly shaken with the strappado, trembling and quaking pittifully. for the judge would not heare any thing in his excuse; but hating him (perhaps) because hee was a florentine: flatly determined to have him hangde by the necke, and would not deliver him to the lorde, untill in meere despight he was compeld to do it. the lord of _trevers_, when _martellino_ came before him, and had acquainted him truly with every particular: master _alexander_ requested, that he might be dispatched thence for _florence_, because he thought the halter to be about his necke, and that there was no other helpe but hanging. the lord, smiling (a long while) at the accident, & causing _martellino_ to be handsomely apparrelled, delivering them also his passe, they escaped out of further danger, and tarried no where, till they came unto _florence_. _rinaldo de este, after he was robbed by theeves, arrived at chasteau guillaume, where he was friendly lodged by a faire widdow, and recompenced likewise for all his losses; returning afterward safe and well home into his owne house._ the second novell. _whereby wee may learne, that such things as sometime seeme hurtfull to us, may turne to our benefit and commodity._ much merriment was among the ladies, hearing this tale of _martellinos_ misfortunes, so familiarly reported by madam _neiphila_, and of the men, it was best respected by _philostratus_, who sitting neerest unto _neiphila_, the queene commanded his tale to be the next, when presently he began to speake thus. gracious ladies, i am to speake of universall occasions, mingled with some misfortunes in part, and partly with matters leaning to love: as many times may happen to such people, that trace the dangerous pathes of amorous desires, or have not learned perfectly, to say s. _julians pater noster_, having good beds of their owne, yet (casually) meete with worser lodging. in the time of _azzo_, marquesse of _ferrara_, there was a marchant named _rinaldo de este_, who being one day at _bologna_, about some especiall businesse of his owne; his occasions there ended, and riding from thence towards _verona_, he fell in company with other horsemen, seeming to be merchants like himselfe; but indeede were theeves, men of most badde life and conversation; yet he having no such mistrust of them, rode on, conferring with them very familiarly. they perceiving him to be a merchant, and likely to have some store of money about him, concluded betweene themselves to rob him, so soone as they found apt place and opportunity. but because he should conceive no such suspition, they rode on like modest men, talking honestly & friendly with him, of good parts and disposition appearing in him, offering him all humble and gracious service, accounting themselves happy by his companie, as hee returned the same courtesie to them, because he was alone, and but one servant with him. falling from one discourse to another, they began to talke of such prayers, as men (in journey) use to salute god withall; and one of the theeves (they being three in number), spake thus to _rinaldo_. sir, let it be no offence to you, that i desire to know, what prayer you most use when thus you travell on the way? whereto _rinaldo_ replyed in this manner. to tell you true sir, i am a man grosse enough in such divine matters, as medling more with marchandize, then i do with bookes. neverthelesse, at all times when i am thus in journey, in the morning before i depart my chamber, i say a _pater noster_ and an _ave maria_, for the souls of the father and mother of saint _julian_, and after that, i pray god and s. _julian_ to send me a good lodging at night. and let me tell you sir, that very oftentimes heeretofore, i have met with many great dangers upon the way, from all which i still escaped, and evermore (when night drewe on) i came to an exceeding good lodging. which makes mee firmely beleeve, that saint _julian_ (in honour of whom i speake it) hath begd of god such great grace for me; and mee thinkes, that if any day i should faile of this prayer in the morning: i cannot travaile securely, nor come to a good lodging. no doubt then sir (quoth the other) but you have saide that prayer this morning? i would be sorry else, saide _rinaldo_, such an especiall matter is not to be neglected. he and the rest, who had already determined how to handle him before they parted, saide within themselves: looke thou hast said thy praier, for when we have thy money, saint _julian_ and thou shift for thy lodging. afterward, the same man thus againe conferd with him. as you sir, so i have ridden many journies, and yet i never used any such praier, although i have heard it very much commended, and my lodging hath prooved never the worser. perhaps this verie night will therein resolve us both, whether of us two shall be the best lodged; you that have sayde the prayer, or i that never used it at all. but i must not deny, that in sted thereof, i have made use of some verses, as _dirupisti_, or the _jutemerata_, or _deprofundis_, which are (as my grandmother hath often told mee) of very great vertue and efficacy. continuing thus in talke of divers things, winning way, and beguiling the time, still waiting when their purpose should sort to effect: it fortuned, that the theeves seeing they were come neere to a towne, called _casteau guillaume_, by the foord of a river, the houre somewhat late, the place solitarie, and thickely shaded with trees, they made their assault; and having robd him, left him there on foote, stript into his shirt, saying to him. goe now and see, whether thy saint _julian_ will allow thee this night a good lodging, or no, for our owne we are sufficiently provided; so passing the river, away they rode. _rinaldoes_ servant, seeing his master so sharply assayled, like a wicked villaine, would not assist him in any sort: but giving his horse the spurres, never left gallowping, untill hee came to _chasteau guillaume_, where hee entred upon the point of night, providing himselfe of a lodging, but not caring what became of his master. _rinaldo_ remaining there in his shirt, bare-foote and bare-legged, the weather extremely colde, and snowing incessantly, not knowing what to doe, darke night drawing on, and looking round about him, for some place where to abide that night, to the end he might not dye with colde: he found no helpe at all there for him, in regard that (no long while before) the late warre had burnt and wasted all, and not so much as the least cottage left. compelled by the coldes violence, his teeth quaking, and all his body trembling, hee trotted on towards _chasteau guillaume_, not knowing, whether his man was gone thither or no, or to what place else: but perswaded himselfe, that if he could get entrance, there was no feare of finding succour. but before he came within halfe a mile of the towne, the night grew extreamely darke, and arriving there so late, hee found the gates fast lockt, and the bridges drawne up, so that no entrance might be admitted. grieving greatly hereat, and being much discomforted, rufully hee went spying about the walls, for some place wherein to shrowd himselfe, at least, to keepe the snow from falling upon him. by good hap, hee espied an house upon the wall of the towne, which had a terrace jutting out as a penthouse, under which he purposed to stand all the night, and then to get him gone in the morning. at length, hee found a doore in the wall, but very fast shut, and some small store of strawe lying by it, which he gathered together, and sitting downe thereon very pensively; made many sad complaints to saint _julian_, saying: this was not according to the trust he reposed in her. but saint _julian_, taking compassion upon him, without any over-long tarying; provided him of a good lodging, as you shall heare how. in this towne of _chasteau guillaume_, lived a young lady, who was a widdow, so beautifull and comely of her person, as sildome was seene a more lovely creature. the marquesse _azzo_ most dearely affected her, and (as his choysest jewell of delight) gave her that house to live in, under the terrace whereof poore _rinaldo_ made his shelter. it chaunced the day before, that the marquesse was come thither, according to his frequent custome, to weare away that night in her company, she having secretly prepared a bath for him, and a costly supper beside. all things being ready, and nothing wanting but the marquesse his presence: suddenly a post brought him such letters, which commanded him instantly to horsebacke, and word hee sent to the lady, to spare him for that night, because urgent occasions called him thence, and hee rode away immediately. much discontented was the lady at this unexpected accident, and not knowing now how to spend the time, resolved to use the bath which hee had made for the marquesse, and (after supper) betake her selfe to rest, and so she entred into the bath. close to the doore where poore _rinaldo_ sate, stoode the bath, by which meanes, shee being therein, heard all his quivering moanes, and complaints, seeming to be such, as the swanne singing before her death: whereupon, shee called her chamber-maide, saying to her. goe up above, and looke over the terrace on the wall downe to this doore, and see who is there, and what hee doth. the chamber-maide went up aloft, and by a little glimmering in the ayre, she saw a man sitting in his shirt, bare on feete and legges, trembling in manner before rehearsed. shee demaunding, of whence, and what hee was; _rinaldoes_ teeth so trembled in his head, as very hardly could hee forme any words, but (so well as he could) tolde her what hee was, and how hee came thither: most pittifully entreating her, that if shee could affoord him any helpe, not to suffer him starve there to death with colde. the chamber-maide, being much moved to compassion, returned to her lady, and tolde her all; she likewise pittying his distresse, and remembring shee had the key of that doore, whereby the marquesse both entred and returned, when he intended not to be seene of any, said to her maide. goe, and open the doore softly for him; we have a good supper, and none to helpe to eate it, and if he be a man likely, we can allow him one nights lodging too. the chamber-maide, commending her lady for this charitable kindnesse, opened the doore, and seeing hee appeared as halfe frozen, shee said unto him. make hast good man, get thee into this bath, which yet is good and warme, for my lady her selfe came but newly out of it. whereto very gladly he condiscended, as not tarrying to be bidden twise; finding himselfe so singularly comforted with the heate thereof, even as if hee had beene restored from death to life. then the lady sent him garments, which lately were her deceased husbands, and fitted him so aptly in all respects, as if purposely they had beene made for him. attending in further expectation, to know what else the lady would commaund him; hee began to remember god and saint _julian_, hartily thanking her, for delivering him from so bad a night as was threatned towards him, and bringing him to so good entertainement. after all this, the lady causing a faire fire to be made in the neerest chamber beneath, went and sate by it her selfe, demaunding how the honest man fared. madame, answered the chamber-maide, now that he is in your deceased lords garments, he appeareth to be a very goodly gentleman, and (questionlesse) is of respective birth and breeding, well deserving this gracious favour which you have afforded him. goe then (quoth the lady) and conduct him hither, to sit by this fire, and sup here with mee, for i feare he hath had but a sorrie supper. when _rinaldo_ was entred into the chamber, and beheld her to be such a beautifull lady, accounting his fortune to exceede all comparison, hee did her most humble reverence, expressing so much thankefulnesse as possibly hee could, for this her extraordinary grace and favour. the lady fixing a stedfast eye upon him, well liking his gentle language and behaviour, perceiving also, how fitly her deceased husbands apparell was formed to his person, and resembling him in all familiar respects, he appeared (in her judgement) farre beyond the chambermaides commendations of him; so praying him to sit downe by her before the fire, shee questioned with him, concerning this unhappy nights accident befalne him, wherein he fully resolved her, and shee was the more perswaded, by reason of his servants comming into the towne before night, assuring him, that he should be found for him early in the morning. supper being served in to the table, and hee seated according as the lady commanded, shee began to observe him very considerately; for he was a goodly man, compleate in all perfections of person, a delicate pleasing countenance, a quicke alluring eye, fixed and constant, not wantonly gadding, in the joviall youthfulnesse of his time, and truest temper for amorous apprehension; all these were as battering engines against a bulwarke of no strong resistance, and wrought strangely upon her flexible affections. and though hee fed heartily, as occasion constrained, yet her thoughts had entertained a new kinde of diet, digested onely by the eye; yet so cunningly concealed, that no motive to immodesty could be discerned. her mercy thus extended to him in misery, drew on (by table discourse) his birth, education, parents, friends, and alies; his wealthy possessions by merchandize, and a sound stability in his estate, but above all (and best of all) the single and sole condition of a batcheler; an apt and easie steele to strike fire, especially upon such quicke taking tinder, and in a time favoured by fortune. no imbarment remained, but remembrance of the marquesse, and that being summond to her more advised consideration, her youth and beauty stood up as conscious accusers, for blemishing her honour and faire repute, with lewd and luxurious life; farre unfit for a lady of her degree, and well worthy of generall condemnation. what should i further say? upon a short conference with her chambermaide, repentance for sinne past, and solemne promise of a constant conversion, thus shee delivered her minde to _rinaldo_. sir, as you have related your fortunes to me, by this your casuall happening hither, if you can like the motion so well as shee that makes it, my deceased lord and husband living so perfectly in your person; this house, and all mine, is yours; and of a widow i will become your wife, except (unmanly) you denie me. _rinaldo_ hearing these words, and proceeding from a lady of such absolute perfections, presuming upon so proud an offer, and condemning himselfe of folly if he should refuse it, thus replied. madam, considering that i stand bound for ever hereafter, to confesse that you are the gracious preserver of my life, and i no way able to returne requitall; if you please so to shadow mine insufficiency, and to accept me and my fairest fortunes to doe you service: let me die before a thought of deniall, or any way to yeeld you the least discontentment. here wanted but a priest to joyne their hands, as mutuall affection already had done their hearts, which being sealed with infinite kisses; the chamber-maide called up friar _roger_ her confessor, and wedding and bedding were both effected before the bright morning. in briefe, the marquesse having heard of the marriage, did not mislike it, but confirmed it by great and honourable gifts; and having sent for his dishonest servant, he dispatched him (after sound reprehension) to _ferrara_, with letters to _rinaldoes_ father and friends, of all the accidents that had befalne him. moreover, the very same morning, the three theeves, that had robbed, and so ill entreated _rinaldo_, for another facte by them the same night committed; were taken, and brought to the towne of _chasteau guillaume_, where they were hanged for their offences, and _rinaldo_ with his wife rode to _ferrara_. _three young gentlemen, being brethren, and having spent all their lands and possessions vainely, became poore. a nephew of theirs (falling almost into as desperate a condition) became acquainted with an abbot, whom he afterward found to be the king of_ englands _daughter, and made him her husband in marriage, recompencing all his uncles losses, and seating them againe in good estate._ the third novell. _wherein is declared the dangers of prodigalitie, and the manifold mutabilities of fortune._ the fortunes of _rinaldo de este_, being heard by the ladies and gentlemen, they admired his happinesse, and commended his devotion to saint _julian_, who (in such extreame necessity) sent him so good succour. nor was the lady to be blamed, for leaving base liberty, and converting to the chaste embraces of the marriage bed, the dignity of womens honour, and eternall disgrace living otherwise. while thus they descanted on the happy night betweene her and _rinaldo_, madam _pampinea_ sitting next to _philostratus_, considering, that her discourse must follow in order, and thinking on what shee was to say; the queene had no sooner sent out her command, but shee being no lesse faire then forward, beganne in this manner. ladies of great respect, the more we conferre on the accidents of fortune, so much the more remaineth to consider on her mutabilities, wherein there is no need of wonder, if discreetly we observe, that all such things as we fondly tearme to be our owne, are in her power, and so (consequently) change from one to another, without any stay or arrest (according to her concealed judgement) or setled order (at least) that can bee knowne to us. now, although these things appeare thus daily to us, even apparantly in all occasions, and as hath beene discerned by some of our precedent discourses; yet notwithstanding, seeing it pleaseth the queene, that our arguments should ayme at these ends, i will adde to the former tales another of my owne, perhaps not unprofitable for the hearers, nor unpleasing in observation. sometime heeretofore, there dwelt in our citie, a knight named signior _thebaldo_, who (according as some report) issued from the family of _lamberti_, but others derive him of the _agolanti_; guiding (perhaps) their opinion heerein, more from the traine of children, belonging to the saide _thebaldo_ (evermore equall to that of the _agolanti_) then any other matter else. but setting aside, from which of these two houses he came, i say, that in his time he was a very welthy knight, & had three sonnes; the first being named _lamberto_, the second _thebaldo_, & the third _agolanto_, all goodly and gracefull youths: howbeit, the eldest had not compleated eighteene yeares, when signior _thebaldo_ the father deceased, who left them all his goods and inheritances. and they, seeing them selves rich in readie monies and revennewes, without any other government then their owne voluntary disposition, kept no restraint upon their expences, but maintained many servants, and store of unvalewable horses, beside hawkes and hounds, with open house for all commers; and not onely all delights else fit for gentlemen, but what vanities beside best agreed with their wanton and youthfull appetites. not long had they run on this race, but the treasures lefte them by their father, began greatly to diminish; and their revennewes suffised not, to support such lavish expences as they had begun: but they fell to engaging and pawning their inheritances, selling one to day, and another to morrow, so that they saw themselves quickly come to nothing, and then poverty opened their eyes, which prodigality had before closed up. heereupon, _lamberto_ (on a day) calling his brethren to him, shewed them what the honours of their father had beene, to what height his wealth amounted, and now to what an ebbe of poverty it was falne, onely thorow their inordinate expences. wherefore hee counselled them, (as best he could) before further misery insulted over them; to make sale of the small remainder that was left, and then to betake themselves unto some other abiding, where fairer fortune might chance to shine uppon them. this advice prevailed with them; and so, without taking leave of any body, or other solemnity then closest secrecy, they departed from _florence_, not tarrying in any place untill they were arrived in _england_. comming to the city of london, and taking there a small house upon yearly rent, living on so little charge as possible might be, they began to lend out money at use: wherein fortune was so favourable to them, that (in few yeares) they had gathered a great summe of mony: by means whereof it came to passe, that one while one of them, and afterward another, returned backe againe to _florence_: where, with those summes, a great part of their inheritances were redeemed, and many other bought beside. linking themselves in marriage, and yet continuing their usances in england; they sent a nephew of theirs thither, named _alessandro_, a yong man, and of faire demeanour, to maintaine their stocke in employment: while they three remained still at _florence_, and growing forgetful of their former misery, fell againe into as unreasonable expences as ever, never respecting their houshold charges, because they had good credite among the merchants, and the monies still sent from _alessandro_, supported their expences divers yeares. the dealings of _alessandro_ in england grew very great, for hee lent out much money to many gentlemen, lords, and barons of the land, upon engagement of their manours, castles, and other revennues: from whence he derived immeasurable benefite. while the three brethren held on in their lavish expences, borrowing moneys when they wanted untill their supplyes came from england, whereon (indeede) was their onely dependance: it fortuned, that (contrary to the opinion of al men) warre happened betweene the king of england, and one of his sonnes, which occasioned much trouble in the whole countrey, by taking part on either side, some with the sonne, and other with the father. in regard whereof, those castles and places pawned to _alessandro_, were sodainely seized from him, nothing then remaining that returned him any profit. but living in hope day by day, that peace would be concluded betweene the father and the sonne, he never doubted, but all things then should be restored to him, both the principall and interest, & therefore he would not depart out of the country. the three brethren at _florence_, bounding within no limites their disordered spending, borrowed daily more and more. and after some few yeares, the creditors seeing no effect of their hopes to come from them, all credit being lost with them, and no repayment of promised dues; they were imprisoned, their landes and all they had, not suffising to pay the moity of debts, but their bodies remained in prison for the rest, theyr wives and yong children being sent thence, some to one village, some to another, so that nothing now was to be expected, but poverty & misery of life forever. as for honest _alessandro_, who had awaited long time for peace in england, perceyving there was no likelyhood of it; and considering also, that (beside his tarrying there in vaine to recover his dues) he was in danger of his life; without any further deferring, hee set away for _italy_. it came to passe, that as he issued foorth of _bruges_, hee saw a yong abbot also journeying thence, being cloathed in white, accompanied with divers monkes, and a great traine before, conducting the needefull carriage. two ancient knights, kinsmen to the king, followed after, with whom _alessandro_ acquainted himselfe, as having formerly known them, and was kindly accepted into their company. _alessandro_ riding along with them, courteously requested to know, what those monks were that rode before, and such a traine attending on them? whereto one of the knights thus answered. he that rideth before, is a yong gentleman, and our kinsman, who is newly elected abbot of one of the best abbeyes in england; & because he is more yong in yeares, then the decrees for such a dignity doe allow, we travaile with him to _rome_, to entreat our holy father, that his youth may be dispensed withall, and he confirmed in the sayd dignity; but hee is not to speake a word to any person. on rode this new abbot, sometimes before his traine, and other whiles after, as we see great lords use to do, when they ride upon the high-wayes. it chanced on a day, that _alessandro_ rode somewhat neere to the abbot, who stedfastly beholding him, perceived that he was a verie comely young man, so affable, lovely, and gracious, that even in this first encounter, he hadde never seene any man before, that better pleased him. calling him a little closer, he began to conferre familiarly with him, demanding what he was, whence he came, and whether he travelled. _alessandro_ imparted freely to him all his affaires, in every thing satisfying his demands, and offering (although his power was small) to doe him all the service he could. when the abbot had heard his gentle answers, so wisely & discreetly delivered, considering also (more particularly) his commendable cariage; he tooke him to be (at the least) a well-borne gentleman, and far differing from his owne logger-headed traine. wherefore, taking compassion on his great misfortunes, he comforted him very kindly, wishing him to live alwayes in good hope. for, if hee were vertuous and honest, he should surely attaine to the seate from whence fortune had throwne him, or rather much higher. entreating him also, that seeing he journied towards _tuscany_, as he himselfe did the like, to continue still (if he pleased) in his company. _alessandro_ most humbly thanked him for such gracious comfort; protesting, that he would be alwaies ready, to doe whatsoever he commanded. the abbot riding on, with newer crochets in his braine, then hee had before the sight of _alessandro_; it fortuned, that after divers dayes of travaile, they came to a small countrey village, which affoorded little store of lodging, and yet the abbot would needs lye there. _alessandro_, being well acquainted with the host of the house, willed him, to provide for the abbot and his people, and then to lodge him where hee thought meetest. now, before the abbots comming thither, the harbinger that marshalled all such matters, had provided for his traine in the village, some in one place, and others elsewhere, in the best manner that the towne could yeelde. but when the abbot had supt, a great part of the night being spent, and every one else at his rest; _alessandro_ demaunded of the host, what provision he had made for him; and how hee should be lodged that night? in good sadnesse sir (quoth the host) you see that my house is full of guests, so that i and my people, must gladly sleepe on the tables & benches: neverthelesse, next adjoining to my lord abbots chamber, there are certaine corn-lofts, whether i can closely bring you, and making shift there with a slender pallet-bed, it may serve for one night, insted of a better. but mine host (quoth _alessandro_) how can i passe thorow my lords chamber, which is so little, as it would not allowe lodging for any of his monkes? if i had remembred so much (said the host) before the curtaines were drawne, i could have lodgd his monkes in those corn-lofts, and then both you and i might have slept where now they do. but feare you not, my lords curtaines are close drawne, hee sleepeth (no doubt) soundly, and i can conveigh you thither quietly enough, without the least disturbance to him, and a pallet-bed shal be fitted there for you. _alessandro_ perceyving, that all this might bee easilie done, and no disease offered to the abbot, accepted it willingly, & went thither without any noyse at all. my lord abbot, whose thoughtes were so busied about amorous desires, that no sleepe at all could enter his eyes; heard all this talke betweene the host and _alessandro_, and also where hee was appointed to lodge, wherefore he sayd to himselfe. seeing fortune hath fitted me with a propitious time, to compasse the happines of my hearts desire; i know no reason why i should refuse it. perhaps, i shall never have the like offer againe, or ever be enabled with such an opportunity. so, being fully determined to prosecute his intention, and perswading himselfe also, that the silence of night had bestowed sleepe on all the rest; with a lowe and trembling voyce, he called _alessandro_, advising him to come and lye downe by him, which (after some few faint excuses) he did, and putting off his cloaths, lay downe by the abbot, being not a little prowde of so gracious a favour. the abbot, laying his arme over the others body, began to imbrace and hugge him; even as amorous friends (provoked by earnest affection) use to do. whereat _alessandro_ very much marvayling, and being an _italian_ himselfe, fearing least this folly in the abbot, would convert to foule and dishonest action, shrunk modestly from him. which the abbot perceiving, and doubting, least _alessandro_ would depart and leave him, pleasantly smiling, and with bashfull behaviour, baring his stomack, he tooke _alessandroes_ hand, and laying it thereon, saide; _alessandro_, let all bad thoughts of bestiall abuse be farre off from thee, and feele here, to resolve thee from all such feare. _alessandro_ feeling the abbots brest, found there two pretty little mountainets, round, plumpe, and smooth, appearing as if they had beene of polished ivory; whereby he perceived, that the abbot was a woman: which, setting an edge on his youthfull desires, made him fall to embracing, and immediately he offered to kisse her; but shee somewhat rudely repulsing him, as halfe offended, saide. _alessandro_, forbeare such boldnesse, upon thy lives perill, and before thou further presume to touch me, understand what i shall tell thee. i am (as thou perceivest) no man, but a woman; and departing a virgin from my fathers house, am travelling towards the popes holinesse, to the end that he should bestow me in mariage. but the other day, when first i beheld thee, whether it proceeded from thy happinesse in fortune, or the fatall houre of my owne infelicity for ever, i know not; i conceived such an effectuall kinde of liking towards thee, as never did woman love a man more truly, then i doe thee, having sworne within my soule to make thee my husband before any other; and if thou wilt not accept mee as thy wife, set a locke upon thy lippes concerning what thou hast heard, and depart hence to thine owne bed againe. no doubt, but that these were strange newes to _alessandro_, and seemed meerely as a miracle to him. what shee was, he knew not, but in regard of her traine and company, hee reputed her to be both noble and rich, as also shee was wonderfull faire and beautifull. his owne fortunes stood out of future expectation by his kinsmens overthrow, and his great losses in _england_; wherefore, upon an opportunity so fairely offered, hee held it no wisedome to returne refusall, but accepted her gracious motion, and referred all to her disposing. shee arising out of her bed, called him to a little table standing by, where hung a faire crucifix upon the wall; before which, and calling him to witnesse, that suffered such bitter and cruell torments on his crosse, putting a ring upon his finger, there she faithfully espoused him, refusing all the world, to be onely his: which being on either side confirmed solemnely, by an holy vow, and chaste kisses; shee commanded him backe to his chamber, and shee returned to her bed againe, sufficiently satisfied with her loves acceptation, and so they journied on till they came to _rome_. when they had rested themselves there for some few dayes, the supposed abbot, with the two knights, and none else in company but _alessandro_, went before the pope, and having done him such reverence as beseemed, the abbot began to speake in this manner. holy father (as you know much better then any other) every one that desireth to live well and vertuously, ought to shunne (so farre as in them lieth) all occasions that may induce to the contrary. to the ende therefore, that i (who desire nothing more) then to live within the compasse of a vertuous conversation, may perfect my hopes in this behalfe: i have fled from my fathers court, and am come hither in this habite as you see, to crave therein your holy and fatherly furtherance. i am daughter to the king of _england_, and have sufficiently furnished my selfe with some of his treasures, that your holinesse may bestow me in marriage; because mine unkind father, never regarding my youth and beauty (inferior to few in my native country) would marry me to the king of _north-wales_, an aged, impotent, and sickly man. yet let me tell your sanctity, that his age and weakenesse hath not so much occasioned my flight, as feare of mine owne youth and frailety; when being married to him, instead of loyall and unstained life, lewd and dishonest desires might make me to wander, by breaking the divine lawes of wedlocke, and abusing the royall blood of my father. as i travailed hither with this vertuous intention, our lord, who onely knoweth perfectly, what is best fitting for all his creatures; presented mine eyes (no doubt in his meere mercy and goodnesse) with a man meete to be my husband, which (pointing to _alessandro_) is this young gentleman standing by me, whose honest, vertuous, and civill demeanour, deserveth a lady of farre greater worth, although (perhaps) nobility in blood be denied him, and may make him seeme not so excellent, as one derived from royall discent. holy and religious vowes have past betweene us both, and the ring on his finger, is the firme pledge of my faith and constancie; never to accept any other man in marriage, but him onely, although my father, or any else doe dislike it. wherefore (holy father) the principall cause of my comming hither, being already effectually concluded on, i desire to compleat the rest of my pilgrimage, by visiting the sanctified places in this city, whereof there are great plenty; and also, that sacred marriage, being contracted in the presence of god onely, betweene _alessandro_ and my selfe, may by you be publiquely confirmed, and in an open congregation. for, seeing god hath so appointed it, and our soules have so solemnely vowed it, that no disaster whatsoever can alter it: you being gods vicar here on earth, i hope will not gaine-say, but confirme it with your fatherly benediction, that wee may live in gods feare, and dye in his favour. perswade your selves (faire ladies) that _alessandro_ was in no meane admiration, when hee heard, that his wife was daughter to the king of _england_; unspeakeable joy (questionlesse) wholly overcame him: but the two knights were not a little troubled and offended, at such a strange and unexpected accident, yea, so violent were their passions, that had they beene any where else, then in the popes presence, _alessandro_ had felt their fury, and (perhaps) the princesse her selfe too. on the other side, the pope was much amazed, at the habite she went disguised in, and likewise at the election of her husband; but, perceiving there was no resistance to be made against it, hee yeelded the more willingly to satisfie her desire. and therefore, having first comforted the two knights, and made peace betweene them, the princesse and _alessandro_; he gave order for the rest that was to be done. when the appointed day for the solemnity was come, hee caused the princesse (cloathed in most rich and royall garments) to appeare before all the cardinals, and many other great persons then in presence, who were come to this worthy feast, which hee had caused purposely to be prepared, where she seemed so faire & goodly a lady, that every eye was highly delighted to behold her, commending her with no mean admiration. in like manner was _alessandro_ greatly honoured by the two knights, being most sumptuous in appearance, and not like a man that had lent money to usury, but rather of very royall quality; the pope himselfe celebrating the marriage betweene them, which being finished, with the most magnificent pompe that could be devised, hee gave them his benediction, and licenced their departure thence. _alessandro_, his princesse and her traine thus leaving _rome_, they would needes visite _florence_, where the newes of this accident was (long before) noysed, and they received by the citizens in royall manner. there did shee deliver the three brethren out of prison, having first payed all their debts, and reseated them againe (with their wives) in their former inheritances and possessions. afterward, departing from _florence_, and _agolanto_, one of the uncles travailing with them to _paris_; they were there also most honourably entertained by the king of _france_. from whence the two knights went before for _england_, and prevailed so succesfully with the king; that hee received his daughter into grace and favour, as also his sonne in law her husband, to whom hee gave the order of knighthoode, and (for his greater dignitie) created him earle of _cornewall_. and such was the noble spirit of _alessandro_, that he pacified the troubles betweene the king and his sonne, whereon ensued great comfort to the kingdome, winning the love and favour of all the people; and _agolanto_ (by the meanes of _alessandro_) recovered all that was due to him and his brethren in _england_, returning richly home to _florence_, counte _alessandro_ (his kinsman) having first dubd him knight. longtime hee lived in peace and tranquility, with the faire princesse his wife, proving to be so absolute in wisedome, and so famous a souldier; that (as some report) by assistance of his father in law, hee conquered the realme of _ireland_, and was crowned king thereof. landolpho ruffolo, _falling into poverty, became a pirate on the seas, and being taken by the genewayes, hardly escaped drowning: which yet (neverthelesse) he did, upon a little chest or coffer, full of very rich jewels, being caried thereon to_ corfu, _where he was well entertained by a good woman; and afterward, returned richly home to his owne house._ the fourth novell. _whereby may be discerned, into how many dangers a man may fall, through a covetous desire to enrich himselfe._ madame _lauretta_, sitting next to madame _pampinea_, and seeing how triumphantly shee had finished her discourse; without attending any thing else, spake thus. gracious ladies, wee shall never behold (in mine opinion) a greater act of fortune, then to see a man so suddainly exalted, even from the lowest depth of poverty, to a royall estate of dignity; as the discourse of madame _pampinea_ hath made good, by the happy advancement of _alessandro_. and because it appeareth necessary, that whosoever discourseth on the subject proposed, should no way varie from the very same termes; i shall not shame to tell a tale, which, though it containe farre greater mishaps then the former, may sort to as happy an issue, albeit not so noble and magnificent. in which respect, it may (perhaps) merit the lesse attention; but howsoever that fault shall be found in you, i meane to discharge mine owne duty. opinion hath made it famous for long time, that the sea-coast of _rhegium_ to _gaieta_, is the onely delectable part of all _italy_, wherein, somewhat neere to _salerno_, is a shore looking upon the sea, which the inhabitants there dwelling, doe call the coast of _malfy_, full of small townes, gardens, springs and wealthy men, trading in as many kindes of merchandizes, as any other people that i know. among which townes, there is one, named _ravello_, wherein (as yet to this day there are rich people) there was (not long since) a very wealthy man, named _landolpho ruffolo_, who being not contented with his riches, but coveting to multiply them double and trebble, fell in danger, to loose both himselfe and wealth together. this man (as other merchants are wont to doe) after hee had considered on his affaires, bought him a very goodly ship, lading it with divers sorts of merchandizes, all belonging to himselfe onely, and making his voyage to the isle of _cyprus_. where he found, over and beside the merchandizes he had brought thither, many ships more there arrived, and all laden with the selfe same commodities, in regard whereof, it was needefull for him, not onely to make a good mart of his goods; but also was further constrained (if hee meant to vent his commodities) to sell them away (almost) for nothing, endangering his utter destruction and overthrow. whereupon, grieving exceedingly at so great a losse, not knowing what to doe, and seeing, that from very aboundant wealth, hee was likely to fall into as low poverty: hee resolved to dye, or to recompence his losses upon others, because he would not returne home poore, having departed thence so rich. meeting with a merchant, that bought his great ship of him; with the money made thereof, and also of his other merchandizes, hee purchased another, being a lighter vessell, apt and proper for the use of a pirate, arming and furnishing it in ample manner, for roving and robbing upon the seas. thus hee began to make other mens goods his owne, especially from the turkes he tooke much wealth, fortune being alwayes therein so favourable to him, that hee could never compasse the like by trading. so that, within the space of one yeare, hee had robd and taken so many gallies from the turke; that he found himselfe well recovered, not onely of all his losses by merchandize, but likewise his wealth was wholly redoubled. finding his losses to be very liberally requited, and having now sufficient, it were folly to hazard a second fall; wherefore, conferring with his owne thoughts, and finding that he had enough, and needed not to covet after more: he fully concluded, now to returne home to his owne house againe, and live upon his goods thus gotten. continuing still in feare, of the losses he had sustained by traffique, & minding, never more to imploy his mony that way, but to keep this light vessel, which had holpen him to all his wealth: he commanded his men to put forth their oares, and shape their course for his owne dwelling. being aloft in the higher seas, darke night over-taking them, and a mighty winde suddainly comming upon them: it not onely was contrary to their course, but held on with such impetuous violence; that the small vessell, being unable to endure it, made to land-ward speedily, and in expectation of a more friendly wind, entred a little port of the sea, directing up into a small island, and there safely sheltred it selfe. into the same port which _landolpho_ had thus taken for his refuge, entred (soone after) two great carrackes of _genewayes_ lately come from _constantinople_. when the men in them had espied the small barke, and lockt uppe her passage from getting foorth; understanding the owners name, and that report had famed him to be very rich, they determined (as men evermore addicted naturally, to covet after money and spoile) to make it their owne as a prize at sea. landing some store of their men, well armed with crosse-bowes and other weapons, they tooke possession of such a place, where none durst issue forth of the small barke, but endangered his life with their darts & arrowes. entering aboord the barke, and making it their owne by full possession, all the men they threw over-boord, without sparing any but _landolpho_ himselfe, whom they mounted into one of the carrackes, leaving him nothing but a poore shirt of maile on his backe, and having rifled the barke of all her riches, sunke it into the bottome of the sea. the day following, the rough windes being calmed, the carrackes set saile againe, having a prosperous passage all the day long; but uppon the entrance of darke night, the windes blew more tempestuously then before, and sweld the sea in such rude stormes, that the two carracks were sundered each from other, and by violence of the tempest it came to passe, that the carracke wherein lay poore miserable _landolpho_ (beneath the isle of _cephalonia_) ran against a rocke, and even as a glasse against a wall, so split the carracke in peeces, the goods and merchandizes floating on the sea, chests, coffers, beds, and such like other things, as often hapneth in such lamentable accidents. now, notwithstanding the nights obscurity, and impetuous violence of the billowes; such as could swimme, made shift to save their lives by swimming. others caught hold on such things, as by fortunes favour floated neerest to them, among whom, distressed _landolpho_, desirous to save his life, if possibly it might be, espied a chest or coffer before him, ordained (no doubt) to be the meanes of his safety from drowning. now although the day before, he had wished for death infinite times, rather then to returne home in such wretched poverty; yet, seeing how other men strove for safety of their lives by any helpe, were it never so little, he tooke advantage of this favour offred him, and the rather in a necessitie so urgent. keeping fast upon the coffer so well as he could, and being driven by the winds & waves, one while this way, and anon quite contrarie, he made shift for himselfe till day appeared; when looking every way about him, seeing nothing but clouds, the seas and the coffer, which one while shrunke from under him, and another while supported him, according as the windes and billowes carried it: all that day and night thus he floated up and downe, drinking more then willingly hee would, but almost hunger-starved thorow want of foode. the next morning, either by the appointment of heaven, or power of the windes, _landolpho_ who was (well-neere) become a spundge, holding his armes strongly about the chest, as wee have seene some doe, who (dreading drowning) take hold on any the very smallest helpe; drew neere unto the shore of the iland _corfu_, where (by good fortune) a poore woman was scowring dishes with the salt water and sand, to make them (house-wife like) neate and cleane. when shee saw the chest drawing neere her, and not discerning the shape of any man, shee grew fearefull, and retyring from it, cried out aloude. he had no power of speaking to her, neither did his sight doe him the smallest service; but even as the waves and windes pleased, the chest was driven still neerer to the land, and then the woman perceived that it had the forme of a coffer, and looking more advisedly, beheld two armes extended over it, and afterward, shee espied the face of a man, not being able to judge, whether he were alive, or no. moved by charitable and womanly compassion, shee stept in among the billowes, and getting fast holde on the haire of his head, drew both the chest and him to the land, and calling forth her daughter to helpe her, with much adoe shee unfolded his armes from the chest, setting it up on her daughters head, and then betweene them, _landolpho_ was led into the towne, and there conveyed into a warme stove, where quickly he recovered (by her pains) his strength benummed with extreame cold. good wines and comfortable broathes shee cherished him withall, that his sences being indifferently restored, hee knew the place where he was; but not in what manner he was brought thither, till the good woman shewed him the cofer that had kept him floating upon the waves, and (next under god) had saved his life. the chest seemed of such slender weight, that nothing of any value could be expected in it, either to recompence the womans great paines and kindnesse bestowne on him, or any matter of his owne benefit. neverthelesse, the woman being absent, he opened the chest, and found innumerable precious stones therein, some costly and curiously set in gold, and others not fixed in any mettall. having knowledge of their great worth and value (being a merchant, and skild in such matters) he became much comforted, praysing god for this good successe, and such an admirable meanes of deliverance from danger. then considering with himselfe, that (in a short time) hee had beene twice well buffeted and beaten by fortune, and fearing, least a third mishap might follow in like manner; hee consulted with his thoughts, how he might safest order the businesse, and bring so rich a booty (without perill) to his owne home. wherefore, wrapping up the jewels in very unsightly cloutes, that no suspition at all should be conceived of them, hee saide to the good woman, that the chest would not doe him any further service; but if shee pleased to lende him a small sacke or bagge, shee might keepe the cofer, for in her house it would divers way stead her. the woman gladly did as he desired, and _landolpho_ returning her infinite thankes, for the loving kindnesse shee had affoorded him, throwing the sacke on his necke, passed by a barke to _brundusiam_, and from thence to _tranium_, where merchants in the city bestowed good garments on him, hee acquainting them with his disasterous fortunes, but not a word concerning his last good successe. being come home in safety to _ravello_, hee fell on his knees, and thanked god for all his mercies towards him. then opening the sacke, and viewing the jewels at more leysure then formerly he had done, he found them to be of so great estimation, that selling them but at ordinary and reasonable rates, he was three times richer, then when hee departed first from his house. and having vented them all, he sent a great sum of money to the good woman at _corfu_, that had rescued him out of the sea, and saved his life in a danger so dreadfull: the like hee did to _tranium_, to the merchants that had newly cloathed him; living richly upon the remainder, and never adventuring more to the sea, but ended his dayes in wealth and honour. andrea de piero, _travelling from_ perouse _to_ naples _to buy horses, was (in the space of one night) surprised by three admirable accidents, out of all which hee fortunately escaped, and, with a rich ring, returned home to his owne house._ the fift novell. _comprehending, how needfull a thing it is, for a man that travelleth in affaires of the world, to be provident and well advised, and carefully to keepe himselfe from the crafty and deceitfull allurements of strumpets._ the precious stones and jewels found by _landolpho_, maketh mee to remember (said madam _fiammetta_, who was next to deliver her discourse) a tale, containing no lesse perils, then that reported by madam _lauretta_: but somewhat different from it, because the one happened in sundry yeeres, and this other had no longer time, then the compasse of one poore night, as instantly i will relate unto you. as i have heard reported by many, there sometime lived in _perouse_ or _perugia_, a young man, named _andrea de piero_, whose profession was to trade about horses, in the nature of a horse-courser, or horse-master, who hearing of a good faire or market (for his purpose) at _naples_, did put five hundred crownes of gold in his purse, and journeyed thither in the company of other horse-coursers, arriving there on a sunday in the evening. according to instructions given him by his host, he went the next day into the horse-market, where he saw very many horses that he liked, cheapening their prices as he went up and downe, but could fall to no agreement; yet to manifest that he came purposely to buy, and not as a cheapener onely, often times (like a shalow-brainde trader in the world) he shewed his purse of gold before all passengers, never respecting who, or what they were that observed his follie. it came to passe, that a young _sicillian_ wench (very beautifull, but at commaund of whosoever would, and for small hire) passing then by, and (without his perceiving) seeing such store of gold in his purse; presently she said to her selfe: why should not all those crownes be mine, when the foole that owes them, can keepe them no closer? and so she went on. with this young wanton there was (at the same time) an olde woman (as commonly such stuffe is alwayes so attended) seeming to be _sicillian_ also, who so soone as shee saw _andrea_, knew him, and, leaving her youthfull commodity, ranne to him, and embraced him very kindly. which when the younger lasse perceived, without proceeding any further, she stayed, to see what would ensue thereon. _andrea_ conferring with the olde bawde, and knowing her (but not for any such creature) declared himselfe very affable to her; she making him promise, that shee would come and drinke with him at his lodging. so, breaking off further speeches for that time, shee returned to her young _cammerado_; and _andrea_ went about buying his horses, still cheapning good store, but did not buy any all that morning. the punke that had taken notice of _andreaes_ purse, upon the olde womans comming backe to her (having formerly studied, how shee might get all the gold, or the greater part thereof) cunningly questioned with her, what the man was, whence hee came, and the occasion of his businesse there? wherein she fully informed her particularly, and in as ample manner as himselfe could have done: that shee had long time dwelt in _sicily_ with his father, and afterward at _perouse_; recounting also, at what time she came thence, and the cause which now had drawne him to _naples_. the witty young housewife, being thorowly instructed, concerning the parents and kindred of _andrea_, their names, quality, and all other circumstances thereto leading; began to frame the foundation of her purpose thereupon, setting her resolution downe constantly, that the purse and gold was (already) more then halfe her owne. being come home to her owne house, away shee sent the olde pandresse about other businesse, which might hold her time long enough of employment, and hinder her returning to _andrea_ according to promise, purposing, not to trust her in this serious piece of service. calling a young crafty girle to her, whom she had well tutoured in the like ambassages, when evening drew on, she sent her to _andreas_ lodging, where (by good fortune) she found him sitting alone at the dore, and demanding of him, if he knew an honest gentleman lodging there, whose name was _signior andrea de piero_; he made her answere, that himselfe was the man. then taking him aside, shee said. sir, there is a worthy gentlewoman of this citie, that would gladly speake with you, if you pleased to vouchsafe her so much favour. _andrea_, hearing such a kinde of salutation, and from a gentlewoman, named of worth; began to grow proud in his owne imaginations, and to make no meane estimation of himselfe: as (undoubtedly) that he was an hansome proper man, and of such cariage and perfections, as had attracted the amorous eye of this gentlewoman, and induced her to like and love him beyond all other, _naples_ not contayning a man of better merit. whereupon he answered the mayde, that he was ready to attend her mistresse, desiring to know, when it should be, and where the gentlewoman would speake with him? so soone as you please sir, replied the damosell, for she tarieth your comming in her owne house. instantly _andrea_ (without leaving any direction of his departure in his lodging, or when he intended to returne againe) said to the girle: goe before, and i will follow. this little chamber-commodity, conducted him to her mistresses dwelling, which was in a streete named _malpertuis_, a title manifesting sufficiently the streetes honesty: but hee, having no such knowledge thereof, neither suspecting any harme at all, but that he went to a most honest house, and to a gentlewoman of good respect; entred boldly, the mayde going in before, and guiding him up a faire payre of stayres, which he having more then halfe ascended, the cunning young queane gave a call to her mistresse, saying; _signior andrea_ is come already, whereupon, she appeared at the stayres-head, as if she had stayed there purposely to entertaine him. she was young, very beautifull, comely of person, and rich in adornements, which _andrea_ well observing, & seeing her descend two or three steps, with open armes to embrace him, catching fast hold about his neck; he stood as a man confounded with admiration, and she contained a cunning kinde of silence, even as if she were unable to utter one word, seeming hindered by extremity of joy at his presence, and to make him effectually admire her extraordinary kindnesse, having teares plenteously at commaund, intermixed with sighes and broken speeches, at last, thus she spake. _signior andrea_, you are the most welcom friend to me in all the world; sealing this salutation with infinite sweet kisses and embraces: whereat (in wonderfull amazement) he being strangely transported, replied; madame, you honour me beyond all compasse of merit. then, taking him by the hand, shee guided him thorow a goodly hall, into her owne chamber, which was delicately embalmed with roses, orenge-flowres, and all other pleasing smelles, and a costly bed in the middest, curtained round about, very artificiall pictures beautifying the walles, with many other embellishments, such as those countries are liberally stored withall. he being meerely a novice in these kinds of wanton carriages of the world, and free from any base or degenerate conceit; firmely perswaded himselfe, that (questionlesse) shee was a lady of no meane esteeme, and he more then happy, to be thus respected and honoured by her. they both being seated on a curious chest at the beds feete, teares cunningly trickling downe her cheekes, and sighes intermedled with inward sobbings, breathed forth in sad, but very seemely manner; thus shee beganne. i am sure _andrea_, that you greatly marvell at me, in gracing you with this solemne and kinde entertainment, and why i should so melt my selfe in sighes and teares, at a man that hath no knowledge of me, or (perhaps) sildome or never heard any speeches of me: but you shall instantly receive from mee matter to augment your greater marvell, meeting heere with your owne sister, beyond all hope or expectation in either of us both. but seeing that heaven hath beene so gracious to me, to let mee see one of my brethren before i die (though gladly i would have seene them all) which is some addition of comfort to me, and that which (happily) thou hast never heard before, in plaine and truest manner, i will reveale unto thee. _piero_, my father and thine, dwelt long time (as thou canst not chuse but to have understood) in _palermo_, where, through the bounty, and other gracious good parts remaining in him, he was much renowned; and (to this day) is no doubt remembred, by many of his loving friends and well-willers. among them that most intimately affected _piero_, my mother (who was a gentlewoman, and at that time a widow) did dearest of all other love him; so that forgetting the feare of her father, brethren, yea, and her owne honour, they became so privately acquainted, that i was begotten, and am here now such as thou seest me. afterward, occasions so befalling our father, to abandon _palermo_, and returne to _perouse_, he left my mother and me his little daughter, never after (for ought that i could learne) once remembring either her or me: so that (if he had not beene my father) i could have much condemned him, in regard of his ingratitude to my mother, and love which hee ought to have shewne me as his childe, being borne of no chamber-maide, neither of a city sinner; albeit i must needes say, that shee was blame-worthy, without any further knowledge of him (moved onely thereto by most loyal affection) to commit both her selfe, and all the wealth shee had, into his hands: but things ill done, and so long time since, are more easily controled, then amended. being left so young at _palermo_, and growing (well neere) to the stature as now you see me; my mother, being wealthy, gave mee in marriage to one of the _gergentes_ family, a gentleman, and of great revenewes, who in his love to me and my mother, went and dwelt at _palermo_: where falling into the _guelphes_ faction, and making one in the enterprize with _charles_ our king; it came to passe, that they were discovered to _fredericke_ king of _arragon_, before their intent could be put in execution, whereupon, we were enforced to flie from _sicilie_, even when my hope stood fairely to have beene the greatest lady in all the iland. packing up then such few things as wee could take with us, few i may well call them, in regard of our wealthy possessions, both in pallaces, houses, and lands, all which we were constrained to forgoe: we made our recourse to this city, where wee found king _charles_ so benigne and gracious to us, that recompencing the greater part of our losses, he bestowed lands and houses on us here, beside a continuall large pension to my husband your brother in law, as hereafter himselfe shall better acquaint you withall. thus came i hither, and thus remaine here, where i am able to welcome my brother _andrea_, thankes more to fortune, then any friendlinesse in him: with which words she embraced and kissed him many times, sighing and weeping as shee did before. _andrea_ hearing this fable so artificially delivered, composed from point to point, with such likely protestations, without faltring or failing in any one words utterance; and remembring perfectly for truth, that his father had formerly dwelt at _palermo_; knowing also (by some sensible feeling in himselfe) the custome of young people, who are easily conquered by affection in their youthfull heate; seeing beside the teares, trembling speeches, and earnest embracings of this cunning commodity: he tooke all to be faithfully true by her thus spoken, and upon her silence, thus he replied. lady, let it not seeme strange to you, that your words have raised marvell in me, because (indeede) i had no knowledge of you, even no more then as if i had never seene you, never also having heard my father to speake either of you or your mother (for some considerations best knowne to himselfe) or if at any time he used such language, either my youth then, or defective memory since, hath utterly lost it. but truly, it is no little joy and comfort to me, to finde a sister here, where i had no such hope or expectation, and where also my selfe am a meere stranger. for to speake my mind freely of you, and the perfections gracefully appearing in you, i know not any man, of how great repute or quality soever, but you may well beseeme his acceptance, much rather then mine, that am but a meane merchant. but faire sister, i desire to be resolved in one thing, to wit, by what meanes you had understanding of my being in this city? whereto readily shee returned him this answer. brother, a poore woman of this city, whom i employ sometimes in houshold occasions, came to me this morning, and (having seene you) tolde me, that shee dwelt a long while with our father, both at _palermo_, and _perouse_. and because i held it much better beseeming my condition, to have you visit me in mine owne dwelling, then i to come see you at a common inne; i made the bolder to send for you hither. after which words, in very orderly manner, shee enquired of his chiefest kindred and friends, calling them readily by their proper names, according to her former instructions. whereto _andrea_ still made her answer, confirming thereby his beliefe of her the more strongly, and crediting whatsoever shee saide, farre better then before. their conference having long time continued, and the heate of the day being somewhat extraordinary, shee called for _greeke_ wine, and banquetting stuffe, drinking to _andrea_; and he pledging her very contentedly. after which, he would have returned to his lodging, because it drew neere supper time; which by no meanes shee would permit, but seeming more then halfe displeased, shee saide. now i plainely perceive brother, how little account you make of me, considering, you are with your owne sister, who (you say) you never saw before, and in her owne house, whether you should alwayes resort when you come to this city; and would you now refuse her, to goe and sup at a common inne. beleeve me brother, you shall sup with me, for although my husband is now from home, to my no little discontentment: yet you shall find brother, that his wife can bid you welcome, and make you good cheere beside. now was _andrea_ so confounded with this extremity of courtesie, that he knew not what to say, but onely thus replied. i love you as a sister ought to be loved, and accept of your exceeding kindnesse: but if i returne not to my lodging, i shall wrong mine host and his guests too much, because they will not sup untill i come. for that (quoth shee) we have a present remedy, one of my servants shal goe and give warning, whereby they shall not tarry your comming. albeit, you might doe me a great kindnesse, to send for your friends to sup with us here, where i assure ye they shall finde that your sister (for your sake) will bid them welcome, and after supper, you may all walke together to your inne. _andrea_ answered, that he had no such friends there, as should be so burthenous to her: but seeing shee urged him so farre, he would stay to sup with her, and referred himselfe solely to her disposition. ceremonious shew was made, of sending a servant to the inne, for not expecting _andreas_ presence at supper, though no such matter was performed; but, after divers other discoursings, the table being covered, and variety of costly viands placed thereon, downe they sate to feeding, with plenty of curious wines liberally walking about, so that it was darke night before they arose from the table. _andrea_ then offring to take his leave, she would (by no meanes) suffer it, but tolde him that _naples_ was a citie of such strict lawes and ordinances, as admitted no night-walkers, although they were natives, much lesse strangers, but punished them with great severity. and therefore, as she had formerly sent word to his inne, that they should not expect his comming to supper, the like had she done concerning his bed, intending to give her brother _andrea_ one nights lodging, which as easily she could affoord him, as she hadde done a supper. all which this new-caught woodcocke verily crediting, and that he was in company of his owne sister _fiordeliza_ (for so did she cunningly stile her selfe, and in which beleefe hee was meerely deluded) he accepted the more gladly her gentle offer, and concluded to stay there all that night. after supper, their conference lasted very long, purposely dilated out in length, that a great part of the night might therein be wasted: when, leaving _andrea_ to his chamber, and a lad to attend, that he shold lacke nothing; she with her women went to their lodgings, and thus our brother and supposed sister were parted. the season then being somewhat hot and soultry, _andrea_ put off his hose and doublet, and beeing in his shirt alone, layed them underneath the beds boulster, as seeming carefull of his money. but finding a provocation to the house of office, he demanded of the lad, where hee might find it; who shewed him a little doore in a corner of the chamber, appointing him to enter there. safely enough he went in, but chanced to tread upon a board, which was fastened at neither ende to the joynts whereon it lay, being a pit-fall made of purpose, to entrap any such coxecombe, as would be trained to so base a place of lodging, so that both he and the board fell downe together into the draught; yet such being his good fortune, to receive no harme in the fall (although it was of extraordinary height) onely the filth of the place, (it being over full) had fowly myred him. now for your better understanding the quality of the place, and what ensued thereupon, it is not unnecessary to describe it, according to a common use observed in those parts. there was a narrow passage or entrie, as often we see reserved betweene two houses, for eithers benefit to such a needfull place; and boards loosely lay upon the joynts, which such as were acquainted withall, could easily avoide any perill, in passing to or from the stoole. but our so newly created brother, not dreaming to find a queane to his sister, receiving so foule a fall into the vaulte, and knowing not how to helpe himselfe, being sorrowfull beyond measure; cryed out to the boy for light and aide, who intended not to give him any. for the crafty wag, (a meete attendant for so honest a mistresse) no sooner heard him to be fallen, but presently he ranne to enforme her thereof, and shee as speedily returned to the chamber, where finding his cloathes under the beds head, shee needed no instruction for search in his pockets. but having found the gold, which _andrea_ indiscreetely carried alwayes about him, as thinking it could no where else be so safe: this was all shee aymed at, and for which shee had ensnared him, faigning her selfe to be of _palermo_, and daughter to _piero_ of _perouse_, so that not regarding him any longer, but making fast the house of office doore, there shee left him in that miserable taking. poore _andrea_ perceiving, that his calles could get no answer from the lad; cryed out louder, but all to no purpose: when seeing into his owne simplicity, and understanding his error, though somewhat too late, hee made such meanes constrainedly, that he got over a wall, which severed that foule sinke from the worlds eye; and being in the open streete, went to the doore of the house, which then he knew too well to his cost, making loude exclaimes with rapping and knocking, but all as fruitlesse as before. sorrowing exceedingly, and manifestly beholding his misfortune; alas (quoth he) how soone have i lost a sister, and five hundred crownes besides? with many other words, loude calles, and beatings upon the doore without intermission, the neighbours finding themselves diseased, and unable to endure such ceaselesse vexation, rose from their beds, and called to him, desiring him to be gone and let them rest. a maide also of the same house, looking forth at the window, and seeming as newly raised from sleepe, called to him, saying; what noyse is that beneath? why virgin (answered _andrea_) know you not me? i am _andrea de piero_, brother to your mistresse _fiordeliza_. thou art a drunken knave, replied the maide, more full of drinke then wit, goe sleepe, goe sleepe, and come againe to morrow: for i know no _andrea de piero_, neither hath my mistresse any such brother, get thee gone good man, and suffer us to sleepe i pray thee. how now (quoth _andrea_) doest thou not understand what i say? thou knowest that i supt with thy mistresse this night; but if our _sicilian_ kindred be so soone forgot, i pray thee give me my cloathes which i left in my chamber, and then very gladly will i get mee gone. hereat the maide laughing out aloude, saide; surely the man is mad, or walketh the streetes in a dreame; and so clasping fast the window, away shee went and left him. now could _andrea_ assure himselfe, that his gold and cloathes were past recovery, which moving him to the more impatience, his former intercessions became converted into fury, and what hee could not compasse by faire entreats, he entended to winne by outrage and violence, so that taking up a great stone in his hand, hee layed upon the doore very powerfull strokes. the neighbours hearing this molestation still, admitting them not the least respite of rest, reputing him for a troublesome fellow, and that he used those counterfeit words, onely to disturbe the mistresse of the house, and all that dwelled neere about her; looking againe out at their windowes, they altogether began to rate and reprove him, even like so many bawling curres, barking at a strange dog passing thorow the streete. this is shamefull villany (quoth one) and not to be suffered, that honest women should be thus molested in their houses, with foolish idle words, and at such an unseasonable time of the night. for gods sake (good man) be gone, and let us sleepe; if thou have any thing to say to the gentlewoman of the house, come to morrow in the day time, and no doubt but shee will make thee sufficient answer. _andrea_ being somewhat pacified with these speeches, a shag-hairde swash-buckler, a grim-visagde ruffian (as sildome bawdy houses are without such swaggering champions) not seene or heard by _andrea_, all the while of his being in the house rapping out two or three terrible oathes, opened a casement, and with a stearne dreadfull voyce, demaunded who durst keepe that noyse beneath? _andrea_ fearefully looking up, and (by a little glimmering of the moone) seeing such a rough fellow, with a blacke beard, strowting like the quilles of a porcupine, and patches on his face, for hurts received in no honest quarels, yawning also and stretching, as angry to have his sleepe disturbed: trembling and quaking, answered; i am the gentlewomans brother of the house. the ruffian interrupting him, and speaking more fiercely then before; sealing his words with horrible oathes, said. sirra, rascall, i know not of whence or what thou art, but if i come downe to thee, i will so bombast thy prating coxcombe, as thou was never better beaten in all thy life, like a drunken slave and beast as thou art, that all this night wilt not let us sleepe; and so hee clapt to the window againe. the neighbours, well acquainted with this ruffians rude conditions, speaking in gentle manner to _andrea_, said. shift for thy selfe (good man) in time, and tarrie not for his comming downe to thee; except thou art wearie of thy life, be gone therefore, and say thou hast a friendly warning. these words dismaying _andrea_, but much more the stearne oathes and ugly sight of the ruffian, incited also by the neighbours counsell, whom he imagined to advise him in charitable manner: it caused him to depart thence, taking the way homeward to his inne, in no meane affliction and torment of minde, for the monstrous abuse offered him, and losse of his money. well he remembred the passages, whereby (the day before) the young girle had guided him, but the loathsome smell about him, was so extreamely offensive to himselfe: that, desiring to wash him at the sea side, he strayed too farre wide on the contrary hand, wandring up the streete called _ruga gatellana_. proceeding on still, even to the highest part of the citie, hee espied a lanthorne and light, as also a man carrying it, and another man with him in company, both of them comming towards him. now, because he suspected them two of the watch, or some persons that would apprehend him: he stept aside to shunne them, and entred into an olde house hard by at hand. the other mens intention was to the very same place, and going in, without any knowledge of _andreaes_ being there, one of them layd downe divers instruments of yron, which he had brought thither on his backe, and had much talke with his fellow concerning those engines. at last one of them said, i smell the most abhominable stinke, that ever i felt in all my life. so, lifting up his lanthorne, he espied poore pittifull _andrea_, closely couched behinde the wall. which sight somewhat affrighting him, he yet boldly demaunded, what and who hee was: whereto _andrea_ aunswered nothing, but lay still and held his peace. neerer they drew towards him with their light, demaunding how hee came thither, and in that filthy manner. constraint having now no other evasion, but that (of necessity) all must out: hee related to them the whole adventure, in the same sort as it had befalne him. they greatly pittying his misfortune, one of them said to the other. questionlesse, this villanie was done in the house of _scarabone buttafuoco_; and then turning to _andrea_, proceeded thus. in good faith poore man, albeit thou hast lost thy money, yet art thou highly beholding to fortune, for falling (though in a foule place) yet in succesfull manner, and entring no more backe into the house. for, beleeve mee friend, if thou hadst not falne, but quietly gone to sleepe in the house; that sleepe had beene thy last in this world, and with thy money, thou hadst lost thy life likewise. but teares and lamentations are now helplesse, because, as easily mayest thou plucke the starres from the firmament, as get againe the least doyt of thy losse. and for that shag-haird slave in the house, he will be thy deaths-man, if he but understand, that thou makest any enquiry after thy money. when he had thus admonished him, he began also in this manner to comfort him. honest fellow, we cannot but pitty thy present condition, wherefore, if thou wilt friendly associate us, in a businesse which wee are instantly going to effect: thy losse hath not beene so great, but on our words wee will warrant thee, that thine immediate gaine shall farre exceede it. what will not a man (in desperate extremity) both well like and allow of, especially, when it carrieth apparance of present comfort? so fared it with _andrea_, hee perswaded himselfe, worse then had already happened, could not befall him; and therefore he would gladly adventure with them. the selfe same day preceding this disastrous night to _andrea_, in the chiefe church of the citie, had beene buried the archbishop of _naples_, named _signior philippo minutolo_, in his richest pontificall roabes and ornaments, and a ruby on his finger, valued to be worth five hundred duckets of gold: this dead body they purposed to rob and rifle, acquainting _andrea_ with their whole intent, whose necessity (coupled with a covetous desire) made him more forward then well advised, to joyne with them in this sacriligious enterprise. on they went towards the great church, _andreaes_ unsavourie perfume much displeasing them, whereupon the one said to his fellow. can we devise no ease for this foule and noysome inconvenience? the very smell of him will be a meanes to betray us. there is a well-pit hard by, answered the other, with a pulley and bucket descending downe into it, and there we may wash him from this filthinesse. to the well-pit they came, where they found the rope and pulley hanging ready, but the bucket (for safety) was taken away: whereon they concluded, to fasten the rope about him, and so let him downe into the well-pit, and when he had washed himselfe, hee should wagge the rope, and then they would draw him up againe, which accordingly they forth-with performed. now it came to passe, that while hee was thus washing himselfe in the well-pit, the watch of the citie walking the round, and finding it to be a very hote and sweltring night; they grew dry and thirsty, and therefore went to the well to drinke. the other two men, perceiving the watch so neere upon them: left _andrea_ in the pit to shift for himselfe, running away to shelter themselves. their flight was not discovered by the watch, but they comming to the well-pit, _andrea_ remained still in the bottome, and having cleansed himselfe so well as hee could, sate wagging the rope, expecting when hee should be haled up. this dumbe signe the watch discerned not, but sitting downe by the wells side, they layde downe their billes and other weapons, tugging to draw up the rope, thinking the bucket was fastened thereto, and full of water. _andrea_ being haled up to the pits brim, left holding the rope any longer, catching fast hold with his hands for his better safety: and the watch at the sight heereof being greatly affrighted, as thinking that they had dragd up a spirit; not daring to speake one word, ranne away with all the hast they could make. _andrea_ hereat was not a little amazed, so that if he had not taken very good hold on the brim: he might have falne to the bottome, and doubtlesse there his life had perished. being come forth of the well, and treading on billes and halbards, which he well knew that his companions had not brought thither with them; his mervaile so much the more encreased, ignorance and feare still seizing on him, with silent bemoaning his many misfortunes, away thence he wandred, but hee wist not whither. as he went on, he met his two fellowes, who purposely returned to drag him out of the well, and seeing their intent already performed, desired to know who had done it: wherein _andrea_ could not resolve them, rehearsing what hee could, and what weapons hee found lying about the well. whereat they smiled, as knowing, that the watch had haled him up, for feare of whom they left him, and so declared to him the reason of their returne. leaving off all further talke, because now it was about midnight, they went to the great church, where finding their entrance to be easie: they approached neere the tombe, which was very great, being all of marble, and the cover-stone weighty, yet with crowes of yron and other helps, they raised it so high, that a man might without perill passe into it. now began they to question one another, which of the three should enter into the tombe. not i, said the first; so said the second: no, nor i, answered _andrea_. which when the other two heard, they caught fast hold of him, saying. wilt not thou goe into the tombe? be advised what thou sayest, for, if thou wilt not goe in: we will so beat thee with one of these yron crowes, that thou shalt never goe out of this church alive. thus poore _andrea_ is still made a property, and fortune (this fatall night) will have no other foole but he, as delighting in his hourly disasters. feare of their fury makes him obedient, into the grave he goes, and being within, thus consults with himselfe. these cunning companions suppose me to be simple, & make me enter the tombe, having an absolute intention to deceive me. for, when i have given them all the riches that i finde here, and am ready to come forth for mine equall portion: away will they runne for their owne safety, and leaving me here, not onely shall i loose my right among them, but must remaine to what danger may follow after. having thus meditated, he resolved to make sure of his owne share first, and remembring the rich ring, whereof they had tolde him: forthwith hee tooke it from the archbishops finger, finding it indifferently fitte for his owne. afterward, hee tooke the crosse, miter, rich garments, gloves and all, leaving him nothing but his shirt, giving them all these severall parcels; protesting, that there was nothing else. still they pressed upon him, affirming that there was a ring beside, urging him to search diligently for it; yet still he answered, that hee could not finde it, and for their longer tarying with him, seemed as if he serched very carefully, but all appeared to no purpose. the other two fellowes, as cunning in craft as the third could be, still willed him to search, and watching their aptest opportunity: tooke away the props that supported the tombe-stone, and running thence with their got booty, left poore _andrea_ mewed up in the grave. which when he perceived, and saw this misery to exceede all the rest, it is farre easier for you to guesse at his greefe, then i am any way able to expresse it. his head, shoulders, yea all his utmost strength he employeth, to remove that over-heavy hinderer of his liberty: but all his labour beeing spent in vaine, sorrow threw him in a swoond upon the byshoppes dead body, where if both of them might at that instant have bene observed, the arch-byshops dead body, and _andrea_ in greefe dying, very hardly had bene distinguished. but his senses regaining their former offices, among his silent complaints, consideration presented him with choyse of these two unavoydable extremities. dye starving must he in the tombe, with putrifaction of the dead body; or if any man came to open the grave, then must he be apprehended as a sacrilegious theefe, and so be hanged, according to the lawes in that case provided. as he continued in these strange afflictions of minde, sodainely hee heard a noise in the church of divers men, who (as he imagined) came about the like businesse, as hee and his fellowes had undertaken before; wherein he was not a jot deceived, albeit his feare the more augmented. having opened the tombe, and supported the stone, they varied also among themselves for entrance, and an indiffrent while contended about it. at length, a priest being one in the company, boldly said. why how now you white-liver'd rascals? what are you affraid of? do you thinke he will eate you? dead men cannot bite, and therefore i my selfe will go in. having thus spoken, he prepared his entrance to the tombe in such order, that he thrust in his feete before, for his easier descending downe into it. _andrea_ sitting upright in the tombe, and desiring to make use of this happy opportunity, caught the priest fast by one of his legges, making shew as if he meant to dragge him downe. which when the priest felt, he cryed out aloud, getting out with all the hast he could make, and all his companions, being well neere frighted out of their wits, ranne away amaine, as if they had bene followed by a thousand divels. _andrea_ little dreaming on such fortunate successe, made meanes to get out of the grave, and afterward forth of the church, at the very same place where he entred. now began day-light to appeare, when hee, having the rich ring on his finger, wandred on hee knew not whether: till comming to the sea-side, he found the way directing to his inne, where all his company were with his host, who had bene very carefull for him. having related his manifold mischances, his hoste friendly advised him with speede to get him out of _naples_. as instantly he did, returning home to _perouse_, having adventured his five hundred crownes on a ring, where-with hee purposed to have bought horses, according to the intent of his journey thither. _madame beritola caracalla, was found in an island with two goates, having lost her two sonnes, and thence travailed into lunigiana: where one of her sonnes became servant to the lord thereof, and was found somewhat over-familiar with his masters daughter, who therefore caused him to bee imprisoned. afterward, when the country of sicily rebelled against k. charles, the aforesaid sonne chanced to be knowne by his mother, and was married to his masters daughter. and his brother being found likewise; they both returned to great estate and credit._ the sixt novell. _heerein all men are admonished, never to distrust the powerfull hand of heaven, when fortune seemeth to be most adverse against them._ the ladies and gentlemen also, having smiled sufficiently at the severall accidents which did befall the poore traveller _andrea_, reported at large by madame _fiammetta_, the lady _æmillia_, seeing her tale to be fully concluded, began (by commandement of the queene) to speake in this manner. the diversitie of changes and alterations in fortune as they are great, so must they needs be greevous; and as often as we take occasion to talk of them, as often do they awake and quicken our understandings, avouching, that it is no easie matter to depend upon her flatteries. and i am of opinion, that to heare them recounted, ought not any way to offend us, be it of men wretched or fortunate; because, as they enstruct the one with good advise, so they animate the other with comfort. and therefore, although great occasions have beene already related, yet i purpose to tell a tale, no lesse true then lamentable; which albeit it sorted to a successefull ending, yet notwithstanding, such and so many were the bitter thwartings, as hardly can i beleeve, that ever any sorrow was more joyfully sweetened. you must understand then (most gracious ladies) that after the death of _fredericke_ the second emperour, one named _manfred_, was crowned king of _sicilie_, about whom lived in great account and authority, a _neapolitane_ gentleman, called _henriet capece_, who had to wife a beautifull gentlewoman, and a _neapolitane_ also, named madam _beritola caracalla_. this _henriet_ held the government of the kingdome of _sicilie_, and understanding, that king _charles_ the first, had wonne the battle of _beneventum_, and slaine king _manfred_; the whole kingdome revolting also to his devotion, and little trust to be reposed in the _sicillians_, or he willing to subject himselfe to his lords enemy; provided for his secret flight from thence. but this being discovered to the _sicillians_, he and many more, who had beene loyall servants to king _manfred_, were suddenly taken and imprisoned by king _charles_, and the sole possession of the iland confirmed to him. madam _beritola_ not knowing (in so sudden and strange an alteration of state affaires) what was become of her husband, fearing also greatly before, those inconveniences which afterward followed; being overcome with many passionate considerations, having left and forsaken all her goods, going aboard a small barke with a sonne of hers, aged about some eight yeeres, named _geoffrey_, and growne great with childe with another; shee fled thence to _lipary_, where shee was brought to bed of another sonne, whom shee named (answerable both to his and her hard fortune) _the poore expelled_. having provided her selfe of a nurse, they altogether went aboard againe, setting sayle for _naples_ to visit her parents; but it chanced quite contrary to her expectation, because by stormie windes and weather, the vessell being bound for _naples_, was hurried to the ile of _ponzo_, where entring into a small port of the sea, they concluded to make their aboade, till a time more furtherous should favour their voyage. as the rest, so did madam _beritola_ goe on shore in the iland, where having found a separate and solitary place, fit for her silent and sad meditations, secretly by her selfe, shee sorrowed for the absence of her husband. resorting daily to this her sad exercise, and continuing there her complaints, unseene by any of the marriners, or whosoever else: there arrived suddenly a galley of pyrates, who seazing on the small barke, carried it and all the rest in it away with them. when _beritola_ had finished her wofull complaints, as daily shee was accustomed to doe, shee returned backe to her children againe; but finding no person there remaining, whereat she wondered not a little: immediately (suspecting what had happened indeede) she lent her lookes on the sea, and saw the galley, which as yet had not gone farre, drawing the smaller vessell after her. heereby plainly she perceyved, that now she had lost her children, as formerly shee had done her husband; being left there poore, forsaken, and miserable, not knowing when, where, or how to finde any of them againe, and calling for her husband and children, shee fell downe in a swound uppon the shore. now was not any body neere, with coole water or any other remedy, to helpe the recovery of her lost powers; wherefore her spirites might the more freely wander at their own pleasure: but after they were returned backe againe, and had won their wonted offices in her body, drowned in teares, and wringing her hands, shee did nothing but call for her children and husband, straying all about, in hope to finde them, seeking in caves, dennes, and every where else, that presented the verie least glimpse of comfort. but when she saw all her paines sort to no purpose, and darke night drawing swiftly on, hope and dismay raising infinit perturbations, made her yet to be somewhat respective of her selfe, & therefore departing from the sea-shore, she returned to the solitary place, where she used to sigh and mourne alone by her selfe. the night being over-past with infinite feares and affrights, & bright day saluting the world againe, with the expence of nine hours and more, she fell to her former fruitlesse travailes. being somewhat sharply bitten with hunger, because the former day and night shee hadde not tasted any food: she made therefore a benefit of necessity, and fed on the green hearbes so well as she could, not without many piercing afflictions, what should become of her in this extraordinary misery. as shee walked in these pensive meditations, she saw a goate enter into a cave, and (within a while after) come forth againe, wandering along thorow the woods. whereupon she stayed, and entred where she saw the beast issue forth, where she found two yong kids, yeaned (as it seemed) the selfesame day, which sight was very pleasing to her, and nothing (in that distresse) could more content her. as yet she had milke freshly running in both her brests, by reason of her so late delivery in child-bed; wherefore shee lay downe unto the two yong kids, and taking them tenderly in her armes, suffered each of them to sucke a teate, whereof they made not any refusall, but tooke them as lovingly as their dammes, and from that time forward, they made no distinguishing betweene their damme and her. thus this unfortunate lady, having found some company in this solitary desert, fed on hearbes & roots, drinking faire running water, and weeping silently to her selfe, so often as she remembred her husband, children, and former dayes past in much better manner. here shee resolved now to live and dye, being at last deprived both of the damme and yonger kids also, by theyr wandering further into the neere adjoining woods, according to their naturall inclinations; whereby the poore distressed lady became more savage and wilde in her daily conditions, then otherwise shee would have bene. after many monthes were over-passed, at the very same place where she tooke landing; by chance, there arrived another small vessell of certaine _pisans_, which remained there divers dayes. in this bark was a gentleman, named _conrado de marchesi malespini_, with his holy and vertuous wife, who were returned backe from a pilgrimage, having visited all the sanctified places, that then were in the kingdome of _apulia_, & now were bound homeward to their owne abiding. this gentleman, for the expelling of melancholy perturbations, one especiall day amongst other, with his wife, servants, and waiting hounds, wandered up into the iland, not far from the place of madam _beritolaes_ desert dwelling. the hounds questing after game, at last happened on the two kiddes where they were feeding, and (by this time) had attained to indifferent growth: and finding themselves thus pursued by the hounds, fled to no other part of the wood, then to the cave where _beritola_ remained, and seeming as if they sought to be rescued only by her, she sodainly caught up a staffe, and forced the hounds thence to flight. by this time, _conrado_ and his wife, who had followed closely after the hounds, was come thither, and seeing what had hapned, looking on the lady, who was become blacke, swarthy, meager, and hairy, they wondered not a little at her, and she a great deale more at them. when (upon her request) _conrado_ had checkt back his hounds, they prevailed so much by earnest intreaties, to know what she was, and the reason of her living there; that she intirely related her quality, unfortunate accidents, and strange determination for living there. which when the gentleman had heard, who very well knew her husband, compassion forced teares from his eyes, and earnestly he laboured by kinde perswasions, to alter so cruel a deliberation; making an honourable offer, for conducting her home to his owne dwelling, where shee should remaine with him in noble respect, as if she were his owne sister, without parting from him, till fortune should smile as fairely on her, as ever she had done before. when these gentle offers could not prevaile with her, the gentleman left his wife in her company, saying, that he would go fetch some foode for her; and because her garments were all rent and torne, hee woulde bring her other of his wives, not doubting but to winne her thence with them. his wife abode there with _beritola_, very much bemoaning her great disasters, and when both viands and garments were brought: by extremity of intercession, they caused her to put them on, and also to feede with them, albeit she protested, that shee would not part thence into any place, where any knowledge should be taken of her. in the end, they perswaded her, to go with them into _lunigiana_, carrying also with her the two yong goats and their damme, which were then in the cave altogether, prettily playing before _beritola_, to the great admiration of _conrado_ and his wife, as also the servants attending on them. when the windes and weather grew favourable for them, madam _beritola_ went aboard with _conrado_ and his wife, being followed by the two young goates and their damme; and because her name should bee knowne to none but _conrado_, and his wife onely, shee would be stiled no otherwise, but the goatherdesse. merrily, yet gently blew the gale, which brought them to enter the river of _macra_, where going on shore, and into their owne castell, _beritola_ kept company with the wife of _conrado_, but in a mourning habite, and a wayting gentlewoman of hers, honest, humble, and very dutifull, the goates alwayes familiarly keeping them company. returne wee now to the pyrates, which at _ponzo_ seized on the small barke, wherein madam _beritola_ was brought thither, and carried thence away, without any sight or knowledge of her. with such other spoiles as they had taken, they shaped their course for _geneway_, and there (by consent of the patrones of the galley) made a division of their booties. it came to passe, that (among other things) the nurse that attended on _beritola_, and the two children with her, fell to the share of one _messer gasparino d'oria_, who sent them together to his owne house, there to be employed in service as servants. the nurse weeping beyond measure for the losse of her lady, and bemoaning her owne miserable fortune, whereinto shee was now fallen with the two young laddes; after long lamenting, which shee found utterly fruitlesse and to none effect, though she was used as a servant with them, and being but a very poore woman, yet was shee wise and discreetly advised. wherefore, comforting both her selfe, and them so well as she could, and considering the depth of their disaster; shee conceited thus, that if the children should be knowne, it might redounde to their greater danger, and shee be no way advantaged thereby. hereupon, hoping that fortune (early or late) would alter her stearne malice, and that they might (if they lived) regaine once more their former condition: shee would not disclose them to any one whatsoever, till shee should see the time aptly disposed for it. being thus determined, to all such as questioned her concerning them, she answered that they were her owne children, naming the eldest not _geoffrey_, but _jehannot de procida_. [sidenote: or grannotto da prochyta.] as for the youngest, shee cared not greatly for changing his name, and therefore wisely enformed _geoffrey_, upon what reason shee had altered his name, and what danger he might fall into, if he should otherwise be discovered; being not satisfied with thus telling him once, but remembring him thereof very often, which the gentle youth (being so well instructed by the wise and carefull nurse) did very warily observe. the two young laddes, very poorely garmented, but much worse hosed and shodde, continued thus in the house of _gasparino_, where both they and the nurse were long time imployed, about very base and drudging offices, which yet they endured with admirable patience. but _jehannot_, aged already about sixteene yeeres, having a loftier spirit, then belonged to a slavish servant, despising the basenesse of his servile condition; departed from the drudgery of _messer gasparino_, and going aboard the gallies, which were bound for _alexandria_, fortuned into many places, yet none of them affoording him any advancement. in the ende, about three or foure yeares after his departure from _gasparino_, being now a brave young man, and of very goodly forme: he understood, that his father (whom he supposed to be dead) was as yet living; but in captivity, and prisoner to king _charles_. wherefore, despairing of any successefull fortune, hee wandred here and there, till he came to _lunigiana_, and there (by strange accident) he became servant to _messer conrado malespina_, where the service proved well liking to them both. very sildome times hee had a sight of his mother, because shee alwayes kept company with _conradoes_ wife; and yet when they came within view of each other, shee knew not him, nor he her, so much yeeres had altered them both, from what they were wont to be, and when they saw each other last. _jehannot_ being thus in the service of _messer conrado_, it fortuned that a daughter of his, named _spina_, being the widdow of one _messer nicolas grignan_, returned home to her fathers house. very beautifull and amiable shee was, young likewise, aged but little above sixteene; growing wonderously amorous of _jehannot_, and he of her, in extraordinary and most fervent manner; which love was not long without full effect, continuing many moneths before any person could perceive it: which making them to build on the more assurance, they began to carrie their meanes with lesse discretion, then is required in such nice cases, and which cannot be too providently managed. upon a day, he and shee walking to a goodly wood, plentifully furnished with spreading trees, having out-gone the rest of their company; they made choise of a pleasant place, very daintily shaded, and beautified with all sorts of floures. there they spent sometime in amorous discourse, beside some other sweete embraces, which though it seemed over-short to them, yet was it so unadvisedly prolonged; that they were on a sudden surprized, first by the mother, and next by _messer conrado_ himselfe: who greeving beyond measure, to be thus trecherously dealt withall, caused them to be apprehended by three of his servants, and (without telling them any reason why) ledde bound to another castle of his, and fretting with extremity of rage, concluded in his minde, that they should both shamefully be put to death. the mother to this regardlesse daughter, having heard the angry words of her husband, and how hee would be revenged on the faultie; could not endure that he should be so severe: wherefore, although shee was likewise much afflicted in minde, and reputed her daughter worthy (for so great an offence) of all cruell punishment: yet shee hasted to her displeased husband, and began to entreate, that he would not runne on in such a furious spleene, now in his aged yeares, to be the murtherer of his owne childe, and soile his hands in the blood of his servant. rather he might finde out some milde course for the satisfaction of his anger, by committing them to close imprisonment, there to remaine & mourne for their follie committed. the vertuous and religious lady alledged so many commendable examples, and used such plenty of mooving perswasions; that she quite altred his minde, from putting them to death, and he commanded onely, that they should separately bee imprisoned, with little store of foode, and lodging of the uneasiest, untill hee should otherwise determine of them, and so it was done. what their life now was in captivity and continuall teares, with stricter abstinence then was needefull for them; all this i must commit to your consideration. _jehannot_ and _spina_ remaining in this comfortlesse condition, and an whole yeere being now out-worne, yet _conrado_ keeping them thus still imprisoned: it came to passe, that _don pedro_ king of _arragon_, by the meanes of _messer john de procida_, caused the isle of _sicily_ to revolt, and tooke it away from king _charles_, whereat _conrado_ (he being of the _ghibbiline_ faction) not a little rejoyced. _jehannot_ having intelligence thereof, by some of them that had him in custody, breathing foorth a vehement sigh, spake in this manner. alas poore miserable wretch as i am! that have already gone begging through the world above fourteene yeares, in expectation of nothing else but this opportunity; and now it is come, must i be in prison, to the end, that i should never more hope for any future happinesse? and how can i get forth of this prison, except it be by death onely? how now, replied the officer of the guard? what doth this businesse of great kings concerne thee? what affaires hast thou in _sicily_? once more _jehannot_ sighed extreamly, and returned him this answer. me thinkes my heart (quoth hee) doth cleave in sunder, when i call to minde the charge which my father had there, for although i was but a little boy when i fled thence: yet i can well remember, that i sawe him governour there, at such time as king _manfred_ lived. the guard, pursuing on still his purpose, demanded of him, what, and who his father was? my father (replyed _jehannot_) i may now securely speake of him, being out of the perill which neerely concerned me if i had beene discovered. he was the named (and so still if he be living) _henriet capece_, and my name is _geoffrey_, not _jehannot_; and i make no doubt, but if i were free from hence, and might be returned home to _sicily_, i should (for his sake) be placed in some authority. the honest man of the guard, without seeking after any further information; so soone as he could compasse the leysure, reported all to _messer conrado_, who having heard these newes (albeit he made no shew thereof to the revealer) went to madam _beritola_, graciously demaunding of her, if she had any sonne by her husband, who was called _geoffrey_. the lady replyed in teares, that if her eldest sonne were as yet living, hee was so named, and now aged about two and twenty yeares. _conrado_ hearing this, imagined this same to be the man, considering further withall, that if it fell out to prove so: he might have the better meanes of mercie, and closely concealing his daughters shame, joyfully joyne them in marriage together. hereupon he secretly caused _jehannot_ to be brought before him, examining him particularly of all his passed life, and finding (by most manifest arguments) that his name was truly _geoffrey_, & he the eldest son of _henriet capece_, he spake to him alone in this manner. _jehannot_, thou knowest how great the injuries are which thou hast done me, & my deare daughter, gently entreating thee (as became a good & honest servant) that thou shouldest alwayes have bin respective of mine honour, and all that do appertain unto me. there are many noble gentlemen, who sustaining the wrong which thou hast offred me, they would have procured thy shameful death, which pitty & compassion will not suffer in me. wherefore seeing (as thou informest me) that thou art honourably derived both by father & mother; i will give end to all thine anguishes, even when thy self art so pleased, releasing thee from the misery & captivity, wherein i have so long time kept thee, and in one instant, reduce thine honour & mine into compleat perfection. as thou knowest, my daughter _spina_, whom thou hast embraced in kindnesse as a friend (although farre unfitting for thee or her) is a widow, and her mariage is both great and good; what her manners and conditions are, thou indifferently knowest, and art not ignorant of her father and mother: concerning thine owne estate, as now i purpose not to speake any thing. therefore, when thou wilt, i am so determined, that whereas thou hast immodestly affected her, she shall become thy honest wife, and accepting thee as my son, to remain with me so long as you both please. imprisonment had somewhat misshapen _jehannot_ in his outward forme, but not impaired a jot of that noble spirit, really derived from his famous progenitors, much lesse the true love he bare to his faire friend. and although most earnestly he desired that, which _conrado_ now so franckly offered him, and was in his power onely to bestow on him; yet could he not cloude any part of his greatnesse, but with a resolved judgement, thus replied. my lord, affectation of rule, desire of wealthy possessions, or any other matter whatsoever, could never make me a traytor to you or yours; but that i have loved, do love & for ever shal love your beautious daughter; if that be treason, i freely confesse it, & will die a thousand deaths, before you or any else shal enforce me to denie it; for i hold her highly worthy of my love. if i have bin more unmannerly with her, then became me, according to the opinion of vulgar judgment, i have committed but that error, which evermore is so attendant upon youth; that to denie it, is to denie youth also. and if reverend age would but remember, that once he was young, & measure others offences by his own; they would not be thought so great or greevous, as you (& many more) account them to be, mine being committed as a friend, & not as an enemy: what you make offer of so willingly to do, i have alwayes desired, & if i had thought it would have bin granted, long since i had most humbly requested it; and so much the more acceptable would it have bin to me, by how much the further off it stood from my hopes. but if you be so forward as your words doe witnesse, then feede mee not with any further fruitlesse expectation: but rather send me backe to prison, and lay as many afflictions on mee as you please: for my endeared love to your daughter _spina_, maketh mee to love you the more for her sake; how hardly soever you entreate me, & bindeth me in the greater reverence to you, as being the father of my fairest friend. _messer conrado_ hearing these words, stood as one confounded with admiration, reputing him to be a man of lofty spirit, and his affection most fervent to his daughter, which was not a little to his liking. wherefore, embracing him, and kissing his cheeke, without any longer dallying, hee sent in like manner for his daughter. her restraint in prison had made her lookes meager, pale and wanne, and very weake was shee also of her person, farre differing from the woman shee was wont to be, before her affection to _jehannot_; there in presence of her father, and with free consent of either, they were contracted as man and wife, and the espousals agreed on according to custome. some few dayes after, (without any ones knowledge of that which was done) having furnished them with all things fit for the purpose, and time aptly serving, that the mothers should be partakers in this joy; he called his wife, and madam _beritola_, to whom first he spake in this manner. what will you say madam, if i cause you to see your eldest son, not long since married to one of my daughters? whereunto _beritola_ thus replied. my lord, i can say nothing else unto you, but that i shall be much more obliged to you, then already i am, and so much the rather, because you will let me see the thing which is dearer to me then mine owne life; and rendring it unto mee in such manner as you speake of, you will recall backe some part of my former lost hopes: and with these words the teares streamed aboundantly from her eyes. then turning to his wife, he saide; and you deare love, if i shew you such a sonne in law, what will you thinke of it? sir (quoth shee) what pleaseth you, must and shall satisfie me, be he gentleman, or a beggar. well said madam, answered _messer conrado_, i hope (within few dayes) to make you both joyfull. so when the amorous couple had recovered their former feature, and honourable garments were prepared for them, privately thus he said to _geoffrey_; beyond the joy which already thou art inriched withall, how would it please thee to meet with thine owne mother here? i cannot beleeve sir, replied _geoffrey_, that her greevous misfortunes have suffered her to live so long: yet notwithstanding, if heaven hath beene so merciful to her, my joyes were incomparable, for by her gracious counsell, i might well hope to recover no meane happinesse in _sicilie_. within a while after, both the mothers were sent for, who were transported with unspeakable joyes, when they beheld the so lately maried couple; being also much amazed, when they could not guesse what inspiration had guided _conrado_ to this extraordinary benignity, joyning _jehannot_ in mariage with _spina_. hereupon madam _beritola_, remembring the speeches between her and _conrado_, began to observe him very advisedly, and by a hidden vertue, which long had silently slept in her, and now with joy of spirit awaked, calling to minde the lineatures of her sonnes infancy, without awaiting for any other demonstrations, shee folded him in her armes with earnest affection. motherly joy and pitty now contended so violently together, that shee was not able to utter one word, the sensitive vertues being so closely combined, that (even as dead) shee fell downe in the armes of her sonne. and he wondering greatly thereat, making a better recollection of his thoughts, did well remember, that he had often before seene her in the castell, without any other knowledge of her. neverthelesse, by meere instinct of nature, whose power (in such actions) declares it selfe to be highly predominant; his very soule assured him, that shee was his mother, and blaming his understanding, that he had not before beene better advised, he threw his armes about her, and wept exceedingly. afterward, by the loving paines of _conradoes_ wife, as also her daughter _spina_, madam _beritola_ (being recovered from her passionate trance, and her vitall spirits executing their offices againe;) fell once more to the embracing of her sonne, kissing him infinite times, with teares and speeches of motherly kindnesse, he likewise expressing the same dutifull humanity to her. which ceremonious courtesies being passed over and over, to no little joy in all the beholders, beside repetition of their severall misfortunes. _messer conrado_ made all knowne to his friends, who were very glad of this new alliance made by him, which was honoured with many solemn & magnificent feastings. which being all concluded, _geoffrey_ having found out fit place and opportunity, for conference with his new created father, without any sinister opposition; began as followeth. honourable father, you have raised my contentment to the highest degree, and have heaped also many gracious favours on my noble mother; but now in the finall conclusion, that nothing may remaine uneffected, which consisteth in your power to performe: i would humbly entreate you, to honour my mother with your company, at a feast of my making, where i would gladly also have my brother present. _messer gasparino d'oria_ (as i have once heretofore told you) questing as a common pyrate on the seas, tooke us, and sent us home to his house as slaves, where (as yet he detaineth him.) i would have you likewise send one into _sicilie_, who informing himselfe more amply in the state of the country; may understand what is become of _henriet_ my father, and whether he be living or no. if he remaine alive, to know in what condition he is; and being secretly instructed in all things, then to returne backe againe to you. this motion made by _geoffrey_, was so pleasing to _conrado_, that without any reference to further leysure, hee dispatched thence two discreete persons, the one to _genewaye_, and the other to _sicilie_: he which went for _geneway_, having met with _gasparino_, earnestly entreated him, (on the behalfe of _conrado_) to send him the _poore expelled_; and his nurse recounting every thing in order, which _conrado_ had tolde him, concerning _geoffrey_ and his mother: when _gasparino_ had heard the whole discourse, he marvelled greatly thereat, and saide; true it is, that i will doe any thing for _messer conrado_, which may be to his love and liking, provided, that it lie in my power to performe; and (about some foureteene yeeres since) i brought such a lad as you seeke for, with his mother home to my house; whom i will gladly send unto him. but you may tell him from me, that i advise him from over-rash crediting the fables of _jehannot_, that now tearms himselfe by the name of _geoffrey_, because hee is a more wicked boy, then he taketh him to be, and so did i find him. having thus spoken, and giving kinde welcome to the messenger, secretly he called the nurse unto him, whom he heedfully examined concerning this case. shee having heard the rebellion in the kingdome of _sicilie_, and understanding withall, that _henriet_ was yet living; joyfully threw off all her former feare, relating every thing to him orderly, and the reasons moving her, to conceale the whole businesse in such manner as shee had done. _gasparino_ well perceiving, that the report of the nurse, and the message received from _conrado_, varied not in any one circumstance, beganne the better to credit her wordes. and being a man most ingenious, making further inquisition into the businesse, by all the possible meanes he could devise, and finding every thing to yeeld undoubted assurance; ashamed of the vile and base usage, wherein hee had so long time kept the ladde, and desiring (by his best meanes) to make him amends; he had a faire daughter, aged about thirteene yeeres, and knowing what manner of man he was, his father _henriet_ also yet living, he gave her to him in marriage, with a very bountifull and honourable dowry. the joviall dayes of feasting being past, he went aboard a galley, with the _poore expelled_; his daughter, the ambassadour, and the nurse, departing thence to _lericy_, where they were nobly welcommed by _messer conrado_, and his castle being not farre from thence, with an honourable traine they were conducted thither, and entertained with all possible kindnesse. now concerning the comfort of the mother, meeting so happily with both her sonnes, the joy of the brethren and mother together, having also found the faithfull nurse, _gasparino_ and his daughter, in company now with _conrado_ and his wife, friends, familiars, and all generally in a jubilee of rejoycing: it exceedeth capacity in me to expresse it, and therefore i referre it to your more able imagination. in the time of this mutuall contentment, to the ende that nothing might be wanting, to compleat and perfect this universall joy; our lord, a most aboundant bestower where he beginneth, added long wished tydings, concerning the life and good estate of _henriet capece_. for, even as they were feasting, and the concourse great of worthy guests, both of lords and ladies: the first service was scarcely set on the tables, but the ambassador which was sent to _sicilie_, arrived there before them. among many other important matters, he spake of _henriet_, who being so long a time detained in prison by king _charles_, when the commotion arose in the city against the king; the people (grudging at _henriets_ long imprisonment) slew the guards, and let him at liberty. then as capitall enemy to king _charles_, he was created captaine generall, following the chase, and killing the french. by meanes whereof, he grew great in the grace of king _pedro_, who replanted him in all the goods and honours which he had before, with very high and eminent authority. hereunto the ambassadour added, that he was entertained with extraordinary grace, and delivery of publike joy and exaltation, when his wife and sonne were knowne to be living, of whom no tydings had at any time beene heard, since the houre of his surprizall. moreover, that a swift winged barke was now sent thither (upon the happy hearing of this newes) well furnished with noble gentlemen, to attend till their returning backe. we neede to make no doubt concerning the tydings brought by this ambassadour, nor of the gentlemens welcome, thus sent to madam _beritola_ and _geoffrey_; who before they would sit downe at the table, saluted _messer conrado_ and his kinde lady (on the behalfe of _henriet_) for all the great graces extended to her and her sonne, with promise of any thing, lying in the power of _henriet_, to rest continually at their command. the like they did to _signior gasparino_, (whose liberall favours came unlooked for) with certaine assurance, that when _henriet_ should understand what hee had done for his other sonne, the _poore expelled_; there would be no defailance of riciprocall courtesies. as the longest joyes have no perpetuity of lasting, so all these gracefull ceremonies had their conclusion, with as many sighes and teares at parting, as joyes abounded at their first encountring. imagine then, that you see such aboard, as were to have here no longer abiding, madam _beritola_ and _geoffrey_, with the rest, as the _poore expelled_, the so late married wives, and the faithfull nurse bearing them company. with prosperous windes they arrived in _sicilie_, where the wife, sonnes, and daughters, were joyfully met by _henriet_ at _palermo_, and with such honourable pompe, as a case so important equally deserved. the histories make further mention, that there they lived (a long while after) in much felicity, with thankfull hearts (no doubt) to heaven, in acknowledgement of so many great mercies received. _the soldan of babylon sent one of his daughters, to be joyned in marriage with the king of_ cholcos; _who by divers accidents (in the space of foure yeeres) happened into the custody of nine men, and in sundry places. at length being restored backe to her father, shee went to the saide king of_ cholcos, _as a maide, and as at first shee was intended to be his wife._ the seaventh novell. _a lively demonstration, that the beauty of a woman, (oftentimes) is very hurtfull to her selfe, and the occasion of many evils, yea, and of death, to divers men._ peradventure the novell related by madam _æmilia_, did not extend it selfe so farre in length, as it moved compassion in the ladies mindes, hearing the hard fortunes of _beritola_ and her children, which had incited them to weeping: but that it pleased the queene (upon the tales conclusion) to command _pamphilus_, to follow (next in order) with his discourse, and hee being thereto very obedient, beganne in this manner. it is a matter of no meane difficulty (vertuous ladies) for us to take intire knowledge of every thing we doe, because (as oftentimes hath beene observed) many men, imagining if they were rich, they should live securely, and without any cares. and therefore, not onely have their prayers and intercessions aimed at that end, but also their studies and daily endeavours, without refusall of any paines or perils have not meanely expressed their hourely solicitude. and although it hath happened accordingly to them, and their covetous desires fully accomplished; yet at length they have met with such kinde of people, who likewise thirsting after their wealthy possessions, have bereft them of life, being their kinde and intimate friends, before they attained to such riches. some other, being of low and base condition, by adventuring in many skirmishes and foughten battels, trampling in the bloud of their brethren and friends, have beene mounted to the soveraigne dignity of kingdomes, (beleeving that therein consisted the truest happinesse) but bought with the dearest price of their lives. for, beside their infinite cares and feares, wherewith such greatnesse is continually attended, at their royall tables, they have drunke poyson in a golden pot. many other in like manner (with most earnest appetite) have coveted beauty and bodily strength, not foreseeing with any judgement, that these wishes were not without perill; when being endued with them, they either have beene the occasion of their death, or such a lingering lamentable estate of life, as death were a thousand times more welcome to them. but because i would not speake particularly of all our fraile and humane affections, i dare assure ye, that there is not any one of these desires, to be elected among us mortals, with entire foresight or providence, warrantable against their ominous issue. wherefore, if we would walke directly, wee should dispose our willes and affections, to be ordered and guided onely by him, who best knoweth what is needfull for us, and will bestow them at his good pleasure. nor let me lay this blamefull imputation upon men onely, for offending in many things through over lavish desires: because you your selves (gracious ladies) sinne highly in one, as namely, in coveting to be beautifull. so that it is not sufficient for you, to enjoy those beauties bestowne on you by nature: but you practise to encrease them, by the rarities of art. wherefore, let it not offend you, that i tell you the hard fortune of a faire sarrazines, to whom it happened (by strange adventures) within the compasse of foure yeares, nine severall times to be maried, and onely for her beauty. it is now a long time since, that there lived a soldane in _babylon_, named _beminidab_, to whom (while he lived) many things happened, answerable to his owne desires. among divers other children both male and female, he had a daughter, called _alathiella_, and shee (according to the common voyce of every one that saw her) was the fayrest lady then living in all the world. and because the king of _cholcos_ had wonderfully assisted him, in a valiant foughten battaile, against a mighty armie of _arabes_, who on a suddaine had assailed him: hee demaunded his faire daughter in marriage, which likewise was kindly granted to him. a goodly and well armed ship was prepared for her, with full furnishment of all necessary provision, and accompanied with an honourable traine, both lords and ladies, as also most costly and sumptuous accoustrements; commending her to the mercy of heaven, in this manner was shee sent away. the time being propitious for their parting thence, the mariners hoised their sayles, leaving the part of _alexandria_, and sayling prosperously many dayes together. when they had past the country of _sardignia_, and (as they imagined) were well neere to their journeyes end: suddainly arose boisterous and contrary windes, which were so impetuous beyond all measure, and so tormented the ship wherein the lady was; that the mariners, seeing no signe of comfort, gave over all hope of escaping with life. neverthelesse, as men most expert in implacable dangers, they laboured to their uttermost power, and contended with infinite blustring tempests, for the space of two dayes and nights together, hoping the third day would prove more favourable. but therein they saw themselves deceived, for the violence continued still, encreasing in the night time more and more, being no way able to comprehend, either where they were, or what course they tooke, neither by marivall judgement, or any apprehension else whatsoever, the heavens were so clouded, and the nights darknesse so extreame. being (unknowne to them) neere the isle of _majorica_, they felt the ship to split in the bottome, by meanes whereof, perceiving now no hope of escaping (every one caring for himselfe, and not any other) they threw forth a squiffe on the troubled waves, reposing more confidence of safety that way, then abiding any longer in the broken ship. howbeit, such as were first descended downe, made stout resistance against all other followers, with their drawne weapons: but safety of life so farre prevailed, that what with the tempests violence, and over-lading of the squiffe, it sunke to the bottome, and all perished that were therein. the ship being thus split, and more then halfe full of water, tossed and tormented by the blustring windes, first one way, and then another: was at last driven into a strand of the isle _majorica_, no other persons remaining therein; but onely the lady and her women, all of them (through the rude tempest, and their owne conceived feare) lying still, as if they were more then halfe dead. and there, within a stones cast of the neighbouring shore, the ship (by the rough surging billowes) was fixed fast in the sands, and so continued all the rest of the night, without any further molestation of the windes. when day appeared, and the violent stormes were more mildly appeased, the lady, who seemed well-neere dead, lifted up her head, and began (weake as she was) to call first one, and then another: but she called in vaine, for such as she named were farre enough from her. wherefore, hearing no answere, nor seeing any one, she wondered greatly, her feares encreasing then more and more. raysing her selfe so well as shee could, she beheld the ladies that were of her company, and some other of her women, lying still without any stirring: whereupon, first jogging one, and then another, and calling them severally by their names; shee found them bereft of understanding, and even as if they were dead, their hearts were so quailed, and their feare so over-ruling, which was no meane dismay to the poore lady her selfe. neverthelesse, necessity now being her best counsallour, seeing her selfe thus all alone, and not knowing in what place she was, she used such meanes to them that were living, that (at the last) they came better to knowledge of themselves. and being unable to guesse, what was become of the men and mariners, seeing the ship also driven on the sands, and filled with water: she began (with them) to lament most grievously, and now it was about the houre of mid-day, before they could descry any person on the shore, or any else to pitty them in so urgent a necessity. at length, noone being past, a gentleman, named _bajazeth_, attended by divers of his followers on horseback, and returning from a country house belonging to him, chanced to ride by on the sands. upon sight of the ship lying in that case, he imagined truely what had happened, and commanded one of his men to enter aboord it, which (with some difficulty) hee did, to resolve his lord what remayned therein. there hee found the faire young lady, with such small store of company as was left her, fearefully hidden under the prow of the ship. so soone as they saw him, they held up their hands, wofully desiring mercy of him: but he perceiving their lamentable condition, and that hee understoode not what they said to them; their affliction grew the greater, labouring by signes and gestures, to give him knowledge of their misfortune. the servant, gathering what he could by their outward behaviour, declared to his lord, what hee had seene in the ship: who caused the women to be brought on shore, and all the precious things remaining with them, conducting them with him to a place not farre off, where, with foode and warmth he gave them comfort. by the rich garments which the lady was cloathed withall, hee reputed her to be a gentlewoman well derived, as the great reverence done to her by the rest, gave him good reason to conceive. and although her lookes were pale and wan, as also her person mightily altered, by the tempestuous violence of the sea: yet notwithstanding, she appeared faire and lovely in the eye of _bajazeth_, whereupon forthwith he determined, that if she were not maried, he would enjoy her as his owne in mariage, or if he could not winne her to be his wife, yet (at the least) shee should be his friend, because shee remained now in his power. _bajazeth_ was a man of sterne lookes, rough and harsh both in speech and behaviour: yet causing the lady to be honourably used divers dayes together, she became thereby well comforted and recovered. and seeing her beauty to exceede all comparison, he was afflicted beyond measure, that he could not understand her, nor she him, whereby hee could not know, of whence or what she was. his amorous flames encreasing more and more; by kinde, courteous, and affable actions, hee laboured to compasse what he aymed at. but all his endeavour proved to no purpose, for shee refused all familiar privacie with him, which so much the more kindled the fury of his desire. this being well observed by the lady, having now remayned there a moneth & more, and collecting by the customes of the countrey, that she was among turkes, and in such a place, where although she were knowne, yet it would little advantage her, beside, that long protraction of time would provoke _bajazeth_, by faire meanes or force to obtaine his will: she propounded to her selfe (with magnanimity of spirit) to tread all misfortunes under her feete, commaunding her women (whereof she had but three now remaining alive) that they should not disclose what she was; except it were in some such place, where manifest signes might yeeld hope of regaining their liberty. moreover, shee admonished them, stoutly to defend their honour and chastity, affirming, that shee had absolutely resolved with her selfe, that never any other should enjoy her, but her intended husband; wherein her women did much commend her, promising to preserve their reputation, according as she had commanded. day by day were the torments of _bajazeth_ wonderfully augmented, yet still his kinde offers scornefully refused, and he as farre off from compassing his desires, as when hee first began to moove the matter: wherefore, perceiving that all faire courses served to no effect, hee resolved to compasse his purpose by craft and subtilty, reserving rigorous extremity for his finall conclusion. and having once observed, that wine was very pleasing to the lady, she being never used to drinke any at all, because (by her countries law) it was forbidden her, and no meane store having beene lately brought to _bajazeth_ in a barke of _geneway_: hee resolved to surprize her by meanes thereof, as a chiefe minister of _venus_, to heate the coolest blood. and seeming now in his outward behaviour, as if he had given over his amorous pursuite, and which she strove by all her best endeavours to withstand: one night, after a very majestick and solemne manner, he prepared a delicate and sumptuous supper, whereto the lady was invited: and hee had given order, that hee who attended on her cup, should serve her with many wines compounded and mingled together, which hee accordingly performed, as being cunning enough in such occasions. _alathiella_, mistrusting no such trecherie intended against her, and liking the wines pleasing taste extraordinarily; dranke more then stoode with with her precedent modest resolution, and forgetting all her passed adversities, became very frollick and merry: so that seeing some women daunce after the manner observed therein _majorica_, she also fell to dauncing, according to the _alexandrian_ custome. which when _bajazeth_ beheld, he imagined the victory to be more then halfe wone, and his hearts desire very neere the obtaining: plying her still with wine upon wine, and continuing this revelling the most part of the night. at the length, the invited guests being all gone, the lady retired then to her chamber, attended on by none but _bajazeth_ himselfe, and as familiarly, as if hee had beene one of her women, shee no way contradicting his bold intrusion, so faire had wine over-gone her sences, and prevailed against all modest bashfulnesse. these wanton embracings, strange to her that had never tasted them before, yet pleasing beyond measure, by reason of his trecherous advantage: afterward drew on many more of the like carowsing meetings, without so much as a thought of her passed miseries, or those more honourable and chaste respects, that ever ought to attend on ladies. now, fortune envying these their stolne pleasures, and that she, being the purposed wife of a potent king, should thus become the wanton friend of a much meaner man, whose onely glory was her shame: altered the course of their too common pastimes, by preparing a farre greater infelicity for them. this _bajazeth_ had a brother, aged about five and twenty yeares, of most compleate person, in the very beauty of his time, and fresh as the sweetest smelling rose, he being named _amurath_. after he had once seene this lady (whose faire feature pleased him beyond all womens else) she seemed in his suddaine apprehension, both by her outward behaviour and civill apparancie, highly to deserve his very best opinion, for she was not meanely entred into his favour. now he found nothing to his hinderance, in obtayning the height of his hearts desire, but onely the strict custody and guard, wherein his brother _bajazeth_ kept her: which raised a cruell conceit in his minde, whereon followed (not long after) as cruell an effect. it came to passe, that at the same time, in the port of the citie, called _caffa_, there lay then a ship laden with merchandize, being bound thence for _smirna_, of which ship two _geneway_ merchants (being brethren) were the patrones and owners, who had given direction for hoysing the sayles, to depart thence when the winde should serve. with these two _genewayes amurath_ had covenanted, for himselfe to goe abord the ship the night ensuing, and the lady in his company. when night was come, having resolved with himselfe what was to be done: in a disguised habite hee went to the house of _bajazeth_, who stood not any way doubtfull of him, and with certaine of his most faithfull confederates (whom he had sworne to the intended action) they hid themselves closely in the house. after some part of the night was over-past, hee knowing the severall lodgings both of _bajazeth_ and _alathiella_: slew his brother soundly sleeping, and seizing on the lady, whom hee found awake and weeping, threatned to kill her also, if shee made any noyse. so, being well furnished, with the greater part of costly jewels belonging to _bajazeth_, unheard or undescried by anybody, they went presently to the port, and there, without any further delay, _amurath_ and the lady were received into the ship, but his companions returned backe againe; when the mariners, having their sayles ready set, and the winde aptly fitting for them, launched forth merrily into the maine. you may well imagine, that the lady was extraordinarily afflicted with griefe for her first misfortune, and now this second chancing so suddainly, must needes offend her in greater manner: but _amurath_ did so kindly comfort her, with milde, modest, and manly perswasions; that all remembrance of _bajazeth_ was quickly forgotten, and shee became converted to lovely demeanour, even when fortune prepared a fresh misery for her, as not satisfied with those whereof shee had tasted already. the lady being enriched with unequalled beauty (as wee have often related before) her behaviour also in such exquisite and commendable kinde expressed: the two brethren, owners of the ship, became so deepely enamoured of her, that forgetting all their more serious affaires, they studied by all possible meanes, to be pleasing and gracious in her eye, yet with such a carefull cariage, that _amurath_ should neither see or suspect it. when the brethren had imparted their loves extremity each to the other, and plainely perceived, that though they were equally in their fiery torments, yet their desires were utterly contrary: they began severally to consider, that gaine gotten by merchandize, admitted an equall and honest division, but this purchase was of a different quality, pleading the title of a sole possession, without any partner or intruder. fearefull and jealous were they both, least either should ayme at the others intention, yet willing enough to shake hands, in ridding _amurath_ out of the way, who onely was the hinderer of their hopes. whereupon they concluded together, that on a day, when the ship sayled on very swiftly, and _amurath_ was sitting upon the deck, studiously observing, how the billowes combatted each with other, and not suspecting any such treason in them towards him: stealing softly behinde him, suddainly they threw him into the sea, the ship fleeting on above halfe a leagues distance, before any perceived his fall into the sea. when the lady heard thereof, and saw no likely meanes of recovering him againe, she fell to her wonted teares and lamentations: but the two lovers came quickly to comfort her, using kinde words and pithie perswasions (albeit shee understood them not, or at the most very little) to appease the violence of her passions; and, to speake uprightly, shee did not so much bemoane the loss of _amurath_, as the multiplying of her owne misfortunes, still one succeeding in the necke of another. after divers long and well delivered orations, as also very faire and courteous behaviour, they had indifferently pacified her complaynings: they began to discourse and commune with themselves, which of them had most right and title to _alathiella_, and (consequently) ought to enjoy her. now that _amurath_ was gone, each pleaded his priviledge to be as good as the others, both in the ship, goods, and all advantages else whatsoever happening: which the elder brother absolutely denied, alleadging first his propriety of birth, a reason sufficient, whereby his younger ought to give him place; likewise his right and interest both in ship and goods, to be more then the others, as being heire to his father, and therefore in justice to be highest preferred. last of all, that his strength onely threw _amurath_ into the sea, and therefore gave him the full possession of his prize, no right at all remaining to his brother. from temperate and calme speeches, they fell to frownes and ruder language, which heated their blood in such violent manner, that forgetting brotherly affection, and all respect of parents or friends, they drew forth their poniards, stabbing each other so often and desperately, that before any in the shippe had the power or meanes to part them, both of them being very dangerously wounded, the younger brother fell downe dead, the elder being in little better case, by receiving so many perilous hurts, remained (neverthelesse) living. this unhappy accident displeased the lady very highly, seeing her selfe thus left alone, without the help or counsell of any body, and fearing greatly, least the anger of the two brethrens parents and friends, should now be laide to her charge, and thereon follow severity of punishment. but the earnest entreaties of the wounded surviver, and their arrivall at _smirna_ soone after, delivered him from the danger of death, gave some ease to her sorrow, and there with him shee went on shore. remaining there with him in a common inne, while he continued in the chirurgians cure, the fame of her singular and much admired beauty was soone spread abroade throughout all the city; and amongst the rest, to the hearing of the prince of _ionia_, who lately before (on very urgent occasions) was come to _smirna_. this rare rumour, made him desirous to see her, and after he had seene her, shee seemed farre fairer in his eye, then common report had noysed her to be, and suddenly grew so enamored of her, that shee was the onely idea of his best desires. afterward, understanding in what manner shee was brought thither, he devised how to make her his owne; practising all possible meanes to accomplish it: which when the wounded brothers parents heard of, they not onely made tender of their willingnesse therein, but also immediately sent her to him: a matter most highly pleasing to the prince, and likewise to the lady her selfe; because shee thought now to be freed from no meane perill, which (otherwise) the wounded merchants friends might have inflicted on her. the prince perceiving, that beside her matchlesse beauty, shee had the true character of royall behaviour; greeved the more, that he could not be further informed of what countrey shee was. his opinion being so stedfastly grounded, that (lesse then noble) shee could not be, was a motive to set a keener edge on his affection towards her, yet not to enjoy her as in honourable and loving complement onely, but as his espoused lady and wife. which appearing to her by apparant demonstrations, though entercourse of speech wanted to confirme it; remembrance of her so many sad disasters, and being now in a most noble and respected condition, her comfort enlarged it selfe with a setled hope, her feares grew free from any more molestations, and her beauties became the onely theame and argument of private and publike conference in all _natolia_, that (welneere) there was no other discourse, in any assembly whatsoever. hereupon the duke of _athens_, being young, goodly, and valiant of person, as also a neere kinsman to the prince, had a desire to see her; and under colour of visiting his noble kinsman, (as oftentimes before he had done) attended with an honourable traine, to _smirna_ he came, being there most royally welcommed, and bounteously feasted. within some few dayes of his there being, conference passed betweene them, concerning the rare beauty of the lady; the duke questioning the prince, whether shee was of such wonder, as fame had acquainted the world withall? whereto the prince replied; much more (noble kinsman) then can be spoken of, as your owne eyes shall witnesse, without crediting any words of mine. the prince solliciting the duke thereto very earnestly, they both went together to see her; and shee having before heard of their comming, adorned her selfe the more majestically, entertaining them with ceremonious demeanour (after her countries custome) which gave most gracious and unspeakable acceptation. at the princes affable motion, shee sate downe betweene them, their delight being beyond expression, to behold her, but abridged of much more felicity, because they understood not any part of her language: so that they could have no other conference, but by lookes and outward signes onely; and the more they beheld her, the more they marvelled at her rare perfections, especially the duke, who hardly credited that shee was a mortall creature. thus not perceiving, what deepe carowses of amorous poyson, his eyes dranke downe by the meere sight of her, yet thinking thereby onely to be satisfied; he lost both himselfe and his best sences, growing in love (beyond all measure) with her. when the prince and he were parted from her, and hee was at his owne private amorous meditations in his chamber; he reputed the prince far happier then any man else whatsoever, by the enjoying of such a peerelesse beauty. after many intricate and distracted cogitations, which molested his braines incessantly, regarding more his loves wanton heate, then reason, kindred, and honourable hospitality; he resolutely determined (whatsoever ensued thereupon) to bereave the prince of his faire felicity, that none but himselfe might possesse such a treasure, which he esteemed to be the height of all happinesse. his courage being conformable to his bad intent, with all hast it must be put in execution; so that equity, justice, and honesty, being quite abandoned, nothing but subtill stratagems were now his meditations. on a day, according to a fore compacted treachery, which he had ordered with a gentleman of the princes chamber, who was named _churiacy_; he prepared his horses to be in readinesse, and dispatched all his affaires else for a sudden departure. the night following, he was secretly conveyed by the said _churiacy_, and a friend of his with him (being both armed) into the princes chamber, where he (while the lady was soundly sleeping) stood at a gazing window towards the sea, naked in his shirt, to take the coole ayre, because the season was exceeding hot. having formerly enstructed his friend what was to be done, verie softly they stept to the prince, and running their weapons quite thorow his body, immediately they threw him forth of the window. here you are to observe, that the pallace was seated on the sea shore, and very high, and the window whereat the prince then stood looking foorth, was directly over divers houses, which the long continuance of time, and incessant beating on by the surges of the sea, had so defaced and ruined them, as sildome they were visited by any person; whereof the duke having knowledge before, was the easier perswaded, that the falling of the princes body in so vaste a place, could neither be heard, or descried by any. the duke and his companion having thus executed what they came for, proceeded yet in their cunning a little further; casting a strangling coard about the necke of _churiacy_, seeming as if they hugged and embraced him: but drew it with so maine strength, that he never spake one word after, and so threw him downe after the prince. this done, and plainely perceiving that they were not heard or seene, either by the lady, or any other: the duke tooke a light in his hand, going on to the bed, where the lady lay most sweetely sleeping; whom the more he beheld, the more he admired and commended: but if in her garments shee appeared so pleasing, what did shee now in a bed of such state and majesty? being no way daunted by his so late committed sinne, but swimming rather in surfet of joy, his hands all bloody, and his soule much more uglie; he laide him downe on the bed by her, bestowing infinite kisses and embraces on her, she supposing him to be the prince all this while, nor opening her eyes to be otherwise resolved. but this was not the delight he aimed at, neither did he thinke it safe for him, to delay time with any longer tarying there: wherefore having his agents at hand fit and convenient for the purpose, they surprized her in such sort, that she could not make any noise or outcry, and carrying her thorough the same false posterne, whereat themselves had entred, laying her in a princely litter; away they went with all possible speede, not tarrying in any place, untill they were arrived neere _athens_. but thither hee would not bring her, because himselfe was a married man, but rather to a goodly castle of his owne, not distant farre off from the city; where he caused her to be kept very secretly (to her no little greefe and sorrow) yet attended on and served in most honourable manner. the gentlemen usually attending on the prince, having waited all the next morning till noone, in expectation of his rising, and hearing no stirring in the chamber: did thrust at the doore, which was but onely closed together, & finding no body there, they presently imagined, that he was privately gone to some other place, where (with the lady, whom he so deerely affected) hee might remaine some few dayes for his more contentment, and so they relied verily perswaded. within some fewe dayes following, while no other doubt came in question, the princes foole, entering by chance among the ruined houses, where lay the dead bodies of the prince and _churiacy_: tooke hold of the corde about _churiacyes_ necke, and so went along dragging it after him. the bodye being knowne to many, with no meane mervaile, how hee should bee murthered in so vile manner: by giftes and faire perswasions they wonne him, to bring them to the place where hee found it. and there (to the no little greefe of all the cittie) they found the princes body also, which they caused to bee interred with all the most majesticke pomp that might bee. upon further inquisition, who should commit so horrid a deed, perceyving likewise, that the duke of _athens_ was not to be found, but was closely gone: they judged (according to the truth) that he had his hand in this bloody businesse, and had carried away the lady with him. immediately, they elected the princes brother to bee their lord and soveraigne, inciting him to revenge so horrid a wrong, and promising to assist him with their utmost power. the new chosen prince being assured afterward, by other more apparant and remarkeable proofes, that his people informed him with nothing but truth: sodainly, and according as they had concluded, with the helpe of neighbours, kindred, and friends, collected from divers places; he mustred a goodly and powerful army, marching on towards _athens_, to make war against the duke. no sooner heard he of this warlike preparation made against him, but he likewise levied forces for his owne defence, and to his succour came many great states: among whom, the emperor of _constantinople_ sent his sonne _constantine_, attended on by his nephew _emanuell_, with troopes of faire and towardly force, who were most honourably welcommed and entertained by the duke, but much more by the dutchesse, because she was their sister in law. military provision thus proceeding on daily more and more, the dutches making choise of a fit and convenient houre, took these two princes with her to a with-drawing chamber; and there in flouds of teares flowing from her eyes, wringing her hands, and sighing incessantly, shee recounted the whole history, occasion of the warre, and how dishonourably the duke had dealt with her about this strange woman, whom he purposed to keepe in despight of her, as thinking that she knew nothing thereof, and complaining very earnestly unto them, entreated that for the dukes honour, and her comfort, they would give their best assistance in this case. the two young lords knew all this matter, before shee thus reported it to them; and therefore, without staying to listen her any longer, but comforting her so wel as they could, with promise of their best employed paines: being informed by her, in what place the lady was so closely kept, they tooke their leave, and parted from her. often they had heard the lady much commended, and her incomparable beauty highly extolled, yea, even by the duke himselfe; which made them the more desirous to see her: wherefore earnestly they solicited him, to let them have a sight of her, and he (forgetting what happened to the prince, by shewing her so unadvisedly to him) made them promise to grant their request. causing a magnificent dinner to be prepared, & in a goodly garden, at the castle where the lady was kept: on the morrow morning, attended on by a small train, away they rode to dine with her. _constantine_ being seated at the table, he began (as one confounded with admiration) to observe her judiciously, affirming secretly to his soule that he had never seene so compleat a woman before; and allowing it for justice, that the duke, or any other whosoever, if (to enjoy so rare a beauty) they had committed treason, or any mischiefe else beside, yet in reason they ought to be held excused. nor did he bestow so many lookes upon her, but his prayses infinitely surpassed them, as thinking that he could not sufficiently commend her, following the duke step by step in affection: for being now growne amorous of her, and remembrance of the intended warre utterly abandoned; no other thoughts could come neerer him, but how to bereave the duke of her, yet concealing his love, and not imparting it to any one. while his fancies were thus amorously set on fire, the time came, that they must make head against the prince, who already was marching within the dukes dominions: wherefore the duke _constantine_ and all the rest, according to a counsell held among them, went to defend certaine of the frontiers, to the end that the prince might passe no further. remaining there divers dayes together, _constantine_, who could thinke on nothing else, but the beautifull lady, considered with himselfe, that while the duke was now so far off from her, it was an easie matter to compasse his intent: hereupon, the better to colour his present returne to _athens_, he seemed to be surprized with a sudden extreame sicknesse, in regard whereof (by the dukes free lisence, and leaving all his power to his cousen _emanuel_) forthwith he journeyed backe to _athens_. after some conference had with his sister, concerning her dishonourable wrongs endured at his hands only by the lady: he solemnly protested, that if shee were so pleased, he would aide her powerfully in the matter, by taking her from the place where she was, and never more afterward, to be seene in that countrey any more. the dutchesse being faithfully perswaded, that he would doe this onely for her sake, and not in any affection he bare to the lady, made answer that it highly pleased her; alwayes provided, that it might be performed in such sort, as the duke her husband should never understand, that ever shee gave any consent thereto, which _constantine_ sware unto her by many deep oathes, whereby she referred all to his owne disposition. _constantine_ hereupon secretly prepared in readinesse a subtill barke, sending it (in an evening) neere to the garden where the lady resorted; having first informed the people which were in it, fully in the businesse that was to be done. afterward, accompanied with some other of his attendants, hee went to the palace to the lady, where he was gladly entertained, not only by such as waited on her, but also by the lady her selfe. leading her along by the arme towards the garden, attended on by two of her servants, and two of his owne, seeming as if he was sent from the duke, to conferre with her: they walked alone to a port opening on the sea, which standing ready open, upon a signe given by him to one of his complices, the barke was brought close to the shore, and the lady being suddenly seized on, was immediately conveyed into it; and he returning backe to her people, with his sword drawne in his hand, saide: let no man stirre, or speake a word, except he be willing to loose his life: for i intend not to rob the duke of his faire friend, but to expel the shame and dishonour which he hath offered to my sister, no one being so hardy as to returne him any answer. aboard went _constantine_ with his consorts, and sitting neer to the lady, who wrung her hands, and wept bitterly; he commanded the marriners to launch forth, flying away on the wings of the wind, till about the breake of day following, they arrived at _melasso_. there they tooke landing, and reposed on shore for some few dayes, _constantine_ labouring to comfort the lady, even as if shee had been his owne sister, shee having good cause to curse her infortunate beauty. going aboard the barke againe, within few dayes they came to _setalia_, and there fearing the reprehension of his father, and least the ladie should be taken from him; it pleased _constantine_ to make his stay, as in a place of no meane security. and (as before) after much kinde behaviour used towards the lady, without any meanes in her selfe to redresse the least of all these great extremities: shee became more milde and affable, for discontentment did not a jot quaile her. while occurrences passed on in this manner, it fortuned, that _osbech_ the king of _turky_ (who was in continuall war with the emperour) came by accident to _laiazzo_: and hearing there how lasciviously _constantine_ spent his time in _setalia_, with a lady which he had stolne, being but weake and slenderly guarded; in the night with certaine well provided ships, his men & he entred the towne, & surprized many people in their beds, before they knew of their enemies comming, killing such as stood upon their defence against them, (among whom was _constantine_) and burning the whole towne, brought their booty and prisoners aboard their ships, wherewith they returned backe to _laiazzo_. being thus come to _laiazzo, osbech_, who was a brave and gallant young man, upon a review of the pillage; found the faire lady, whom hee knew to be the beloved of _constantine_, because shee was found lying on his bed. without any further delay, he made choyse of her to be his wife; causing his nuptials to be honourably sollemnized, and many moneths hee lived there in great joy with her. but before occasions grew to this effect, the emperour made a confederacy with _bassano_, king of _cappadocia_, that hee should descend with his forces; one way upon _osbech_, and hee would assault him with his power on the other. but he could not so conveniently bring this to passe, because the emperour would not yeeld to _bassano_, in any unreasonable matter he demanded. neverthelesse, when he understood what had happened to his son (for whom his griefe was beyond all measure) he granted the king of _cappadociaes_ request, solliciting him with all instancy, to be the more speedy in assailing _osbech_. it was not long, before hee heard of this conjuration made against him; and therefore speedily mustered up all his forces, ere he would be encompassed by two such potent kings, and marched on to meete the king of _cappadocia_, leaving his lady and wife, (for her safety) at _laiazzo_, in the custodie of a true and loyall servant of his. within a short while after, he drew neere the campe belonging to the king of _cappadocia_, where boldly he gave him battell; chancing therein to be slaine, his army broken and discomfited, by meanes whereof the king of _cappadocia_ remaining conquerour, marched on towards _laiazzo_, every one yeelding him obeysance all the way as he went. in the meane space, the servant to _osbech_, who was named _antiochus_, and with whom the faire lady was left in guard; although hee was aged, yet seeing shee was so extraordinarily beautifull, he fell in love with her, forgetting the sollemne vowes he had made to his master. one happinesse hee had in this case to helpe him, namely, that he understood and could speake her language, a matter of no meane comfort to her; who constrainedly had lived divers yeeres together, in the state of a deafe or dumbe woman, because every where else they understood her not, nor shee them, but by shewes and signes. this benefit of familiar conference, beganne to embolden his hopes, elevate his courage, and make him seeme more youthfull in his owne opinion, then any ability of body could speake unto him, or promise him in the possession of her, who was so farre beyond him, and so unequall to be enjoyed by him; yet to advance his hopes a great deale higher, newes came, that _osbech_ was vanquished and slaine, and that _bassano_ made everie where havocke of all: whereon they concluded together, not to tarrie there any longer, but storing themselves with the goods of _osbech_, secretly they departed thence to _rhodes_. being seated there in some indifferent abiding, it came to passe, that _antiochus_ fell into a deadly sicknesse, to whom came a _cyprian_ merchant, one much esteemed by him, as being an intimate friend and kinde acquaintance, and in whom hee reposed no small confidence. feeling his sicknesse to encrease more and more upon him dayly, hee determined, not onely to leave such wealth as hee had to this merchant, but the faire lady likewise; and calling them both to his beds side, he brake his minde unto them in this manner. deare love, and my most worthily respected friend, i perceive plainly and infallibly, that i am drawing neere unto my end, which much discontenteth me; because my hope was, to have lived longer in this world, for the enjoying of your kinde and most esteemed company. yet one thing maketh my death very pleasing and welcome to me, namely, that lying thus in my bed of latest comfort in this life: i shall expire and finish my course, in the armes of those two persons, whom i most affected in all this world, as you my ever dearest friend, and you faire lady, whom (since the very first sight of you) i loved and honoured in my soule. irksome and very grievous it is to me, that (if i dye) i shall leave you here a stranger, without the counsaile and helpe of any body: and yet much more offensive would it become, if i had not such a friend as you here present, who i am faithfully perswaded, will have the like care and respect of her (even for my sake) as of myselfe, if time had allotted my longer tarying here. and therefore (worthy friend) most earnestly i desire you, that if i dye, all mine affaires and she may remaine to your trusty care, as being (by my selfe) absolutely commended to your providence, and so to dispose both of the one and other, as may best agree with the comfort of my soule. as for you (choise beauty) i humbly entreate, that after my death you would not forget mee, to the end, i may make my vaunt in another world, that i was affected here, by the onely fairest lady that ever nature framed. if of these two things you will give me assurance; i shall depart from you with no meane comfort. the friendly merchant, and likewise the lady, hearing these words, wept both bitterly, and after hee had given over speaking: kindly they comforted him, with promise and solemne vowes, that if hee dyed, all should be performed which he had requested. within a short while after, he departed out of this life, and they gave him very honourable buriall, according to that country custome. which being done, the merchant dispatching all his affaires at _rhodes_, was desirous to returne home to _cyprus_, in a carrack of the catelans then there being: moving the lady in the matter, to understand how shee stood enclined, because urgent occasions called him thence to _cyprus_. the lady made answere, that she was willing to passe thither with him, hoping for the love hee bare to deceased _antiochus_, that he would respect her as his sister. the merchant was willing to give her any contentment, but yet resolved her, that under the title of being his sister, it would be no warrant of security to them both; wherefore hee rather advised her, to stile him as her husband, and hee would terme her his wife, and so hee should be sure to defend her from all injuries whatsoever. being abord the carrack, they had a cabine and small bed conveniently allowed them, where they slept together, that they might the better be reputed as man and wife; for, to passe otherwise, would have beene very dangerous to them both. and questionlesse, their faithfull promise made at _rhodes_ to _antiochus_, sicknesse on the sea, and mutuall respect they had of each others credit, was a constant restraint to all wanton desires, and a motive rather to incite chastity, then otherwise, and so (i hope) you are perswaded of them. but howsoever, the windes blewe merrily, the carrack sayled lustily, and (by this time) they are arrived at _baffa_, where the _cyprian_ merchant dwelt, and where shee continued a long while with him, no one knowing otherwise, but that shee was his wife indeede. now it fortuned, that there arrived also at the same _baffa_ (about some especiall occasions of his) a gentleman, whose name was _antigonus_, well stept into yeares, and better stored with wisedome then wealth: because by medling in many matters, while hee followed the service of the king of _cyprus_, fortune had beene very adverse to him. this ancient gentleman, passing (on a day) by the house where the lady lay, and the merchant being gone about his businesse into _armenia_: hee chanced to see the lady at a window of the house, and because shee was very beautifull, he observed her the more advisedly, recollecting his sences together, that doubtlesse he had seene her before, but in what place hee could not remember. the lady her selfe likewise, who had so long time beene fortunes tennis ball, and the terme of her many miseries drawing now neere ending: began to conceive (upon the very first sight of _antigonus_) that she had formerly seene him in _alexandria_, serving her father in place of great degree. hereupon, a suddaine hope perswaded her, that by the advice and furtherance of this gentleman, she should recover her wonted royall condition: and opportunity now aptly fitting her, by the absence of her pretended merchant husband, she sent for him, requesting to have a few words with him. when he was come into the house, she bashfully demanded of him, if he was not named _antigonus_ of _famagosta_, because shee knew one (like him) so called? hee answered, that he was so named, saying moreover: madame, me thinkes that i should know you, but i cannot remember where i have seene you, wherefore i would entreate (if it might stand with your good liking) that my memory might be quickned with better knowledge of you. the lady perceiving him to be the man indeede, weeping incessantly, she threw her armes about his necke, and soone after asked _antigonus_ (who stood as one confounded with mervaile) if hee had never seene her in _alexandria_? upon these words, _antigonus_ knew her immediatly to be _alathiella_, daughter to the great soldane, who was supposed (long since) to be drowned in the sea: and offering to doe her such reverence as became him, she would not permit him, but desired, that he would be assistant to her, and willed him also to sit downe a while by her. a goodly chaire being brought him, in very humble manner he demanded of her, what had become of her in so long a time: because it was verily beleeved throughout all egypt, that shee was drowned in the sea. i would it had bin so, answered the lady, rather then to leade such a life as i have done; and i thinke my father himselfe would wish it so, if ever he should come to the knowledge thereof. with these words the teares rained downe her faire cheekes: wherefore _antigonus_ thus spake unto her. madame, discomfort not your selfe before you have occasion, but (if you be so pleased) relate your passed accidents to mee, and what the course of your life hath bene: perhaps, i shall give you such friendly advice as may stand you in sted, and no way be injurious to you. fetching a sigh, even as if her heart would have split in sunder, thus she replyed. ah _antigonus_, me thinkes when i looke on thee, i seeme to behold my royall father, and therefore mooved with the like religious zeale and charitable love, as (in duty) i owe unto him: i will make knowne to thee, what i rather ought to conceale, and hide from any person living. i know thee to bee honourable, discreete, and truely wise, though i am a fraile, simple, and weake woman, therefore i dare discover to thee, rather then any other that i know, by what straunge and unexpected misfortunes, i have lived so long obscurely in the world. and if in thy great and grave judgement (after the hearing of my many miseries) thou canst any way restore me to my former estate, i pray thee do it: but if thou perceive it impossible to bee done, as earnestly likewise i entreate thee, never to reveale to any living person, that either thou hast seene me, or heard any speech of me. after these words, the teares still streaming from her faire eyes, shee recounted the whole passage of her rare mishaps, even from her shipwracke in the sea of _majorica_, until that very instant houre; speaking them in such harsh manner as they hapned, and not sparing any jot of them. _antigonus_ being mooved to much compassion, declared how hee pitied her by his teares, and having bene silent an indifferent while, as considering in this case, what was best to be done, thus he began. madam, seeing you have past through such a multitude of misfortunes, yet undiscovered, what and who you are: i will render you as blamelesse to your father, and estate you as fairely in his love, as at the hour when you parted from him, and afterward make you wife to the king of _cholcos_. she demanding of him, by what meanes possibly this could be accomplished: breefely he made it knowne to her, how, and in what manner hee would performe it. to cut off further tedious circumstances, forthwith he returned to _famagosta_, and going before the king of the country, thus he spake to him. sir, you may (if so you will be pleased) in an instant, do me an exceeding honour, who have bene impoverished by your service, and also a deed of great renowne to your selfe, without any much matter of expence and cost. the king demanding how? _antigonus_ thus answered. the fayre daughter of the soldane, so generally reported to be drowned, is arrived at _baffa_, and to preserve her honour from blemishing, hath suffered many crosses and calamities: being at this instant in very poore estate, yet desirous to re-visite her father. if you please to send her home under my conduct, it will be great honour to you, and no meane benefite to mee; which kindnesse will for ever be thankfully remembred by the soldan. the king in royall magnificence, replied sodainly, that he was highly pleased with these good tydings; & having sent honourably for her from _baffa_, with great pompe she was conducted to _famagosta_, and there most graciously welcommed both by the king and queene, with solemne triumphes, bankets, and revelling, performed in most majesticke manner. being questioned by the king and queene, concerning so large a time of strange misfortunes: according as _antigonus_ had formerly enstructed her, so did she shape the forme of her answers, and satisfied (with honour) all their demands. so, within few dayes after, upon her earnest & instant request, with an honourable traine of lords and ladies, shee was sent thence, and conducted all the way by _antigonus_, untill she came unto the soldans court. after some few dayes of her reposing there, the soldan was desirous to understand, how she could possibly live so long, in any kingdome or province whatsoever, and yet no knowledge to bee taken of her? the lady, who perfectly retained by heart, and had all her lessons at her fingers ends, by the warie instructions which _antigonus_ had given her, answered her father in this manner. sir, about the twentith day after my departure from you, a verie terrible and dreadfull tempest over-tooke us, so that in dead time of the night, our ship being split in sunder upon the sands, neere to a place called _varna_; what became of all the men that were aboord, i neither know, or ever heard of. onely i remember, then when death appeared, and i being recovered from death to life, certaine pezants of the countrey, comming to get what they could finde in the ship so wrackt, i was first (with two of my women) brought and set safely on the shore. no sooner were we there, but certaine rude shagge-haird villaines set upon us, carrying away from me both my women, then haling me along by the haire of my head, neither teares or intercessions could draw any pitty from them. as thus they dragd me into a spacious woodd, foure horsemen on a sodaine came riding by, who seeing how dishonourably the villaines used me, rescued me from them, and forced them to flight. but the foure horsemen, seeming (in my judgement) to bee persons of power and authority, letting them go, came to mee, urging sundry questions to me, which neither i understood, or they mine answers. after many deliberations held among themselves, setting me upon one of their horses, they brought me to a monastery of religious women, according to the custome of their law: and there, whatsoever they did or sayde, i know not, but i was most benignely welcommed thither, and honoured of them extraordinarily, where (with them in devotion) i dedicated my selfe to the goddesse of chastity, who is highly reverenced and regarded among the women of that countrey, and to her religious service, they are wholly addicted. after i had continued some time among them, and learned a little of their language; they asked me, of whence, and what i was. reason gave me so much understanding, to be fearfull of telling them the trueth, for feare of expulsion from among them, as an enemy to their law and religion: wherefore i answered (according as necessity urged) that i was daughter to a gentleman of _cyprus_, who sent me to bee married in _candie_; but our fortunes (meaning such as had the charge of mee) fell out quite contrary to our expectation, by losses, shipwracke, and other mischances; adding many matters more beside, onely in regard of feare, & yeelding obediently to observe their customes. at length, she that was in cheefest preheminence among these women (whom they termed by the name of their lady abbesse) demaunded of me, whither i was willing to abide in that condition of life, or to returne home againe into _cyprus_. i answerd, that i desired nothing more. but she, being very carefull of mine honour, would never repose confidence in any that came for _cyprus_; till two honest gentlemen of _france_, who hapned thither about two moneths since, accompanied with their wives, one of them being a neere kinswoman to the lady abbesse. and she well knowing, that they travelled in pilgrimage to _jerusalem_, to visit the holy sepulcher, where (as they beleeve) that he whom they held for their god was buried, after the jewes had put him to death: recommended me to their loving trust, with especial charge, for delivering me to my father in _cyprus_. what honourable love and respect i found in the company of those gentlemen and their wives, during our voyage backe to _cyprus_: the history would be over-tedious in reporting, neither is it much material to our purpose, because your demand is to another end. sayling on prosperously in our ship, it was not long, before wee arrived at _baffa_, where being landed, and not knowing any person, neither what i should say to the gentlemen, who onely were carefull for delivering me to my father, according as they were charged by the reverend abbesse: it was the will of heaven doubtlesse (in pitty and compassion of my passed disasters) that i was no sooner come on shore at _baffa_: but i should there haply meete with _antigonus_, whome i called unto in our countrey language, because i would not be understood by the gentlemen nor their wives, requesting him to acknowledge me as his daughter. quickly he apprehended mine intention, accomplishing what i requested, and (according to his poore power) most bounteously feasted the gentlemen and their wives, conducting me to the k. of _cyprus_, who received me royally, and sent me home to you with so much honour, as i am no way able to relate. what else remaineth to be said, _antigonus_ who hath oft heard the whole story of my fortunes, at better leisure will report. _antigonus_ then turning to the soldan, said: my lord, as shee hath often told me, and by relation both of the gentlemen and their wives, she hath delivered nothing but trueth. onely shee hath forgotten somewhat worth the speaking, as thinking it not fit for her to utter, because (indeede) it is not so convenient for her. namely, how much the gentlemen and their wives (with whom she came) commended the rare honesty and integrity of life, as also the unspotted vertue, wherein she lived, among those chaste religious women, as they constantly (both with teares and solemne protestations) avouched to me, when kindly they resigned their charge to mee. of all which matters, and many more beside, if i should make discourse to your excellencie; this whole day, the night ensuing, and the next dayes full extendure, are not sufficient to acquaint you withall. let it suffice then, that i have said so much, as (both by the reports, and mine owne understanding) may give you faithfull assurance, to make your royall vaunt; of having the fayrest, most vertuous, and honest lady to your daughter, of any king or prince whatsoever. the soldane was joyfull beyond all measure, welcomming both him and the rest in most stately manner, oftentimes entreating the gods very heartily, that he might live to requite them with equall recompence, who had so graciously honoured his daughter: but (above all the rest) the king of _cyprus_, who sent her home so majestically. and having bestowne great gifts on _antigonus_, within a few dayes after, hee gave him leave to returne to _cyprus_: with thankfull favours to the king as well by letters, as also by ambassadours espresly sent, both from himselfe and his daughter. when as this businesse was fully finished, the soldane, desiring to accomplish what formerly was intended and begun, namely, that shee might be wife to the king of _cholcos_: he gave him intelligence of all that had happened, writing moreover to him, that (if he were so pleased) hee would yet send her in royall manner to him. the king of _cholcos_ was exceeding joyfull of these glad tydings, and dispatching a worthy trayne to fetch her, she was convayed thither very pompously, and she who had beene embraced by so many, was received by him as an honest virgine, living long time after with him in much joy and felicity. and therefore, it hath beene said as a common proverbe: the mouth well kist comes not short of good fortune, but is still renewed like the moone. _the count_ d'angiers _being falsly accused, was banished out of_ france, _& left his two children in_ england _in divers places. returning afterward (unknowne) thorow_ scotland, _hee found them advanced unto great dignity. then, repayring in the habite of a servitour, into the king of_ france _his armie, and his innocencie made publiquely knowne; hee was reseated in his former honourable degree._ the eight novell. _whereby all men may plainely understand, that loyalty faithfully kept to the prince (what perils so ever doe ensue) doth yet neverthelesse renowne a man, and bring him to farre greater honour._ the ladies sighed very often, hearing the variety of wofull miseries happening to _alathiella_: but who knoweth, what occasion moved them to those sighes? perhaps there were some among them, who rather sighed they could not be so often married as she was, rather then for any other compassion they had of her disasters. but leaving that to their owne construction, they smiled merrily at the last speeches of _pamphilus_, and the queene perceiving the novell to be ended: shee fixed her eye upon madame _eliza_, as signifying thereby, that she was next to succeede in order, which shee joyfully embracing, spake as followeth. the field is very large and spacious, wherein all this day we have walked, and there is not any one here, so wearied with running the former races, but nimbly would adventure on as many more, so copious are the alterations of fortune, in sad repetition of her wonderfull changes; and among the infinity of her various courses, i must make addition of another, which i trust will no way discontent you. when the romaine empire was translated from the french to the germains, mighty dissentions grew between both the nations, insomuch that it drew a dismall and a lingring warre. in which respect, as well for the safety of his owne kingdome, as to annoy and disturbe his enemies; the king of _france_ and one of his sonnes, having congregated the forces of their owne dominions, as also of their friends and confederates, they resolved manfully to encounter their enemies. but before they would adventure on any rash proceeding; they held it as the chiefest part of pollicie and royall providence, not to leave the state without a chiefe or governour. and having had good experience of _gualtier_, counte _d'angiers_, to be a wise, worthy, and most trusty lord, singularly expert in militarie discipline, and faithfull in all affaires of the kingdome (yet fitter for ease and pleasure, then laborious toyle and travaile:) hee was elected lieutenant governour in their sted, over the whole kingdome of _france_, and then they went on in their enterprize. now began the counte to execute the office committed to his trust, by orderly proceeding, and with great discretion, yet not entring into any businesse, without consent of the queene and her faire daughter in law: who although they were left under his care and custodie, yet (notwithstanding) he honoured them as his superiours, and as the dignity of their quality required. heere you are to observe, concerning counte _gualtier_ himselfe, that he was a most compleat person, aged little above forty yeares; as affable and singularly conditioned, as any noble man possibly could be, nor did those times afford a gentleman, that equalled him in all respects. it fortuned, that the king and his sonne being busie in the afore-named warre, the wife and lady of counte _gualtier_ died in the meane while, leaving him onely a sonne and a daughter, very young and of tender yeares, which made his owne home the lesse welcome to him, having lost his deare love and second selfe. hereupon, hee resorted to the court of the said ladies the more frequently, often conferring with them, about the waighty affaires of the kingdome: in which time of so serious interparlance, the kings sonnes wife, threw many affectionate regards upon him, convaying such conspiring passions to her heart (in regard of his person and vertues) that her love exceeded all capacity of governement. her desires out-stepping all compasse of modesty, or the dignity of her princely condition; throwes off all regard of civill and sober thoughts, and guides her into a labyrinth of wanton imaginations. for, she regards not now the eminencie of his high authority, his gravity of yeares, and those parts that are the true conducts to honour: but lookes upon her owne loose and lascivious appetite, her young, gallant, and over-ready yeelding nature, comparing them with his want of a wife, and likely hope (thereby) of her sooner prevailing; supposing, that nothing could be her hinderance, but onely bashfull shame-facednesse, which she rather chose utterly to forsake and set aside, then to faile of her hote enflamed affection, and therefore, shee would needes be the discoverer of her owne disgrace. upon a day, being alone by her selfe, and the time seeming suteable to her intention: shee sent for the counte, under colour of some other important conference with him. the counte _d'angiers_, whose thoughts were quite contrary to hers: immediately went to her, where they both sitting downe together on a beds side in her chamber, according as formerly shee had plotted her purpose; twice hee demaunded of her, upon what occasion she had thus sent for him. she sitting a long while silent, as if she had no answere to make him: pressed by the violence of her amorous passions, a vermillion tincture leaping up into her face, yet shame enforcing teares from her eyes, with words broken and halfe confused, at last she began to deliver her minde in this manner. honourable lord, and my dearely respected friend, being so wise a man as you are, it is no difficult matter for you to know, what a fraile condition is imposed both on men and women; yet (for divers occasions) much more upon the one, then the other. wherefore desertfully, in the censure of a just and upright judge, a fault of divers conditions (in respect of the person) ought not to be censured with one and the same punishment. beside, who will not say, that a man or woman of poore and meane estate, having no other helpe for maintainance, but laborious travaile of their bodies should worthily receive more sharpe reprehension, in yeelding to amorous desires, or such passions as are incited by love; then a wealthy lady whose living relieth not on her paines or cares, neither wanteth any thing that she can wish to have: i dare presume, that you your selfe will allow this to be equall and just. in which respect, i am of the minde, that the fore-named allegations, ought to serve as a sufficient excuse, yea, and to the advantage of her who is so possessed, if the passions of love should over-reach her: alwayes provided, that shee can pleade (in her owne defence) the choise of a wise and vertuous friend, answerable to her owne condition and quality, and no way to be taxed with a servile or vile election. these two especiall observations, allowable in my judgement, and living now in me, seazing on my youthfull blood and yeares: have found no mean inducement to love, in regard of my husbands far distance from me, medling in the rude uncivill actions of warre, when he should rather be at home in more sweet imployment. you see sir, that these orators advance themselves here in your presence, to acquaint you with the extremity of my over-commanding agony: and if the same power hath dominion in you, which your discretion (questionlesse) cannot be voide of; then let me entreate such advise from you, as may rather helpe, then hinder my hopes. beleeve it then for trueth sir, that the long absence of my husband from me, the solitary condition wherein i am left, ill agreeing with the hot blood running in my veines, & the temper of my earnest desires: have so prevailed against my strongest resistances, that not onely so weake a woman as i am, but any man of much more potent might (living in ease and idlenesse as i doe) cannot withstand such continuall assaults, having no other helpe then flesh and blood. nor am i so ignorant, but publique knowledge of such an error in me, would be reputed a shrewd taxation of honesty: whereas (on the other side) secret carriage, and heedfull managing such amorous affaires, may passe for currant without any reproach. and let me tell you noble counte, that i repute love highly favourable to mee, by guiding my judgement with such moderation, to make election of a wise, worthy, and honourable friend, fit to enjoy the grace of a farre greater lady then i am, and the first letter of his name, is the count _d'angiers_. for if error have not misled mine eye, as in love no lady can be easily deceived: for person, perfections, and all parts most to be commended in a man, the whole realme of _france_ containeth not your equall. observe beside, how forward fortune sheweth her selfe to us both in this case, you to be destitute of a wife, as i am of an husband; for i count him as dead to me, when he denies me the duties belonging to a wife. wherefore, in regard of the unfaigned affection i beare you, and compassion, which you ought to have of royall princesse, even almost sicke to death for your sake: i earnestly entreate you, not to denie me your loving society, but pittying my youth and fiery afflictions (never to be quenched but by your kindnesse) i may enjoy my hearts desire. as shee uttered these words, the teares streamed aboundantly downe her faire cheekes, preventing her of any further speech: so that dejecting her head into her bosome, overcome with the predominance of her passions; shee fell upon the countes knee, whereas else shee had falne upon the ground. when hee, like a loyall and most honourable man, sharply reprehended her fonde and idle love, and when shee would have embraced him about the necke; hee repulsed her roughly from him, protesting upon his honourable reputation, that rather then hee would so wrong his lord and maister, he would endure a thousand deathes. the lady seeing her desire disappointed, and her fond expectation utterly frustrated: grewe instantly forgetfull of her intemperate love, and falling into extremity of rage, converted her former gentle speeches, into this harsh and ruder language. villaine (quoth shee) shall the longing comforts of my life, be abridged by thy base and scornefull deniall? shall my destruction bee wrought by thy currish unkindnesse, and all my hoped joyes be defeated in a moment? know slave, that i did not so earnestly desire thy sweet embracements before, but now as deadly i hate and despise them, which either thy death or banishment shall dearely pay for. no sooner had shee thus spoken, but tearing her haire, and renting her garments in pieces, shee ranne about like a distracted woman, crying out aloude: helpe, helpe, the count _d'angiers_ will forcibly dishonour mee, the lustfull count will violence mine honour. _d'angiers_ seeing this, and fearing more the malice of the over-credulous court, then either his owne conscience, or any dishonourable act by him committed, beleeving likewise, that her slanderous accusation would bee credited, above his true and spotlesse innocency: closely he conveyed himselfe out of the court, making what hast hee could, home to his owne house, which being too weake for warranting his safety upon such pursuite as would be used against him, without any further advice or counsell, he seated his two children on horsebacke, himselfe also being but meanly mounted, thus away thence hee went to _calice_. upon the clamour and noise of the lady, the courtiers quickly flocked thither; and, as lies soone winne beleefe in hasty opinions, upon any silly or shallow surmise: so did her accusation passe for currant, and the counts advancement being envied by many, made his honest carriage (in this case) the more suspected. in hast and madding fury, they ran to the counts houses, to arrest his person, and carry him to prison: but when they could not finde him, they raced his goodly buildings downe to the ground, and used all shamefull violence to them. now, as il newes sildome wants a speedy messenger; so, in lesse space then you will imagine, the king and dolphin heard thereof in the camp, and were therewith so highly offended, that the count had a sodaine and severe condemnation, all his progeny being sentenced with perpetuall exile, and promises of great and bountifull rewards, to such as could bring his body alive or dead. thus the innocent count, by his over-hasty and sodaine flight, made himselfe guilty of this foule imputation: and arriving at _callice_ with his children, their poore and homely habites, hid them from being knowne, and thence they crossed over into england, staying no where untill hee came to london. before he would enter into the city, he gave divers good advertisements to his children, but especially two precepts above all the rest. first, with patient soules to support the poore condition, whereto fortune (without any offence in him or them) had thus dejected them. next, that they should have most heedfull care, at no time to disclose from whence they came, or whose children they were, because it extended to the perill of their lives. his sonne, being named _lewes_, and now about nine yeares old, his daughter called _violenta_, and aged seaven yeares, did both observe their fathers direction, as afterward it did sufficiently appeare. and because they might live in the safer securitie, hee thought it for the best to change their names, calling his sonne _perotto_, and his daughter _gianetta_, for thus they might best escape unknowne. being entred into the city, and in the poore estate of beggers, they craved every bodies mercy and almes. it came to passe, that standing one morning at the cathedral church-doore, a great lady of england, being then wife to the lord high marshall, comming forth of the church, espied the count and his children there begging. of him she demanded what countrey-man he was? and whether those children were his owne, or no? the count replyed, that he was borne in _picardy_, and for an unhappy fact committed by his eldest sonne (a stripling of more hopefull expectation, then proved) hee was enforced, with those his two other children to forsake his country. the lady being by nature very pittiful, looking advisedly on the yong girle, beganne to grow in good liking of her; because (indeede) she was amiable, gentle, and beautifull, whereupon shee saide. honest man, thy daughter hath a pleasing countenance, and (perhaps) her inward disposition may proove answerable to hir outward goods parts: if therefore thou canst bee content to leave her with me, i will give her entertainment, and upon her dutifull carriage and behaviour, if she live to such yeares as may require it, i will have her honestly bestowne in marriage. this motion was verie pleasing to the count, who readily declared his willing consent thereto, and with the teares trickling downe his cheekes, in thankfull manner he delivered his prettie daughter to the lady. shee being thus happily bestowne, hee minded to tarry no longer in _london_; but, in his wonted begging manner, travailing thorough the country with his sonne _perotto_, at length hee came into _wales_: but not without much weary paine and travell, being never used before, to journey so far on foote. there dwelt another lord, in office of marshalship to the king of _england_, whose power extended over those partes; a man of very great authority, keeping a most noble and bountifull house, which they termed the _president of wales his court_; whereto the count and his son oftentimes resorted, as finding there good releefe and comfort. on a day, one of the presidents sons, accompanied with divers other gentlemens children, were performing certaine youthfull sports & pastimes, as running, leaping, and such like, wherein _perotto_ presumed to make one among them, excelling all the rest in such commendable manner, as none of them came any thing nere him. divers times the president had taken notice thereof, and was so well pleased with the lads behaviour, that he enquired, of whence he was? answer was made, that hee was a poore mans son, that every day came for an almes to his gate. the president being desirous to make the boy his, the count (whose dayly prayers were to the same purpose) frankly gave his son to the nobleman: albeit naturall and fatherly affection, urged some unwillingnesse to part so with him; yet necessity and discretion, found it to bee for the benefit of them both. being thus eased of care for his son and daughter, and they (though in different places) yet under good and woorthie government: the count would continue no longer in _england_: but, as best he could procure the meanes, passed over into _ireland_, and being arrived at a place called _stanford_, became servant to an earle of that country, a gentleman professing armes, on whom he attended as a serving man, & lived a long while in that estate very painfully. his daughter _violenta_, clouded under the borrowed name of _gianetta_, dwelling with the lady at _london_, grew so in yeares, beauty, comelinesse of person, and was so gracefull in the favour of her lord and lady, yea, of every one in the house beside, that it was wonderfull to behold. such as but observed her usuall carriage, and what modesty shined clearely in her eyes, reputed her well worthy of honourable preferment; in which regard, the lady that had received her of her father, not knowing of whence, or what shee was; but as himselfe had made report, intended to match her in honourable mariage, according as her vertues worthily deserved. but god, the just rewarder of all good endeavours, knowing her to be noble by birth, and (causelesse) to suffer for the sinnes of another; disposed otherwise of her, and that so worthy a virgin might be no mate for a man of ill conditions, no doubt ordained what was to be done, according to his owne good pleasure. the noble lady, with whom poore _gianetta_ dwelt, had but one onely sonne by her husband, and he most deerely affected of them both, as well in regard hee was to be their heire, as also for his vertues and commendable qualities, wherein he excelled many young gentlemen. endued he was with heroycal valour, compleate in all perfections of person, and his mind every way answerable to his outward behaviour, exceeding _gianetta_ about sixe yeeres in age. hee perceiving her to be a faire and comely maiden, grew to affect her so entirely, that all things else he held contemptible, and nothing pleasing in his eye but shee. now, in regard her parentage was reputed poore, hee kept his love concealed from his parents, not daring to desire her in marriage: for loth hee was to loose their favour, by disclosing the vehemency of his afflictions, which proved a greater torment to him, then if it had beene openly knowne. it came to passe, that love over-awed him in such sort, as he fell into a violent sicknesse, and score of physicions were sent for, to save him from death, if possibly it might be. their judgements observing the course of his sicknesse, yet not reaching to the cause of the disease, made a doubtfull question of his recovery; which was so displeasing to his parents, that their griefe and sorrow grew beyond measure. many earnest entreaties they moved to him, to know the occasion of his sicknesse, whereto he returned no other answer, but heart-breaking sighes, and incessant teares, which drew him more and more into weakenesse of body. it chanced on a day, a physicion was brought unto him, being young in yeeres, but well experienced in his practise, and as hee made triall of his pulse, _gianetta_ (who by his mothers command, attended on him very diligently) upon some especial occasion entred into the chamber, which when the young gentleman perceived, and that shee neither spake word, nor so much as looked towards him, his heart grew great in amorous desire, and his pulse did beate beyond the compasse of ordinary custome; whereof the physicion made good observation, to note how long that fit would continue. no sooner was _gianetta_ gone forth of the chamber, but the pulse immediately gave over beating, which perswaded the physicion, that some part of the disease had now discovered it selfe apparantly. within a while after, pretending to have some speech with _gianetta_, and holding the gentleman still by the arme, the physicion caused her to be sent for, and immediately shee came. upon her very entrance into the chamber, the pulse began to beate againe extreamely, and when shee departed, it presently ceased. now was he thorowly perswaded, that hee had found the true effect of his sicknesse; when taking the father and mother aside, thus he spake to them. if you be desirous of your sons health, it consisteth not either in physicion or physicke, but in the mercy of your faire maide _gianetta_; for manifest signes have made it knowne to me, and he loveth the damosell very dearely: yet (for ought i can perceive, the maide doth not know it) now if you have respect of his life, you know (in this case) what is to be done. the nobleman and his wife hearing this, became somewhat satisfied, because there remained a remedy to preserve his life: but yet it was no meane griefe to them, if it should so succeede, as they feared, namely, the marriage betweene their sonne and _gianetta_. the physicion being gone, and they repairing to their sicke sonne, the mother began with him in this manner. sonne, i was alwayes perswaded, that thou wouldest not conceale any secret from me, or the least part of thy desires; especially, when without enjoying them, thou must remaine in the danger of death. full well art thou assured, or in reason oughtest to be, that there is not any thing for thy contentment, be it of what quality soever, but it should have beene provided for thee, and in as ample manner as for mine owne selfe. but though thou hast wandred so farre from duty, and hazarded both thy life and ours, it commeth so to passe, that heaven hath been more mercifull to thee, then thou wouldest be to thy selfe or us. and to prevent thy dying of this disease, a dreame this night hath acquainted me with the principall occasion of thy sickenesse, to wit, extraordinary affection to a young maiden, in some such place as thou hast seene her. i tell thee sonne, it is a matter of no disgrace to love, and why shouldst thou shame to manifest as much, it being so apt and convenient for thy youth? for if i were perswaded, that thou couldst not love, i should make the lesse esteeme of thee. therefore deare sonne, be not dismayed, but freely discover thine affections. expel those disastrous drouping thoughts, that have indangered thy life by this long lingering sicknesse. and let thy soule be faithfully assured, that thou canst not require any thing to be done, remaining within the compasse of my power, but i will performe it; for i love thee as dearely as mine owne life. set therefore aside this nice conceit of shame and feare, revealing the truth boldly to me, if i may stead thee in thy love; resolving thy selfe unfaignedly, that if my care stretch not to compasse thy content, account me for the most cruell mother living, and utterly unworthy of such a sonne. the young gentleman having heard these protestations made by his mother, was not a little ashamed of his owne follie; but recollecting his better thoughts together, and knowing in his soule, that no one could better further his hopes, then shee; forgetting all his former feare, he returned her this answere; madam, and my dearely affected mother, nothing hath more occasioned my loves so strict concealement, but an especiall error, which i finde by daily proofe in many, who being growne to yeeres of grave discretion, doe never remember, that they themselves have bin yong. but because heerein i find you to be both discreet and wise, i will not onely affirme, what you have seen in me to be true, but also will confesse, to whom it is: upon condition, that the effect of your promise may follow it, according to the power remaining in you, whereby you onely may secure my life. his mother, desirous to bee resolved, whether his confession would agree with the physitians words, or no, and reserving another intention to her selfe: bad him feare nothing, but freely discover his whole desire, and forthwith she doubted not to effect it. then madame (quoth hee) the matchlesse beauty, and commendable qualities of your maid _gianetta_, to whom (as yet) i have made no motion, to commisserate this my languishing extremity, nor acquainted any living creature with my love: the concealing of these afflictions to my selfe, hath brought mee to this desperate condition: and if some meane bee not wrought, according to your constant promise, for the full enjoying of my longing desires, assure your selfe (most noble mother) that the date of my life is very short. the lady well knowing, that the time now rather required kindest comfort, then any severe or sharpe reprehension; smiling on him, saide. alas deere sonne, wast thou sicke for this? be of good cheare, and when thy strength is better restored, then referre the matter to me. the young gentleman, being put in good hope by his mothers promise, began (in short time) to shew apparant signes of well-forwarded amendment: to the mothers great joy and comfort, disposing her selfe daily to proove, how in honour she might keepe promise with her son. within a short while after, calling _gianetta_ privately to her, in gentle manner, and by the way of pleasant discourse, she demanded of her, whither she was provided of a lover, or no. _gianetta_, being never acquainted with any such questions, a scarlet dye covering all her modest countenance, thus replied. madam, i have no neede of any lover, and very unseemly were it, for so poore a damosell as i am, to have so much as a thought of lovers: being banished from my friends and kinsfolke, and remaining in service as i do. if you have none (answered the lady) wee will bestowe one on you, which shall content your minde, and bring you to a more pleasing kinde of life; because it is farre unfit, that so faire a maid as you are, should remaine destitute of a lover. madam, sayde _gianetta_, considering with my selfe, that since you received me of my poore father, you have used me rather like your daughter, then a servant; it becommeth mee to doe as pleaseth you. notwithstanding, i trust (in the regard of mine own good and honour) never to use any complaint in such a case: but if you please to bestow a husband on me, i purpose to love and honour him onely, & not any other. for, of all the inheritance left me by my progenitors, nothing remaineth to me but honourable honesty, and that shall bee my legacie so long as i live. these words were of a quite contrary complexion, to those which the lady expected from her, and for effecting the promise made unto hir sonne: howbeit (like a wise and noble lady) much shee inwardly commended the maids answers, and saide unto her. but tell me _gianetta_, what if my lord the king (who is a gallant youthfull prince, and you so bright a beauty as you are) should take pleasure in your love, would ye denie him? sodainly the maide returned this answer; madam, the king (perhaps) might enforce me; but with my free consent, hee shall never have any thing of me that is not honest. nor did the lady mislike her maides courage and resolution, but breaking off all her further conference, intended shortly to put her project in proofe, saying to her son, that when he was fully recovered, he should have private accesse to _gianetta_, whom shee doubted not but would be tractable enough to him; for she held it no meane blemish to her honour, to moove the maide any more in the matter, but let him compasse it as he could. farre from the yong gentlemans humour was this answer of his mother, because he aimed not at any dishonourable end: true, faithfull, & honest love was the sole scope of his intention, foule and loathsome lust he utterly defied; whereupon, he fell into sickenesse againe, rather more violently then before. which the lady perceiving, revealed her whole intent to _gianetta_, and finding her constancie beyond common comparison, acquainted her lord with all she had done, and both consented (though much against their mindes) to let him enjoy her in honourable marriage: accounting it better, for preservation of their onely sons life, to match him farre inferiour to his degree, then (by denying his desire) to let him pine away, and die for her love. after great consultation with kindred and friendes, the match was agreed upon, to the no little joy of _gianetta_, who devoutly returned infinite thankes to heaven, for so mercifully respecting her dejected poore estate, after the bitter passage of so many miseries, and never tearming her selfe any otherwise, but the daughter of a poore _piccard_. soone was the yong gentleman recovered and married, no man alive so well contented as he, and setting downe an absolute determination, to lead a loving life with his _gianetta_. let us now convert our lookes to _wales_, to _perotto_; being lefte there with the other lord marshall, who was the president of that countrey. on he grew in yeares, choisely respected by his lord, because hee was most comely of person, and addicted to all valiant attempts: so that in tourneyes, justes, and other actions of armes, his like was not to bee found in all the island, being named onely _perotto_ the valiant _piccard_, and so was he famed farre and neere. as god had not forgotten his sister, so in mercy he became as mindefull of him; for, a contagious mortalitie hapning in the country, the greater part of the people perished thereby, the rest flying thence into other partes of the land, whereby the whole province became dispeopled and desolate. in the time of this plague and dreadfull visitation, the lord president, his lady, sonnes, daughters, brothers, nephewes, and kindred dyed, none remaining alive, but one onely daughter marriageable, a few of the houshold servants, beside _perotto_, whom (after the sicknesse was more mildly asswaged) with counsaile and consent of the country people, the young lady accepted to be her husband, because hee was a man so worthy and valiant, and of all the inheritance left by her deceased father, she made him lord and sole commaunder. within no long while after, the king of _england_, understanding that his president of _wales_ was dead, and fame liberally relating, the vertues, valour, and good parts of _perotto_ the piccard: hee created him to be his president there, and to supply the place of his deceased lord. these faire fortunes, within the compasse of so short a time, fell to the two innocent children of the count _d'angiers_, after they were left by him as lost and forlorne. eighteene yeares were now fully over-past, since the count _d'angiers_ fled from _paris_, having suffered (in miserable sort) many hard and lamentable adversities, and seeing himselfe now to be growne aged, hee was desirous to leave ireland, and to know (if hee might) what was become of both his children. hereupon, perceiving his wonted forme to be so altered, that such as formerly had conversed most with him, could now not take any knowledge of him, & feeling his body (through long labour and exercise endured in service) more lusty, then in his idle youthfull yeares, especially when he left the court of _france_, hee purposed to proceede in his determination. being very poore and simple in apparell, hee departed from the irish earle his maister, with whom hee had continued long in service, to no advantage or advancement, and crossing over into _england_, travailed to the place in _wales_, where he left _perotto_: and where hee found him to be lord marshall and president of the country, lusty and in good health, a man of goodly feature, and most honourably respected and reverenced of the people. well may you imagine, that this was no small comfort to the poore aged countes heart, yet would he not make himselfe knowne to him or any other about him? but referred his joy to a further enlarging or diminishing, by sight of the other limme of his life, his dearely affected daughter _gianetta_, denying rest to his body in any place, untill such time as he came to _london_. making there secret enquiry, concerning the lady with whom he had left his daughter: hee understoode, that a young gentlewoman, named _gianetta_, was married to that ladies onely son; which made a second addition of joy to his soule, accounting all his passed adversities of no value, both his children being living, and in so high honour. having found her dwelling, and (like a kinde father) being earnestly desirous to see her; he dayly resorted neere to the house, where sir _roger mandavill_ (for so was _gianettaes_ husband named) chauncing to see him, being moved to compassion because he was both poore and aged: commaunded one of his men, to take him into the house, and to give him some foode for gods sake, which (accordingly) the servant performed. _gianetta_ had divers children by her husband, the eldest of them being but eight yeares olde, yet all of them so faire and comely as could be. as the olde count sate eating his meate in the hall, the children came all about him, embracing, hugging, and making much of him, even as if nature had truly instructed them, that this was their aged, though poore grandfather, and hee as lovingly receiving these kinde relations from them, wisely and silently kept all to himselfe, with sighes, teares, and joyes entermixed together. so that the children would not part from him, though their tutour and maister called them often, which being tolde to their mother, shee came foorth of the neere adjoining parlour, and threatned to beate them, if they would not doe what their maister commanded them. then the children began to cry, saying, that they would tarie still by the good olde man, because he loved them better then their maister did; whereat both the lady and the count began to smile. the count, like a poore beggar, and not as father to so great a lady, arose, and did her humble reverence, because shee was now a noble woman, conceiving wonderfull joy in his soule, to see her so faire and goodly a creature: yet could she take no knowledge of him, age, want and misery had so mightily altred him, his head all white, his beard without any comely forme, his garments so poore, and his face so wrinkled, leane and meager, that hee seemed rather some carter, then a count. and _gianetta_ perceiving, that when her children were fetcht away, they returned againe to the olde man, and would not leave him; desired their maister to let them alone. while thus the children continued making much of the good olde man, lord _andrew mandevile_, father to sir _roger_, came into the hall, as being so willed to doe by the childrens schoolemaister. he being a hastie minded man, and one that ever despised _gianetta_ before, but much more since her mariage to his sonne, angerly said. let them alone with a mischiefe, and so befall them, their best company ought to be with beggers, for so are they bred and borne by the mothers side: and therefore it is no mervaile, if like will to like, a beggers brats to keepe company with beggers. the count hearing these contemptible words, was not a little greeved thereat, and although his courage was greater, then his poore condition would permit him to expresse; yet, clouding all injuries with noble patience, hanging downe his head, and shedding many a salt teare, endured this reproach, as hee had done many, both before and after. but honourable sir _roger_, perceiving what delight his children tooke in the poore mans company; albeit he was offended at his fathers harsh words, by holding his wife in such base respect; yet favoured the poore count so much the more, and seeing him weepe, did greatly compassionate his case, saying to the poore man, that if hee would accept of his service, he willingly would entertaine him. whereto the count replied, that very gladly he would embrace his kinde offer: but hee was capable of no other service, save onely to be an horse-keeper, wherein he had imployed the most part of his time. heereupon, more for pleasure and pitty, then any necessity of his service, he was appointed to the keeping of one horse, which was onely for his daughters saddle, and daily after he had done his diligence about the horse, he did nothing elsee but play with the children. while fortune pleased thus to dally with the poore count _d'angiers_, & his children, it came to passe, that the king of _france_ (after divers leagues of truces passed between him & the _germaines_) died, and next after him, his son the dolphin was crowned king, and it was his wife that wrongfully caused the counts banishment. after expiration of the last league with the _germains_, the warres began to grow much more fierce and sharpe, and the king of _england_, (upon request made to him by his new brother of _france_) sent him very honourable supplies of his people, under the conduct of _perotto_, his lately elected president of _wales_, and sir _roger mandevile_, son to his other lord high marshall; with whom also the poore count went, and continued a long while in the campe as a common souldier, where yet like a valiant gentleman (as indeed he was no lesse) both in advice and actions; he accomplished many more notable matters, then was expected to come from him. it so fell out, that in the continuance of this warre, the queen of _france_ fell into a grievous sicknes, and perceiving her selfe to be at the point of death, shee became very penitently sorrowfull for all her sinnes, earnestly desiring that shee might be confessed by the archbishop of _roane_, who was reputed to be an holy and vertuous man. in the repetition of her other offences, she revealed what great wrong she had done to the count _d'angiers_, resting not so satisfied, with disclosing the whole matter to him alone; but also confessed the same before many other worthy persons, and of great honour, entreating them to worke so with the king; that (if the count were yet living, or any of his children) they might be restored to their former honour againe. it was not long after, but the queene left this life, and was most royally enterred, when her confession being disclosed to the king, after much sorrow for so injuriously wronging a man of so great valour and honour: proclamation was made throughout the camp, and in many other parts of _france_ beside, that whosoever could produce the count _d'angiers_, or any of his children, should richly be rewarded for each one of them; in regard he was innocent of the foule imputation, by the queenes owne confession, and for his wrongfull exile so long, he should be exalted to his former honour with farre greater favours, which the king franckely would bestow upon him. when the count (who walked up and downe in the habite of a common servitor) heard this proclamation, forth-with he went to his master sir _roger mandevile_, requesting his speedy repaire to lord _perotto_, that being both assembled together, he would acquaint them with a serious matter, concerning the late proclamation published by the king. being by themselves alone in the tent, the count spake in this manner to _perotto_. sir, s. _roger mandevile_ here, your equal competitor in this military service, is the husband to your naturall sister, having as yet never received any dowry with her, but her inherent unblemishable vertue & honour. now because she may not still remain destitute of a competent dowry: i desire that sir _roger_, and none other, may enjoy the royall reward promised by the king. you lord _perotto_, whose true name is _lewes_, manifest your selfe to be nobly borne, and sonne to the wrongfull banished count _d'angiers_: avouch moreover, that _violenta_, shadowed under the borrowed name of _gianetta_, is your owne sister; and deliver me up as your father, the long exiled count _d'angiers. perotto_ hearing this, beheld him more advisedly, and began to know him: then, the tears flowing abundantly from his eyes, he fell at his feete, and often embracing him, saide: my deere and noble father! a thousand times more deerely welcome to your sonne _lewes_. sir _roger mandevile_, hearing first what the count had said, and seeing what _perotto_ afterward performed; became surprized with such extraordinary joy and admiration, that he knew not how to carry himselfe in this case. neverthelesse, giving credite to his words, and being somewhat ashamed, that he had not used the count in more respective manner, & remembring beside, the unkinde language of his furious father to him: he kneeled downe, humbly craving pardon, both for his fathers rudenes and his owne, which was courteously granted by the count, embracing him lovingly in his armes. when they had a while discoursed their severall fortunes, sometime in teares, and then againe in joy, _perotto_ and sir _roger_, would have the count to be garmented in better manner, but in no wise he would suffer it; for it was his onely desire, that sir _roger_ should be assured of the promised reward, by presenting him in the kings presence, and in the homely habit which he did then weare, to touch him with the more sensible shame, for his rash beleefe, and injurious proceeding. then sir _roger mandevile_, guiding the count by the hand, and _perotto_ following after, came before the king, offering to present the count and his children, if the reward promised in the proclamation might be performed. the king immediately commanded, that a reward of inestimable valew should be produced; desiring sir _roger_ uppon the sight thereof, to make good his offer, for forthwith presenting the count and his children. which hee made no longer delay of, but turning himselfe about, delivered the aged count, by the title of his servant, and presenting _perotto_ next, said. sir, heere i deliver you the father and his son, his daughter who is my wife, cannot so conveniently be heere now, but shortly, by the permission of heaven, your majesty shall have a sight of her. when the king heard this, stedfastly he looked on the count; and, notwithstanding his wonderfull alteration, both from his wonted feature and forme: yet, after he had very seriously viewed him, he knew him perfectly; and the teares trickling downe his cheekes, partly with remorsefull shame, and joy also for his so happy recovery, he tooke up the count from kneeling, kissing, and embracing him very kindely, welcomming _perotto_ in the selfesame manner. immediately also he gave commaund, that the count should be restored to his honours, apparrell, servants, horses, and furniture, answerable to his high estate and calling, which was as speedily performed. moreover, the king greatly honoured sir _roger mandevile_, desiring to be made acquainted with all their passed fortunes. when sir _roger_ had received the royall reward, for thus surrendring the count and his sonne, the count calling him to him, saide. take that princely remuneration of my soveraigne lord the king, and commending me to your unkinde father, tell him that your children are no beggars brats, neither basely borne by their mothers side. sir _roger_ returning home with his bountifull reward, soone after brought his wife and mother to _paris_, and so did _perotto_ his wife, where in great joy and triumph, they continued a long while with the noble count; who had all his goods and honours restored to him, in farre greater measure then ever they were before: his sonnes in law returning home with their wives into _england_, left the count with the king at _paris_, where he spent the rest of his dayes in great honour and felicity. bernardo, _a merchant of_ geneway, _being deceived by another merchant, named_ ambroginolo, _lost a great part of his goods. and commanding his innocent wife to be murthered, shee escaped, and (in the habite of a man) became servant to the soldane. the deceiver being found at last, shee compassed such meanes, that her husband_ bernardo _came into_ alexandria, _and there, after due punishment inflicted on the false deceiver, shee resumed the garments againe of a woman, and returned home with her husband to_ geneway. the ninth novell. _wherein is declared, that by over-liberall commending the chastity of women, it falleth out (oftentimes) to be very dangerous, especially by the meanes of treacherers, who yet (in the ende) are justly punished for their treachery._ madam _eliza_ having ended her compassionate discourse, which indeede had moved all the rest to sighing; the queene, who was faire, comely of stature, and carrying a very majesticall countenance, smiling more familiarly then the other, spake to them thus. it is very necessary, that the promise made to _dioneus_, should carefully be kept, and because now there remaineth none, to report any more novelse, but onely he and my selfe: i must first deliver mine, and he (who takes it for an honour) to be the last in relating his owne, last let him be for his owne deliverance. then pausing a little while, thus shee began againe. many times among vulgar people, it hath passed as a common proverbe: that the deceiver is often trampled on, by such as he hath deceived. and this cannot shew it selfe (by any reason) to be true, except such accidents as awaite on treachery, doe really make a just discovery thereof. and therefore according to the course of this day observed, i am the woman, that must make good what i have saide for the approbation of that proverbe; no way (i hope) distastfull to you in the hearing, but advantageable to preserve you from any such beguiling. there was a faire and good inne in _paris_, much frequented by many great _italian_ merchants, according to such variety of occasions and businesse, as urged their often resorting thither. one night among many other, having had a merry supper together, they began to discourse on divers matters, and falling from one relation to another; they communed in very friendly manner, concerning their wives, lefte at home in their houses. quoth the first, i cannot well imagine what my wife is now doing, but i am able to say for my selfe, that if a pretty female should fall into my company: i could easily forget my love to my wife, and make use of such an advantage offered. a second replyed; and trust me, i should do no lesse, because i am perswaded, that if my wife be willing to wander, the law is in her owne hand, and i am farre enough from home: dumbe walles blab no tales, & offences unknowne are sildome or never called in question. a thirde man jumpt in censure, with his former fellowes of the jury; and it plainly appeared, that al the rest were of the same opinion, condemning their wives over-rashly, and alledging, that when husbands strayed so far from home, their wives had wit enough to make use of their time. onely one man among them all, named _bernardo lomellino_, & dwelling in _geneway_, maintained the contrary; boldly avouching, that by the especiall favour of fortune, he had a wife so perfectly compleat in al graces and vertues, as any lady in the world possibly could be, and that _italy_ scarsely contained her equall. for, she was goodly of person, and yet very young, quicke, quaint, milde, and courteous, and not any thing appertaining to the office of a wife, either for domesticke affayres, or any other imployment whatsoever, but in woman-hoode shee went beyond all other. no lord, knight, esquire, or gentleman, could bee better served at his table, then himselfe dayly was, with more wisedome, modesty and discretion. after all this, hee praised her for riding, hawking, hunting, fishing, fowling, reading, writing, enditing, and most absolute keeping his bookes of accounts, that neither himselfe, or any other merchant could therein excell her. after infinite other commendations, he came to the former point of their argument, concerning the easie falling of women into wantonnesse, maintaining (with a solemne oath) that no woman possibly could be more chaste and honest then she: in which respect, he was verily perswaded, that if he stayed from her ten yeares space, yea (all his life time) out of his house; yet never would shee falsifie her faith to him, or be lewdly allured by any other man. among these merchants thus communing together, there was a young proper man, named _ambroginolo_ of _placentia_, who began to laugh at the last praises, which _bernardo_ had used of his wife, and seeming to make a mockerie thereat, demaunded, if the emperour had given him this priviledge, above all other married men? _bernardo_ being somewhat offended, answered: no emperour hath done it, but the especiall blessing of heaven, exceeding all the emperours on the earth in grace, and thereby have received this favour; whereto _ambroginolo_ presently thus replied. _bernardo_, without all question to the contrary, i beleeve that what thou hast said, is true, but, for ought i can perceive, thou hast slender judgement in the nature of things: because, if thou didst observe them well, thou couldst not be of so grosse understanding; for, by comprehending matters in their true kinde and nature, thou wouldst speake of them more correctly then thou doest. and to the end, thou mayest not imagine, that wee who have spoken of our wives, doe thinke any otherwise of them, then as well and honestly as thou canst of thine, nor that any thing elsee did urge these speeches of them, or falling into this kinde of discourse, but onely by a naturall instinct and admonition; i will proceede familiarly a little further with thee, upon the matter already propounded. i have ever more understood, that man was the most noble creature, formed by god to live in this world, and woman in the next degree to him: but man, as generally is beleeved, and as is discerned by apparant effects, is the most perfect of both. having then the most perfection in him, without all doubt, he must be so much the more firme and constant. so in like manner, it hath beene, and is universally graunted, that woman is more various and mutable, and the reason thereof may be approved, by many naturall circumstances, which were needlesse now to make any mention of. if a man then be possessed of the greater stability, and yet cannot containe himselfe from condiscending, i say not to one that entreates him, but to desire any other that may please him, and beside, to covet the enjoying of his owne pleasing contentment (a thing not chancing to him once in a moneth, but infinite times in a dayes space.) what can you then conceive of a fraile woman, subject (by nature) to entreaties, flatteries, gifts, perswasions, and a thousand other enticing meanes, which a man (that is affected to her) can use? doest thou think then that shee hath any power to containe? assuredly, though thou shouldst rest so resolved, yet cannot i be of the same opinion. for i am sure thou beleevest, and must needes confesse it, that thy wife is a woman, made of flesh and blood, as other women are: if it be so, shee cannot be without the same desires, and the weakenesse or strength as other women have, to resist such naturall appetites as her owne are. in regard whereof, it is meerely impossible (although shee be most honest) but she must needs do that which other women do; for there is nothing elsee possible, either to be denied or affirmed to the contrary, as thou most unadvisedly hast done. _bernardo_ answered in this manner. i am a merchant, and no philosopher, and like a merchant i meane to answere thee. i am not to learne, that these accidents by thee related, may happen to fooles, who are void of understanding or shame: but such as are wise, and endued with vertue, have alwayes such a precious esteeme of their honour, that they will containe those principles of constancie, which men are meerely carelesse of, and i justifie my wife to be one of them. beleeve me _bernardo_ (replied _ambroginolo_) if so often as thy wives minde is addicted to wanton folly, a badge of scorne should arise on thy forehead, to render testimonie of her female frailty; i beleeve the number of them would be more, then willingly you would wish them to be. and among all married men, in every degree, the notes are so secret of their wives imperfections, that the sharpest sight is not able to discerne them; and the wiser sort of men are willing not to know them; because shame and losse of honour is never imposed, but in cases evident and apparant. perswade thy selfe then _bernardo_, that, what women may accomplish in secret, they will rarely faile to doe: or if they abstaine, it is through feare and folly. wherefore, hold it for a certaine rule, that that woman is onely chaste, that never was solicited personally, or if she endured any such sute, either shee answered yea, or no. and albeit i know this to be true, by many infallible and naturall reasons, yet could i not speake so exactly as i doe; if i had not tried experimentally, the humours and affections of divers women. yea, and let me tell thee more _bernardo_, were i in private company with thy wife, howsoever pure and precise thou presumest her to be: i should account it a matter of no impossibility, to finde in her the selfe same frailty. _bernardoes_ blood began now to boile, and patience being a little put downe by choller, thus hee replied. a combat of words requires over-long continuance, for i maintaine the matter, which thou deniest, and all this sorts to nothing in the end. but seeing thou presumest, that all women are so apt and tractable, and thy selfe so confident of thine owne power: i willingly yeeld (for the better assurance of my wifes constant loyalty) to have my head smitten off, if thou canst winne her to any such dishonest act, by any meanes whatsoever thou canst use unto her; which if thou canst not doe, thou shalt onely loose a thousand duckets of gold. now began _ambroginolo_ to be heated with these words, answering thus. _bernardo_, if i had won the wager, i know not what i should doe with thy head; but if thou be willing to stand upon the proofe, pawne downe five thousand duckets of gold, (a matter of much lesse value then thy head) against a thousand duckets of mine, granting me a lawfull limitted time, which i require to be no more then the space of three moneths, after the day of my departing hence. i will stand bound to goe for _geneway_, and there winne such kinde consent of thy wife, as shall be to mine owne consent. in witnesse whereof, i will bring backe with me such private and especiall tokens, as thou thy selfe shalt confesse that i have not failed. provided, that thou doe first promise upon thy faith, to absent thy selfe thence during my limitted time, and be no hinderance to me by thy letters, concerning the attempt by me undertaken. _bernardo_ saide, be it a bargaine, i am the man that will make good my five thousand duckets; and albeit the other merchants then present, earnestly laboured to breake the wager, knowing great harme must needs ensue thereon: yet both the parties were so hot and fiery, as all the other men spake to no effect, but writings were made, sealed, and delivered under either of their hands, _bernardo_ remaining at _paris_, and _ambroginolo_ departing for _geneway_. there he remained some few dayes, to learne the streetes name where _bernardo_ dwelt, as also the conditions and qualities of his wife, which scarcely pleased him when he heard them; because they were farre beyond her husbands relation, and shee reputed to be the onely wonder of women; whereby he plainely perceived, that he had undertaken a very idle enterprise, yet would he not give it over so, but proceeded therein a little further. he wrought such meanes, that he came acquainted with a poore woman, who often frequented _bernardoes_ house, and was greatly in favour with his wife; upon whose poverty he so prevailed, by earnest perswasions, but much more by large gifts of money, that he won her to further him in this manner following. a faire and artificiall chest he caused to be purposely made, wherein himselfe might be aptly contained, and so conveyed into the house of _bernardoes_ wife, under colour of a formall excuse; that the poore woman should be absent from the city two or three dayes, and shee must keepe it safe till he returne. the gentlewoman suspecting no guile, but that the chest was the receptacle of all the womans wealth; would trust it in no other roome, then her owne bed-chamber, which was the place where _ambroginolo_ most desired to bee. being thus conveyed into the chamber, the night going on apace, and the gentlewoman fast asleepe in her bed, a lighted taper stood burning on the table by her, as in her husbands absence shee ever used to have: _ambroginolo_ softly opened the chest, according as cunningly hee had contrived it; and stepping forth in his sockes made of cloath, observed the scituation of the chamber, the paintings, pictures, and beautifull hangings, with all things elsee that were remarkable, which perfectly he committed to his memory. going neere to the bed, he saw her lie there sweetly sleeping, and her young daughter in like manner by her, shee seeming then as compleate and pleasing a creature, as when shee was attired in her best bravery. no especiall note or marke could hee descrie, whereof he might make credible report, but onely a small wart upon her left pappe, with some few haires growing thereon, appearing to be as yellow as gold. sufficient had he seene, and durst presume no further; but taking one of her rings, which lay upon the table, a purse of hers, hanging by on the wall, a light wearing robe of silke, and her girdle, all which he put into the chest; and being in himselfe, closed it fast as it was before, so continuing there in the chamber two severall nights, the gentlewoman neither mistrusting or missing any thing. the third day being come, the poore woman, according as formerly was concluded, came to have home her chest againe, and brought it safely into her owne house; where _ambroginolo_ comming forth of it, satisfied the poore woman to her own liking, returning (with all the forenamed things) so fast as conveniently he could to _paris_. being arrived there long before his limitted time, he called the merchants together, who were present at the passed words and wager; avouching before _bernardo_, that he had won his five thousand duckets, and performed the taske he undertooke. to make good his protestation, first he described the forme of the chamber, the curious pictures hanging about it, in what manner the bed stood, and every circumstance elsee beside. next he shewed the severall things, which he brought away thence with him, affirming that he had received them of her selfe. _bernardo_ confessed, that his description of the chamber was true, and acknowledged moreover, that these other things did belong to his wife: but (quoth he) this may be gotten, by corrupting some servant of mine, both for intelligence of the chamber, as also of the ring, purse, and what elsee is beside; all which suffice not to win the wager, without some other more apparant and pregnant token. in troth, answered _ambroginolo_, me thinks these should serve for sufficient proofes; but seeing thou art so desirous to know more: i plainely tell thee, that faire _genevra_ thy wife, hath a small round wart upon her left pappe, and some few little golden haires growing thereon. when bernardo heard these words, they were as so many stabs to his heart, yea, beyond all compasse of patient sufferance, and by the changing of his colour, it was noted manifestly, (being unable to utter one word) that _ambroginolo_ had spoken nothing but the truth. within a while after, he saide; gentlemen, that which _ambroginolo_ hath saide, is very true, wherefore let him come when he will, and he shall be paide; which accordingly he performed on the very next day, even to the utmost penny, departing then from _paris_ towards _geneway_, with a most malicious intention to his wife: being come neere to the city, he would not enter it, but rode to a countrey house of his, standing about tenne miles distant thence. being there arrived, he called a servant, in whom hee reposed especiall trust, sending him to _geneway_ with two horses, writing to his wife, that he was returned, and shee should come thither to see him. but secretly he charged his servant, that so soone as he had brought her to a convenient place, he should there kill her, without any pitty or compassion, and then returne to him againe. when the servant was come to _geneway_, and had delivered his letter and message, _genevra_ gave him most joyful welcome, and on the morrow morning mounting on horse-backe with the servant, rode merrily towards the countrey house; divers things shee discoursed on by the way, til they descended into a deepe solitary valey, very thickly beset with high and huge spreading trees, which the servant supposed to be a meete place, for the execution of his masters command. suddenly drawing forth his sword, and holding _genevra_ fast by the arme, he saide; mistresse, quickly commend your soule to god, for you must die, before you passe any further. _genevra_ seeing the naked sword, and hearing the words so peremptorily delivered, fearefully answered; alas deare friend, mercy for gods sake; and before thou kill me, tell me wherein i have offended thee, and why thou must kill me? alas good mistresse replied the servant, you have not any way offended me, but in what occasion you have displeased your husband, it is utterly unknowne to me: for he hath strictly commanded me, without respect of pitty or compassion, to kill you by the way as i bring you, and if i doe it not, he hath sworne to hang me by the necke. you know good mistresse, how much i stand obliged to him; and how impossible it is for me, to contradict any thing that he commandedeth. god is my witnesse, that i am truly compassionate of you, and yet (by no meanes) may i let you live. _genevra_ kneeling before him weeping, wringing her hands, thus replied. wilt thou turne monster, and be a murtherer of her that never wronged thee, to please another man, and on a bare command? god, who truly knoweth all things, is my faithfull witnesse, that i never committed any offence, whereby to deserve the dislike of my husband, much lesse so harsh a recompence as this is. but flying from mine owne justification, and appealing to thy manly mercy, thou mayest (wert thou but so well pleased) in a moment satisfie both thy master and me, in such manner as i will make plaine and apparant to thee. take thou my garments, spare me onely thy doublet, and such a bonnet as is fitting for a man, so returne with my habite to thy master, assuring him, that the deede is done. and here i sweare to thee, by that life which i enjoy but by thy mercy, i will so strangely disguise my selfe, and wander so farre off from these countries, as neither he or thou, nor any person belonging to these parts, shall ever heare any tydings of me. the servant, who had no great good will to kill her, very easily grew pittifull, tooke off her upper garments, and gave her a poore ragged doublet, a sillie chapperone, and such small store of money as he had, desiring her to forsake that countrey, and so left her to walke on foote out of the vally. when he came to his maister, and had delivered him her garments, he assured him, that he had not onely accomplished his commaund, but also was most secure from any discovery: because he had no sooner done the deede, but foure or five very ravenous wolfes, came presently running to the dead body, and gave it buriall in their bellies. _bernardo_ soone after returning to _geneway_, was much blamed for such unkinde cruelty to his wife; but his constant avouching of her treason to him (according then to the countries custome) did cleare him from all pursuite of law. poore _genevra_, was left thus alone and disconsolate, and night stealing fast upon her, shee went to a silly village neere adjoining, where (by the meanes of a good olde woman) she got such provision as the place afforded, making the doublet fit to her body, and converting her petticote to a paire of breeches, according to the mariners fashion: then cutting her haire, and queintly disguised like to a sayler, shee went to the sea coast. by good fortune, she met there with a gentleman of _cathalogna_, whose name was _signior enchararcho_, who came on land from his ship, which lay hulling there about _albagia_, to refresh himselfe at a pleasant spring. _enchararcho_ taking her to be a man, as shee appeared no otherwise by her habite; upon some conference passing betweene them, shee was entertained into his service, and being brought aboord the ship, she went under the name of _sicurano da finale_. there shee had better apparell bestowne on her by the gentleman, and her service proved so pleasing and acceptable to him, that hee liked her care and diligence beyond all comparison. it came to passe within a short while after, that this gentleman of _cathalogna_ sayled (with some charge of his) into _alexandria_, carying thither certaine peregrine faulcons, which hee presented to the soldane: who oftentimes welcommed this gentleman to his table, where hee observed the behaviour of _sicurano_, attending on his maisters trencher, and therewith was so highly pleased; that he requested to have him from the gentleman, who (for his more advancement) willingly parted with his so lately entertained servant. _sicurano_ was so ready and discreete in his dayly services; that he grew in as great grace with the soldane, as before he had done with _enchararcho_. at a certaine season in the yeare, as customarie order (there observed) had formerly beene, in the citie of _acres_, which was under the soldanes subjection: there yearely met a great assembly of merchants, as christians, moores, jewes, sarrazines, and many other nations beside, as at a common mart or fayre. and to the end, that the merchants (for the better sale of their goods) might be there in the safer assurance; the soldane used to send thither some of his ordinarie officers, and a strong guard of souldiers beside, to defend them from all injuries and molestation, because he reaped thereby no meane benefit. and who should be now sent about this businesse, but his new elected favourite _sicurano_; because she was skilfull and perfect in the languages. _sicurano_ being come to _acres_, as lord and captaine of the guard for the merchants, and for the safety of their merchandizes: she discharged her office most commendably, walking with her traine through every part of the fayre, where shee observed a worthy company of merchants, sicilians, pisanes, genewayes, venetians, and other italians, whom the more willingly shee noted, in remembrance of her native countrey. at one especiall time, among other, chancing into a shop or boothe belonging to the venetians; she espied (hanging up with other costly wares) a purse and a girdle, which suddainly shee remembred to be sometime her owne, whereat she was not a little abashed in her mind. but, without making any such outward shew, courteously she requested to know, whose they were, and whether they should be sold, or no. _ambroginolo_ of _placentia_, was likewise come thither, and great store of merchandizes hee had brought with him, in a carrack appertaining to the venetians, and hee, hearing the captaine of the guard demaund, whose they were; stepped foorth before him, and smiling, answered: that they were his, but not to be solde, yet if hee liked them gladly, hee would bestowe them on him. _sicurano_ seeing him smile, suspected, least himselfe had (by some unfitting behaviour) beene the occasion thereof: and therefore, with a more setled countenance, hee said. perhaps thou smilest, because i that am a man, professing armes, should question after such womanish toyes. _ambroginolo_ replied. my lord, pardon me, i smile not at you, or your demaund; but at the manner how i came by these things. _sicurano_, upon this answere, was ten times more desirous then before, and said. if fortune favoured thee in friendly manner, by the obtaining of these things: if it may be spoken, tell me how thou hadst them. my lord (answered _ambroginolo_) these things (with many more beside) were given me by a gentlewoman of _geneway_, named madame _genevra_, the wife to one _bernardo lomellino_, in recompence of one nights lodging with her, and she desired me to keepe them for her sake. now, the maine reason of my smiling, was the remembrance of her husbands folly, in waging five thousand duckets of golde, against one thousand of mine, that i should not obtaine my will of his wife, which i did, and thereby wone the wager. but hee, who better deserved to be punished for his folly, then shee, who was but sicke of all womens disease: returning from _paris_ to _geneway_, caused her to be slaine, as afterward it was reported by himselfe. when _sicurano_ heard this horrible lye, immediatly shee conceived, that this was the occasion of her husbands hatred to her, and all the hard haps which she had since suffered: whereupon, shee reputed it for more then a mortall sinne, if such a villaine should passe without due punishment. _sicurano_ seemed to like well this report, and grew into such familiarity with _ambroginolo_, that (by her perswasions) when the fayre was ended, she tooke him higher with her into _alexandria_, and all his wares along with him, furnishing him with a fit and convenient shop, where he made great benefit of his merchandizes, trusting all his monies in the captaines custody, because it was the safest course for him; and so he continued there with no meane contentment. much did shee pitty her husbands perplexity, devising by what good and warrantable meanes, she might make knowne her innocency to him; wherein her place and authority did greatly sted her, and shee wrought with divers gallant merchants of _geneway_, that then remained in _alexandria_, and by vertue of the _soldans_ friendly letters, beside to bring him thither upon an especiall occasion. come he did, albeit in poore and meane order, which soone was better altered by her appointment, and he very honourably (though in private) entertained by divers of her worthy friends, till time did favour what shee further intended. in the expectation of _bernardoes_ arrivall, shee had so prevailed with _ambroginolo_, that the same tale which he formerly tolde to her, he delivered againe in presence of the _soldane_, who seemed to be well pleased with it: but after shee had once seene her husband, shee thought upon her more serious businesse; providing her selfe of an apt opportunity, when shee entreated such favour of the _soldane_, that both the men might be brought before him, where if _ambroginolo_ would not confesse (without constraint) that which he had made his vaunt of concerning _bernardoes_ wife, he might be compelled thereto perforce. _sicuranoes_ word was a law with the _soldane_, so that _ambroginolo_ and _bernardo_ being brought face to face, the _soldane_, with a sterne and angry countenance, in the presence of a most princely assembly; commanded _ambroginolo_ to declare the truth, yea, upon peril of his life, by what means he won the wager, of the five thousand golden duckets he received of _bernardo. ambroginolo_ seeing _sicurano_ there present, upon whose favour he wholly relied, yet perceiving her lookes likewise to be as dreadfull as the _soldanes_, and hearing her threaten him with most greevous torments, except he revealed the truth indeede: you may easily guesse (faire company) in what condition he stood at that instant. frownes and fury he beheld on either side, and _bernardo_ standing before him, with a world of famous witnesses, to heare his lie confounded by his owne confession, and his tongue to denie what it had before so constantly avouched. yet dreaming on no other paine or penalty, but restoring backe the five thousand duckets of gold, and the other things by him purloyned, truly he revealed the whole forme of his falshood. then _sicurano_ according as the _soldane_ had formerly commanded him, turning to _bernardo_, saide. and thou, upon the suggestion of this foule lie, what didst thou to thy wife? being (quoth _bernardo_) overcome with rage, for the losse of my money, and the dishonour i supposed to receive by my wife; i caused a servant of mine to kill her, and as he credibly avouched, her body was devoured by ravenous wolves in a moment after. these things being thus spoken and heard, in the presence of the _soldane_, and no reason (as yet) made knowne, why the case was so seriously urged, and to what end it would succeede: _sicurano_ spake in this manner to the soldane. my gracious lord, you may plainely perceive, in what degree that poore gentlewoman might make her vaunt, being so well provided, both of a loving friend, and a husband. such was the friends love, that in an instant, and by a wicked lye, hee robbed her both of her renowne and honour, and bereft her also of her husband. and her husband, rather crediting anothers falshood, then the invincible trueth, whereof he had faithfull knowledge, by long and very honourable experience; caused her to be slaine, and made foode for devouring wolves. beside all this, such was the good will and affection, borne to that woman both by friend and husband, that the longest continuer of them in her company, makes them alike in knowledge of her. but because your great wisedome knoweth perfectly, what each of them have worthily deserved: if you please (in your ever knowne gracious benignity) to permit the punishment of the deceiver, and pardon the party so deceived; i will procure such meanes, that she shall appeare here in your presence, and theirs. the soldane, being desirous to give _sicurano_ all manner of satisfaction, having followed the course so industriously: bad him to produce the woman, and hee was well contented. whereat _bernardo_ stoode much amazed, because he verily beleeved that she was dead. and _ambroginolo_ foreseeing already a preparation for punishment, feared, that the repayment of the money would not now serve his turne: not knowing also what he should further hope or suspect, if the woman her selfe did personally appeare, which hee imagined would be a miracle. _sicurano_ having thus obtayned the soldanes permission, in teares, humbling her selfe at his feete, in a moment shee lost her manly voyce and demeanour, as knowing, that she was now no longer to use them, but must truely witnesse what she was indeede, and therefore thus spake. great soldane, i am the miserable and unfortunate _genevra_, that, for the space of sixe whole yeares, have wandered through the world, in the habite of a man, falsly and most maliciously slaundered, by this villainous traytour _ambroginolo_, and by this unkinde cruell husband, betrayed to his servant to be slaine, and left to be devoured by savage beasts. afterward, desiring such garments as better fitted for her, and shewing her brests; she made it apparant, before the soldane and his assistants, that she was the very same woman indeede. then turning her selfe to _ambroginolo_, with more then manly courage, she demaunded of him, when, and where it was, that he lay with her, as (villainously) he was not ashamed to make his vaunt. but hee, having alreadie acknowledged the contrarie, being stricken dumbe with shamefull disgrace, was not able to utter one word. the soldane, who had alwayes reputed _sicurano_ to be a man, having heard and seene so admirable an accident: was so amazed in his minde, that many times he was very doubtfull, whether this was a dreame, or an absolute relation of trueth. but, after hee had more seriously considered thereon, and found it to be reall and infallible: with extraordinary gracious praises, he commended the life, constancie, conditions and vertues of _genevra_, whom (till that time) he had alwayes called _sicurano_. so committing her to the company of honourable ladies, to be changed from her manly habite: he pardoned _bernardo_ her husband (according to her request formerly made) although hee had more justly deserved death; which likewise himselfe confessed, and falling at the feete of _genevra_, desired her (in teares) to forgive his rash transgression, which most lovingly she did, kissing and embracing him a thousand times. then the soldane strictly commaunded, that on some high and eminent place of the citie, _ambroginolo_ should be bound and impaled on a stake, having his naked body annointed all over with honey, and never to be taken off, untill (of it selfe) it fell in pieces, which, according to the sentence, was presently performed. next, he gave expresse charge, that all his mony and goods should be given to _genevra_, which valued above ten thousand double duckets. forth-with a solemne feast was prepared, wherein, much honour was done to _bernardo_, being the husband of _genevra_: and to her, as to a most worthy woman, and matchlesse wife, he gave in costly jewelse, as also vesselse of gold and silver plate, so much as amounted to above ten thousand double duckets more. when the feasting was finished, he caused a ship to be furnished for them, graunting them licence to depart for _geneway_ when they pleased: whither they returned most rich and joyfully, being welcommed home with great honour, especially madame _genevra_, whom every one supposed to be dead, and alwayes after, so long as shee lived, shee was most famous for her manifold vertues. but as for _ambroginolo_, the very same day that he was impaled on the stake, annointed with honey, and fixed in the place appointed, to his no meane torment: he not onely died, but likewise was devoured to the bare bones, by flyes, waspes and hornets, whereof the countrey notoriously aboundeth. and his bones, in full forme and fashion, remained strangely blacke for a long while after, knit together by the sinewes; as a witnesse to many thousands of people, which afterward beheld his carkasse of his wickednesse against so good and vertuous a woman, that had not so much as a thought of any evill towards him. and thus was the proverbe truly verified, that shame succeedeth after ugly sinne, and the deceiver is trampled and trod, by such as himselfe hath deceived. pagamino da monaco, _a roving pirate on the seas, caried away the faire wife of_ signior ricciardo di chinzica, _who understanding where shee was, went thither; and falling into friendship with_ pagamino, _demaunded his wife of him; whereto he yeelded, provided, that shee would willingly goe away with him. she denied to part thence with her husband, and_ signior ricciardo _dying; she became the wife of_ pagamino. the tenth novell. _wherein olde men are wittily reprehended, that will match themselves with younger women, then is fit for their yeares and insufficiencie; never considering, what afterward may happen to them._ every one in this honest and gracious assembly, most highly commended the novell recounted by the queene: but especially _dioneus_, who remained, to finish that dayes pleasure with his owne discourse; and after many praises of the former tale were past, thus he began. faire ladies, part of the queenes novell, hath made an alteration of my minde, from that which i intended to proceede next withall, and therefore i will report another. i cannot forget the unmanly indiscretion of _bernardo_, but much more the base arrogancie of _ambroginolo_, how justly deserved shame fell upon him; as well it may happen to all other, that are so vile in their owne opinions, as he apparantly approved himselfe to be. for, as men wander abroade in the world, according to their occasions in diversity of countries, and observation of the peoples behaviour: so are their humours as variously transported. and if they finde women wantonly disposed abroade, the like judgement they give of their wives at home; as if they had never knowne their birth and breeding, or made proofe of their loyall carriage towards them. wherefore, the tale that i purpose to relate, will likewise condemne all the like kinde of men; but more especially such, as suppose themselves to be endued with more strength, then nature ever meant to bestow upon them, foolishly beleeving, that they can cover and satisfie their owne defects, by fabulous demonstrations; and thinking to fashion other of their owne complexions, that are meerely strangers to such grosse follies. let me tell you then, that there lived in _pisa_ (about some hundred yeeres before _tuscanie_ & _liguria_ came to embrace the christian faith) a judge better stored with wisdome and ingenuity, then corporall abilities of the body, he being named _signior ricciardo di cinzica_. he being more then halfe perswaded, that he could content a woman with such satisfaction as he daily bestowed on his studies, being a widdower, and extraordinarily wealthy; laboured (with no meane paines and endeavour) to enjoy a faire and youthfull wife in marriage: both which qualities he should much rather have avoyded, if he could have ministred as good counsell to himselfe, as he did to others, resorting to him for advice. upon this his amorous and diligent inquisition, it came so to passe, that a worthy gentlewoman, called _bertolomea_, one of the very fairest and choysest young maides in _pisa_, whose youth did hardly agree with his age; but mucke was the motive of this mariage, and no expectation of mutuall contentment. the judge being maried, and the bride brought solemnly home to his house, we need make no question of brave cheare & banqueting, wel furnished by their friends on either side: other matters were now hammering in the judges head, for though he could please all his clyents with counsell; yet now such a sute was commenced against himself, and in beauties court of continuall requests, that the judge failing in plea for his owne defence, was often non-suited by lacke of answer; yet he wanted neither good wines, drugges, and all restauratives, to comfort the heart, and encrease good blood; but all avayled not in this case. but well fare a good courage, where performance faileth, he could liberally commend his passed joviall dayes, and make a promise of as faire felicities yet to come; because his youth would renew it selfe, like to the eagle, and his vigour in as full force as before. but beside all these idle allegations, he would needs instruct his wife in an almanack or calender, which (long before) he had bought at _ravenna_, and wherein he plainely shewed her, that there was not any one day in the yeere, but it was dedicated to some saint or other. in reverence of whom, and for their sakes, he approved by divers arguments & reasons, that a man & his wife ought to abstaine from bedding together. hereto he added, that those saints dayes had their fasts & feasts, beside the foure seasons of the yeere, the vigils of the apostles, and a thousand other holy dayes, with fridayes, saturdayes, & sundayes, in honour of our lords rest, and all the sacred time of lent; as also certaine observations of the moone, & infinite other exceptions beside; thinking perhaps, that it was as convenient for men to refraine from their wives conversation, as he did often times from sitting in the court. these were his daily documents to his young wife, wherewith (poore soule) she became so tired, as nothing could be more irksome to her; and very carefull he was, lest any other shold teach her what belonged to working daies, because he wold have her know none but holidaies. afterward it came to passe, that the season waxing extremely hot, _signior ricciardo_ would goe recreate himselfe at his house in the countrey, neere unto the black mountaine, where for his faire wives more contentment, he continued divers dayes together. and for her further recreation, he gave order, to have a day of fishing; he going aboard a small pinnace among the fishers, and shee was in another, consorted with divers other gentlewomen, in whose company shee shewed her selfe very well pleased. delight made them launch further into the sea, then either the judge was willing they should have done, or agreed with respect of their owne safety. for suddenly a galliot came upon them, wherein was one _pagamino_, a pyrate very famous in those dayes, who espying the two pinnaces, made out presently to them, and seized on that wherein the women were. when he beheld there so faire a young woman, he coveted after no other purchase; but mounting her into his galliot, in the sight of _signior ricciardo_, who (by this time) was fearefully landed, he caried her away with him. when _signior_ judge had seene this theft (he being so jealous of his wife, as scarcely he would let the ayre breathe on her) it were a needlesse demand, to know whether he was offended, or no. he made complaint at _pisa_, and in many other places beside, what injury he had sustained by those pyrates, in carying his wife thus away from him: but all was in vaine, he neither (as yet) knew the man, nor whether he had conveyed her from him. _pagamino_ perceiving what a beautifull woman she was, made the more precious esteeme of his purchase, and being himselfe a bachelar, intended to keepe her as his owne; comforting her with kind and pleasing speeches, not using any harsh or uncivill demeanour to her, because shee wept and lamented grievously. but when night came, her husbands calendar falling from her girdle, and all the fasts & feasts quite out of her remembrance; she received such curteous consolations from _pagamino_, that before they could arrive at _monaco_, the judge & his law cases, were almost out of her memory, such was his affable behaviour to her, and she began to converse with him in more friendly manner, and he entreating her as honourably, as if shee had beene his espoused wife. within a short while after, report had acquainted _ricciardo_ the judge, where, & how his wife was kept from him; whereupon he determined, not to send any one, but rather to go himselfe in person, & to redeem her from the pyrate, with what sums of mony he should demand. by sea he passed to _monaco_, where he saw his wife, and shee him, as (soone after) shee made known to _pagamino_. on the morrow following, _signior ricciardo_ meeting with _pagamino_, made means to be acquainted with him, & within lesse then an houres space, they grew into familiar & private conference: _pagamino_ yet pretending not to know him, but expected what issue this talke would sort to. when time served, the judge discoursed the occasion of his comming thither, desiring him to demand what ransome he pleased, & that he might have his wife home with him; whereto _pagamino_ thus answered. my lord judge, you are welcome hither, and to answer you breefely very true it is, that i have a yong gentlewoman in my house, whome i neither know to be your wife, of any other mans elsee whatsoever: for i am ignorant both of you and her, albeit she hath remained a while here with me. if you bee her husband, as you seeme to avouch, i will bring her to you, for you appeare to be a worthy gentleman, and (questionles) she cannot chuse but know you perfectly. if she do confirme that which you have said, and be willing to depart hence with you: i shall rest well satisfied, and will have no other recompence for her ransome (in regard of your grave and reverent yeares) but what your selfe shall please to give me. but if it fall out otherwise, and prove not to be as you have affirmed: you shall offer me great wrong, in seeking to get her from me; because i am a young man, and can as well maintaine so faire a wife, as you, or any man elsee that i know. beleeve it certainly, replied the judge, that she is my wife, and if you please to bring me where she is, you shall soone perceive it: for, she will presently cast her armes about my neck, and i durst adventure the utter losse of her, if shee denie to doe it in your presence. come on then, said _pagamino_, and let us delay the time no longer. when they were entred into _pagaminoes_ house, and sate downe in the hall, he caused her to be called, and shee, being readily prepared for the purpose, came forth of her chamber before them both, where friendly they sate conversing together; never uttering any one word to _signior ricciardo_, or knowing him from any other stranger, that _pagamino_ might bring in to the house with him. which when my lord the judge beheld, (who expected to finde a farre more gracious welcome) he stoode as a man amazed, saying to himselfe. perhaps the extraordinary griefe and melancholly, suffered by me since the time of her losse; hath so altred my wonted complexion, that shee is not able to take knowledge of me. wherefore, going neerer to her, hee said. faire love, dearely have i bought your going on fishing, because never man felt the like afflictions, as i have done since the day when i lost you: but by this your uncivill silence, you seeme as if you did not know me. why dearest love, seest thou not that i am thy husband _ricciardo_, who am come to pay what ransome this gentleman shall demaund, even in the house where now we are: so to convay thee home againe, upon his kinde promise of thy deliverance, after the payment of thy ransome? _bertolomea_ turning towards him, and seeming as if shee smiled to her selfe, thus answered. sir, speake you to me? advise your selfe well, least you mistake me for some other, because, concerning my selfe, i doe not remember, that ever i did see you till now. how now quoth _ricciardo_? consider better what you say, looke more circumspectly on me, and then you will remember, that i am your loving husband, and my name is _ricciardo di cinzica_. you must pardon me sir, replied _bertolomea_, i know it not so fitting for a modest woman (though you (perhaps) are so perswaded) to stand gazing in the faces of men: and let mee looke upon you never so often, certaine i am, that (till this instant) i have not seene you. my lord judge conceived in his mind, that thus she denied all knowledge of him, as standing in feare of _pagamino_, and would not confesse him in his presence. wherefore hee entreated of _pagamino_, to affoord him so much favour, that he might speake alone with her in her chamber. _pagamino_ answered, that he was well contented therewith, provided, that he should not kisse her against her will. then he requested _bertolomea_, to goe with him alone into her chamber, there to heare what he could say, and to answere him as shee found occasion. when they were come into the chamber, and none there present but he and shee, _signior ricciardo_ began in this manner. heart of my heart, life of my life, the sweetest hope that i have in this world; wilt thou not know thine owne _ricciardo_, who loveth thee more then he doth himselfe? why art thou so strange? am i so disfigured, that thou knowest me not? behold me with a more pleasing eye, i pray thee. _bertolomea_ smiled to her selfe, and without suffering him to proceed any further in speech, returned him this answere. i would have you to understand sir, that my memory is not so oblivious, but i know you to be _signior ricciardo di cinzica_, and my husband by name or title; but during the time that i was with you, it very ill appeared that you had any knowledge of me. for if you had been so wise and considerate, as (in your own judgement) the world reputed you to be, you could not be voide of so much apprehension, but did apparantly perceive, that i was young, fresh, and cheerefully disposed; and so (by consequent) meet to know matters requisite for such young women, beside allowance of food & garments, though bashfulnesse & modesty forbid to utter it. but if studying the lawes were more welcome to you then a wife, you ought not to have maried, & you loose the worthy reputation of a judge, when you fall from that venerable profession, and make your selfe a common proclaimer of feasts and fasting dayes, lenten seasons, vigils, & solemnities due to saints, which prohibite the houshold conversation of husbands and wives. here am i now with a worthy gentleman, that entertained mee with very honourable respect, and here i live in this chamber, not so much as hearing of any feasts or fasting daies; for, neither fridaies, saturdaies, vigils of saints, or any lingering lents, enter at this doore: but here is honest and civill conversation, better agreeing with a youthfull disposition, then those harsh documents wherewith you tutord me. wherefore my purpose is to continue here with him, as being a place sutable to my mind & youth, referring feasts, vigils, & fasting dayes, to a more mature & stayed time of age, when the body is better able to endure them, & the mind may be prepared for such ghostly meditations: depart therefore at your owne pleasure, and make much of your calender, without enjoying any company of mine, for you heare my resolved determination. the judge hearing these words, was overcome with exceeding griefe, & when she was silent, thus he began. alas deare love, what an answer is this? hast thou no regard of thine owne honour, thy parents, & friends? canst thou rather affect to abide here, for the pleasures of this man, and so sin capitally, then to live at _pisa_ in the state of my wife? consider deare heart, when this man shall waxe weary of thee, to thy shame & his owne disgrace, he will reject thee. i must and shall love thee for ever, and when i dye, i leave thee lady and commandresse of all that is mine. can an inordinate appetite, cause thee to be carelesse of thine honour, and of him that loves thee as his owne life? alas, my fairest hope, say no more so, but returne home with me, and now that i am acquainted with thy inclination; i will endeavour heereafter to give thee better contentment. wherefore (deare heart) doe not denie me, but change thy minde, and goe with me, for i never saw merry day since i lost thee. sir (quoth she) i desire no body to have care of mine honour, beside my selfe, because it cannot be here abused. and as for my parents, what respect had they of me, when they made me your wife: if then they could be so carelesse of mee, what reason have i to regard them now? and whereas you taxe me, that i cannot live here without capitall sin; farre is the thought thereof from me, for, here i am regarded as the wife of _pagamino_, but at _pisa_, you reputed me not worthy your society: because, by the point of the moone, and the quadratures of geomatrie; the planets held conjunction betweene you and me, whereas here i am subject to no such constellations. you say beside, that hereafter you will strive to give me better contentment then you have done: surely, in mine opinion it is no way possible, because our complexions are so farre different, as ice is from fire, or gold from drosse. as for your allegation, of this gentlemans rejecting me, when his humour is satisfied; should if it prove to be so (as it is the least part of my feare) what fortune soever shall betide me, never will i make any meanes to you, what miseries or misadventures may happen to me; but the world will affoord me one resting place or other, and more to my contentment, then if i were with you. therefore i tell you once againe, to live secured from all offence to holy saints, and not to injury their feasts, fasts, vigills, and other ceremonious seasons: here is my demourance, and from hence i purpose not to part. our judge was now in a wofull perplexity, and confessing his folly, in marying a wife so yong, and far unfit for his age and abilitie: being halfe desperate, sad and displeased, he came forth of the chamber, using divers speeches to _pagamino_, whereof he made little or no account at all, and in the end, without any other successe, left his wife there, & returned home to _pisa_. there, further afflictions fell upon him, because the people began to scorne him, demanding dayly of him, what was become of his gallant young wife, making hornes, with ridiculous pointings at him: whereby his sences became distracted, so that he ran raving about the streetes, and afterward died in very miserable manner. which newes came no sooner to the eare of _pagamino_, but, in the honourable affection hee bare to _bertolomea_, he maried her, with great solemnity; banishing all fasts, vigils, and lents from his house, and living with her in much felicity. wherefore (faire ladies) i am of opinion, that _bernardo_ of _geneway_, in his disputation with _ambroginolo_, might have shewne himselfe a great deale wiser, and spared his rash proceeding with his wife. this tale was so merrily entertained among the whole company, that each one smiling upon another, with one consent commended _dioneus_, maintaining that he spake nothing but the truth, & condemning _bernardo_ for his cruelty. upon a generall silence commanded, the queene perceiving that the time was now very farre spent, and every one had delivered their severall novelse, which likewise gave a period to her royalty: shee gave the crowne to madam _neiphila_, pleasantly speaking to her in this order. heereafter, the government of these few people is committed to your trust and care, for with the day concludeth my dominion. madam _neiphila_, blushing at the honour done unto her, her cheekes appeared of a vermillion tincture, her eyes glittering with gracefull desires, and sparkling like the morning starre. and after the modest murmure of the assistants was ceased, and her courage in chearfull manner setled, seating her selfe higher then she did before, thus she spake. seeing it is so, that you have elected me your queene, to varie somewhat from the course observed by them that went before me, whose government you have all so much commended: by approbation of your counsell, i am desirous to speake my mind, concerning what i wold have to be next followed. it is not unknown to you all, that to morrow shal be friday, and saturday the next day following, which are daies somewhat molestuous to the most part of men, for preparation of their weekly food & sustenance. moreover, friday ought to be reverendly respected, in remembrance of him, who died to give us life, and endured his bitter passion, as on that day; which makes me to hold it fit and expedient, that wee should mind more weighty matters, and rather attend our prayers & devotions, then the repetition of tales or novelse. now concerning saturday, it hath bin a custom observed among women, to bath & wash themselves from such immundicities as the former weekes toile hath imposed on them. beside, it is a day of fasting, in honour of the ensuing sabath, whereon no labour may be done, but the observation of holy exercises. by that which hath bin saide, you may easily conceive, that the course which we have hitherto continued, cannot bee prosecuted, in one and the same manner: wherefore, i would advice and do hold it an action wel performed by us, to cease for these few dayes, from recounting any other novelse. and because we have remained here foure daies already, except we would allow the enlarging of our company, with some other friends that may resort unto us: i think it necessary to remove from hence, & take our pleasure in another place, which is already by me determined. when we shal be there assembled, and have slept on the discourses formerly delivered, let our next argument be still the mutabilities of fortune, but especially to concerne such persons, as by their wit and ingenuity, industriously have attained to some matter earnestly desired, or elsee recovered againe, after the losse. heereon let us severally study and premeditate, that the hearers may receive benefit thereby, with the comfortable maintenance of our harmlesse recreations; the priviledge of _dioneus_ alwayes reserved to himselfe. every one commended the queens deliberation, concluding that it shold be accordingly prosecuted: and thereupon, the master of the houshold was called, to give him order for that evenings table service, and what elsee concerned the time of the queenes royalty, wherein he was sufficiently instructed: which being done, the company arose, licensing every one to doe what they listed. the ladies and gentlemen walked to the garden, and having sported themselves there a while; when the houre of supper came, they sate downe, and fared very daintily. being risen from the table, according to the queenes command, madam _æmilia_ led the dance, and the ditty following, was sung by madam _pampinea_, being answered by all the rest, as a chorus. _the song. and if not i, what lady elsee can sing, of those delights, which kind contentment bring? come, come, sweet love, the cause of my chiefe good, of all my hopes, the firme and full effect; sing we together, but in no sad moode, of sighes or teares, which joy doth counterchecke: stolne pleasures are delightfull in the taste, but yet loves fire is often times too fierce; consuming comfort with ore-speedy haste, which into gentle hearts too far doth pierce. and if not i, &c. the first day that i felt this fiery heate, so sweete a passion did possesse my soule, that though i found the torment sharpe, and great; yet still me thought t'was but a sweete controule. nor could i count it rude, or rigorous, taking my wound from such a piercing eye: as made the paine most pleasing, gracious, that i desire in such assaults to die. and if not i, &c. grant then great god of love, that i may still enjoy the benefit of my desire; and honour her with all my deepest skill, that first enflamde my heart with holy fire. to her my bondage is free liberty, my sicknesse health, my tortures sweet repose; say shee the word, in full felicity, all my extreames joyne in an happy close. then if not i, what lover elsee can sing, of those delights which kind contentment bring._ after this song was ended, they sung divers other beside, and having great variety of instruments, they played to them as many pleasing dances. but the queene considering that the meete houre for rest was come, with their lighted torches before them they all repaired to their chambers; sparing the other dayes next succeeding, for those reasons by the queene alleaged, and spending the sunday in solemne devotion. _the ende of the second day._ the third day. _upon which day, all matters to be discoursed on, doe passe under the regiment of madam_ neiphila: _concerning such persons as (by their wit and industry) have attained to their long wished desires, or recovered something, supposed to be lost. the induction to the ensuing discourses._ the morning put on a vermillion countenance, and made the sunne to rise blushing red, when the queene (and all the faire company) were come abroade forth of their chambers; the seneshall or great master of the houshold, having (long before) sent all things necessary to the place of their next intended meeting. and the people which prepared there every needfull matter, suddainely when they saw the queen was setting forward, charged all the rest of their followers, as if it had been preparation for a campe; to make hast away with the carriages, the rest of the familie remaining behind, to attend upon the ladies and gentlemen. with a milde, majesticke, and gentle peace, the queen rode on, being followed by the other ladies, and the three young gentlemen, taking their way towards the west; conducted by the musicall notes of sweete singing nightingales, and infinite other pretty birds beside, riding in a tract not much frequented, but richly abounding with faire hearbes and floures, which by reason of the sunnes high mounting, beganne to open their bosome, and fill the fresh ayre with their odorifferous perfumes. before they had travelled two small miles distance, all of them pleasantly conversing together; they arrived at another goodly palace, which being somewhat mounted above the plaine, was seated on the side of a little rising hill. when they were entred there into, and had seene the great hall, the parlours, and beautifull chambers, every one stupendiously furnished, with all convenient commodities to them belonging, and nothing wanting, that could be desired; they highly commended it, reputing the lord thereof for a most worthy man, that had adorned it in such princely manner. afterward, being descended lower, and noting the most spacious and pleasant court, the sellars stored with the choysest wines, and delicate springs of water every where running, their prayses then exceeded more and more. and being weary with beholding such variety of pleasures, they sate downe in a faire gallery, which took the view of the whole court, it being round engirt with trees and floures, whereof the season then yeelded great plenty. and then came the discreete master of the houshold, with divers servants attending on him, presenting them with comfits, and other banquetting, as also very singular wines, to serve in sted of a breakefast. having thus reposed themselves a while, a garden gate was set open to them, coasting on one side of the pallace, and round inclosed with high mounted walles. whereinto when they were entred, they found it to be a most beautifull garden, stored with all varieties that possibly could be devised; and therefore they observed it the more respectively. the walkes and allyes were long and spacious, yet directly straite as an arrow, environed with spreading vines, whereon the grapes hung in copious clusters; which being come to their full ripenesse, gave so rare a smell throughout the garden, with other sweete savours intermixed among, that they supposed to feele the fresh spiceries of the east. it would require large length of time, to describe all the rarities of this place, deserving much more to be commended, then my best faculties will affoord me. in the middest of the garden, was a square plot, after the resemblance of a meadow, flourishing with high grasse, hearbes, and plants, beside a thousand diversities of floures, even as if by the art of painting they had beene there deputed. round was it circkled with very verdant orenge and cedar trees, their branches plentiously stored with fruite both old and new, as also the floures growing freshly among them, yeelding not onely a rare aspect to the eye, but also a delicate savour to the smell. in the middest of this meadow, stood a fountaine of white marble, whereon was engraven most admirable workemanship, and within it (i know not whether it were by a naturall veine, or artificiall) flowing from a figure, standing on a collomne in the midst of the fountaine, such aboundance of water, and so mounting up towards the skies, that it was a wonder to behold. for after the high ascent, it fell downe againe into the wombe of the fountaine, with such a noyse and pleasing murmur, as the streame that glideth from a mill. when the receptacle of the fountaine did overflow the bounds, it streamed along the meadow, by secret passages and chanelse, very faire and artificially made, returning againe into every part of the meadow, by the like wayes of cunning conveighance, which allowed it full course into the garden, running swiftly thence down towards the plaine; but before it came thether, the very swift current of the streame, did drive two goodly milles, which brought in great benefit to the lord of the soile. the sight of this garden, the goodly grafts, plants, trees, hearbes, frutages, and flowers, the springs, fountaines, and prety rivolets streaming from it, so highly pleased the ladies and gentlemen, that among other infinite commendations, they spared not to say: if any paradise remayned on the earth to be seene, it could not possibly bee in any other place, but onely was contained within the compasse of this garden. with no meane pleasure and delight they walked round about it, making chaplets of flowers, and other faire branches of the trees, continually hearing the birds in mellodious notes, ecchoing and warbling one to another, even as if they envied each others felicities. but yet another beauty (which before had not presented it selfe unto them) on a sodaine they perceyved; namely divers prety creatures in many parts of the gardens. in one place conies tripping about; in another place hares: in a third part goats browsing on the hearbes, & little yong hindes feeding every where: yet without strife or warring together, but rather living in such a domesticke and pleasing kinde of company, even as if they were appoynted to enstruct the most noble of all creatures, to imitate their sociable conversation. when their senses had sufficiently banquetted on these several beauties, the tables were sodainly prepared about the fountaine, where first they sung sixe canzonets; and having paced two or three dances, they sate downe to dinner, according as the queene ordained, being served in very sumptuous manner, with all kinde of costly and delicate viands, yet not any babling noise among them. the tables being withdrawne, they played againe upon their instruments, singing and dancing gracefully together: till, in regard of the extreame heate, the _queene_ commanded to give over, and permitted such as were so pleased, to take their ease and rest. but some, as not satisfied with the places pleasures, gave themselves to walking: others fell to reading the lives of the romanes; some to the chesse, and the rest to other recreations. but, after the dayes warmth was more mildely qualified, and everie one had made benefit of their best content: they went (by order sent from the _queene_) into the meadow where the fountaine stood, and being set about it, as they used to do in telling their tales (the argument appointed by the _queene_ being propounded) the first that had the charge imposed, was _philostratus_, who began in this manner. massetto di lamporechio, _by counterfetting himselfe to be dumbe, became a gardiner in a monastery of nunnes, where he had familiar conversation with them all._ the first novell. _wherein is declared, that virginity is very hardly to be kept, in all places._ most woorthy ladies, there wantes no store of men and women, that are so simple, as to credit for a certainty, that so soon as a yong virgin hath the veile put on hir head (after it is once shorn and filletted) & the blacke cowle given to cover her withall: shee is no longer a woman, nor more sensible of feminine affections, then as if in turning nun, shee became converted to a stone. and if (perchance) they heard some matters, contrary to their former setled perswasion; then they growe so furiously offended, as if one had committed a most foul and enormous sinne, directly against the course of nature. and the torrent of this opinion hurries them on so violently, that they will not admit the least leisure to consider, how (in such a full scope of liberty) they have power to do what they list, yea beyonde all meanes of sufficient satisfying; never remembring withall, how potent the priviledge of idlenesse is, especially when it is backt by solitude. in like manner, there are other people now, who do verily believe, that the spade and pickaxe, grosse feeding and labour, do quench all sensuall and fleshly concupiscences, yea, in such as till and husband the grounds, by making them dull, blockish, and (almost) meere senslesse of understanding. but i will approve (according as the queene hath commanded me, and within the compasse of her direction) and make it apparant to you al, by a short and pleasant tale; how greatly they are abused by error, that build upon so weake a foundation. not far from _alexandria_, there was (and yet is) a great & goodly monastery, belonging to the lord of those parts, who is termed the admirall. and therein, under the care and trust of one woman, divers virgins were kept as recluses or nunnes, vowed to chastity of life; out of whose number, the soldan of _babylon_ (under whom they lived in subjection) at every three yeares end, had usually three of these virgins sent him. at the time whereof i am now to speak, there remained in the monastery, no more but eight religious sisters only, beside the governesse or lady abbesse, and an honest poore man, who was a gardiner, and kept the garden in commendable order. his wages being small, and he not well contented therewith, would serve there no longer: but making his accounts even, with the _factotum_ or bayliffe belonging to the house, returned thence to the village of _lamporechio_, being a native of the place. among many other that gave him welcom home, was a yong hebrew pezant of the country, sturdy, strong, and yet comely of person, being named _masset_. but because he was born not farre off from _lamporechio_, and had there bin brought up all his yonger dayes, his name of _masset_ (according to their vulgar speech) was turned to _massetto_, and therefore he was usually called and knowne, by the name of _massetto_ of _lamporechio_. _massetto_, falling in talke with the honest poore man, whose name was _lurco_, demanded of him what services hee had done in the monasterie, having continued there so long a time? quoth _lurco_ i laboured in the garden, which is very faire and great; then i went to the forest to fetch home wood, and cleft it for their chamber fuell, drawing uppe all their water beside, with many other toilesome services elsee: but the allowance of my wages was so little, as it would not pay for the shooes i wore. and that which was worst of all, they being all yong women, i thinke the devill dwelse among them, for a man cannot doe any thing to please them. when i have bene busie at my worke in the garden, one would come & say, put this heere, put that there; and others would take the dibble out of my hand, telling me, that i did not performe any thing well, making me so weary of their continuall trifling, as i have lefte all businesse, gave over the garden, and what for one molestation, as also many other; i intended to tarry no longer there, but came away, as thou seest. and yet the _factotum_ desired me at my departing, that if i knew any one, who would undertake the aforesaid labours, i should send him thither, as (indeed) i promised to do; but let mee fall sicke and dye, before i helpe to send them any. when _massetto_ had heard the words of _lurco_, hee was so desirous to dwell among the nunnes, that nothing elsee now hammered in his head: for he meant more subtilly, then poore _lurco_ did, and made no doubt, to please them sufficiently. then considering with himselfe, how best he might bring his intent to effect; which appeared not easily to be done, he could question no further therein with _lurco_, but onely demanded other matters of him, and among them said. introth thou didst well _lurco_, to come away from so tedious a dwelling; had he not need to be more then a man that is to live with such women? it were better for him to dwell among so many divelse, because they understand not the tenth part that womens wily wits can dive into. after their conference was ended, _massetto_ began to beat his braines, how he might compasse to dwell among them, & knowing that he could well enough performe all the labours, whereof _lurco_ had made mention: he cared not for any losse he should sustaine thereby: but onely stoode in doubt of his entertainment, because he was too yong and sprightly. having pondered on many imaginations, he saide to himselfe. the place is farre enough distant hence, and none there can take knowledge of mee; if i have wit sufficient, cleanely to make them beleeve that i am dumbe, then (questionlesse) i shall be received. and resolving to prosecute this determination, he tooke a spade on his shoulder, and without revealing to any body, whether he went, in the disguise of a poore labouring countryman, he travelled to the monastery. when he was there arrived, he found the great gate open, and entering in boldly, it was his good hap to espy the _fac-totum_ in the court, according as _lurco_ had given description of him. making signes before him, as if he were both dumbe and deafe; he manifested, that he craved an almes for gods sake, making shewes beside, that if need required, he could cleave wood, or do any reasonable kinde of service. the _fac-totum_ gladly gave him food, and afterward shewed him divers knotty logs of wood, which the weake strength of _lurco_ had left uncloven; but this fellow being more active and lusty, quickly rent them all to pieces. now it so fell out, that the _fac-totum_ must needs go to the forrest, and tooke _massetto_ along with him thither: where causing him to fell divers trees, by signes he bad him to lade the two asses therewith, which commonly carried home all the wood, and so drive them to the monasterie before him, which _massetto_ knew well enough how to do, and performed it very effectually. many other servile offices were there to bee done, which caused the _fac-totum_ to make use of his paines divers other dayes beside: in which time, the lady abbesse chancing to see him, demanded of the _fac-totum_ what he was? madam (quoth hee) a poore labouring man, who is both deafe and dumbe: hither he came to crave an almes the other day, which in charity i could do no lesse but give him; for which hee hath done many honest services about the house. it seemes beside, that hee hath some pretty skill in gardening, so that if i can perswade him to continue here, i make no question of his able services: for the old silly man is gone, and we have neede of such a stout fellow, to do the businesse belonging unto the monastery, and one fitter for the turne, comes sildome hither. moreover, in regard of his double imperfections, the sisters can sustaine no impeachment by him. whereto the abbesse answered, saying; by the faith of my body, you speake but the truth: understand then, if hee have any knowledge in gardening, and whether hee will dwell heere, or no: which compasse so kindly as you can. let him have a new paire of shoes, fill his belly daily full of meate, flatter, and make much of him, for wee shall finde him worke enough to do. all which, the _fac-totum_ promised to fulfill sufficiently. _massetto_, who was not farre off from them all this while, but seemed seriously busied, about sweeping and making cleane the court, hearde all these speeches; and being not a little joyfull of them, saide to himselfe. if once i come to worke in your garden, let the proofe yeelde praise of my skill and knowledge. when the _fac-totum_ perceived, that he knew perfectly how to undergo his businesse, and had questioned him by signes, concerning his willingnesse to serve there still, and received the like answer also, of his dutifull readinesse thereto; he gave him order, to worke in the garden, because the season did now require it; and to leave all other affayres for the monastery, attending now onely the gardens preparation. as _massetto_ was thus about his garden emploiment, the nunnes began to resort thither, and thinking the man to bee dumbe and deafe indeede, were the more lavish of their language, mocking and flowting him very immodestly, as being perswaded, that he heard them not. and the lady abbesse, thinking he might as well be an eunuch, as deprived both of hearing and speaking, stood the lesse in feare of the sisters walks, but referred them to their owne care and providence. on a day, _massetto_ having laboured somewhat extraordinarily, lay downe to rest him selfe awhile under the trees, and two delicate yong nunnes, walking there to take the aire, drew neere to the place where he dissembled sleeping; and both of them observing his comelinesse of person, began to pity the poverty of his condition, but much more the misery of his great defectes. then one of them, who had a little livelier spirit then the other, thinking _massetto_ to be fast asleepe, began in this manner. sister (quoth she) if i were faithfully assured of thy secrecie, i would tell thee a thing which i have often thought on, and it may (perhaps) redound to thy profit. [sidenote: example, at least excuses formed to that intent prevaileth much with such kind of religious women.] sister, replyed the other nun, speake your minde boldly, and beleeve it (on my maiden-head) that i will never reveale it to any creature living. encouraged by this solemne answer, the first nun thus prosecuted her former purpose, saying. i know not sister, whether it hath entred into thine understanding or no, how strictly we are here kept and attended, never any man daring to adventure among us, except our good and honest _fac-totum_, who is very aged; and this dumbe fellow, maimed, and made imperfect by nature, and therefore not woorthy the title of a man. ah sister, it hath oftentimes bin told me, by gentle-women comming hither to visite us, that all other sweetes in the world, are meere mockeries, to the incomparable pleasures of man and woman, of which we are barred by our unkind parents, binding us to perpetuall chastity, which they were never able to observe themselves. a sister of this house once told me, that before her turne came to be sent to the soldane, she fell in frailty, with a man that was both lame and blinde, and discovering the same to her ghostly father in confession; he absolved her of that sinne; affirming, that she had not transgressed with a man, because he wanted his rationall and understanding parts. behold sister, heere lyes a creature, almost formed in the selfe-same mold, dumb and deafe, which are two the most rational and understanding parts that do belong to any man, and therefore no man, wanting them. if folly & frailty should be committed with him (as many times since hee came hither it hath run in my minde) hee is by nature, sworne to such secrecie, that he cannot (if he would) be a blabbe thereof. beside, the lawes and constitutions of our religion doth teach us, that a sinne so assuredly concealed, is more then halfe absolved. _ave maria_ sister (said the other nunne) what kinde of words are these you utter? doe not you know, that wee have promised our virginity to god? oh sister (answered the other) how many things are promised to him every day, and not one of a thousand kept or performed? if wee have made him such a promise, and some of our weaker witted sisters do performe it for us, no doubt but he will accept it in part of payment. yea but sister, replied the second nunne againe, there is another danger lying in our way: if wee prove to be with childe, how shall we doe then? sister (quoth our couragious wench) thou art afraid of a harme, before it happen, if it come so to passe, let us consider on it then: thou art but a novice in matters of such moment, and wee are provided of a thousand meanes, whereby to prevent conception. or, if they should faile, wee are so surely fitted, that the world shall never know it: let it suffice, our lives must not be (by any) so much as suspected, our monasterie questioned, or our religion rashly scandalized. thus shee schooled her younger sister in wit, albeit as forward as she in will, and longed as desirously, to know what kinde a creature a man was. after some other questions, how this intention of theirs might be safely brought to full effect: the sprightly nunne, that had wit at will, thus answered. you see sister (quoth she) it is now the houre of midday, when all the rest of our sisterhood are quiet in their chambers, because we are then allowed to sleepe, for our earlier rising to morning mattins. here are none in the garden now but our selves, and, while i awake him, be you the watch, and afterward follow me in my fortune, for i will valiantly leade you the way. _massetto_ imitating a dogges sleepe, heard all this conspiracie intended against him, and longed as earnestly, till shee came to awake him. which being done, he seeming very simply sottish, and she chearing him with flattering behaviour: into the close arbour they went, which the sunnes bright eye could not pierce into, and there i leave it to the nunnes owne approbation, whether _massetto_ was a man rationall, or no. ill deedes require longer time to contrive, then act, and both the nunnes, having beene with _massetto_ at this new forme of confession, were enjoyned (by him) such an easie and silent penance, as brought them the oftner to shrift, and made him to proove a perfect confessour. desires obtained, but not fully satisfied, doe commonly urge more frequent accesse, then wisdome thinkes expedient, or can continue without discoverie. our two joviall nunnes, not a little proud of their private stolne pleasures, so long resorted to the close arbour; till an other sister, who had often observed their haunt thither, by meanes of a little hole in her window; that shee began to suspect them with _massetto_, and imparted the same to two other sisters, all three concluding, to accuse them before the lady abbesse. but upon a further conference had with the offenders, they changed opinion, tooke the same oath as the forewoman had done, and because they would be free from any taxation at all: they revealed their adventures to the other three ignorants, and so fell all eight into one formall confederacie, but by good and warie observation, least the abbesse her selfe should descry them; finding poore _massetto_ such plenty of garden-worke, as made him very doubtfull in pleasing them all. it came to passe in the end, that the lady abbesse, who all this while imagined no such matter, walking all alone in the garden on a day, found _massetto_ sleeping under an almond tree, having then very little businesse to doe, because he had wrought hard all the night before. shee observed him to be an hansome man, young, lusty, well limbde, and proportioned, having a mercifull commisseration of his dumbnesse and deafenesse, being perswaded also in like manner, that if he were an eunuch too, he deserved a thousand times the more to be pittied. the season was exceeding hot, and he lay downe so carelesly to sleepe, that something was noted, wherein shee intended to be better resolved, almost falling sicke of the other nunnes disease. having awaked him, she commanded him (by signes) that he should follow her to her chamber, where he was kept close so long, that the nunnes grew offended, because the gardener came not to his dayly labour. well may you imagine that _massetto_ was no misse-proud man now, to be thus advanced from the garden to the chamber, and by no worse woman, then the lady abbesse her selfe, what signes, shewes, or what language he speaks there, i am not able to expresse; onely it appeard that his behaviour pleased her so well, as it procured his daily repairing thither; and acquainted her with such familiar conversation, as shee would have condemned in the nuns her daughters, but that they were wise enough to keepe it from her. now began _massetto_ to consider with himselfe, that he had undertaken a taske belonging to great _hercules_, in giving contentment to so many, and by continuing dumbe in this manner, it would redound to his no meane detriment. whereupon, as hee was one night sitting by the abbesse, the string that restrained his tongue from speech, brake on a sodaine, and thus he spake. madam, i have often heard it said, that one cocke may doe service to ten severall hennes, but ten men can (very hardly) even with all their best endeavour, give full satisfaction every way to one woman; and yet i am tied to content nine, which is farre beyond the compasse of my power to doe. already have i performed so much garden and chamber-worke, that i confesse my selfe starke tired, and can travaile no further; and therefore let me entreate you to lysence my departure hence, or finde some meanes for my better ease. the abbesse hearing him speake, who had so long served there dumbe; being stricken into admiration, and accounting it almost a miracle, saide. how commeth this to passe? i verily beleeved thee to be dumbe. madam (quoth _massetto_) so i was indeed, but not by nature; onely i had a long lingering sicknesse, which bereft me of speech, and which i have not onely recovered againe this night, but shall ever remaine thankfull to you for it. the abbesse verily credited his answer, demanding what he meant, in saying, that he did service to nine? madam, quoth he, this were a dangerous question, and not easily answered before all the eight sisters. upon this reply, the abbesse plainly perceived, that not onely shee had fallen into folly, but all the nunnes likewise cried guilty too: wherefore being a woman of sound discretion, she would not grant that _massetto_ should depart, but to keepe him still about the nunnes businesse, because the monastery should not be scandalized by him. and the _fac-totum_ being dead a little before, his strange recovery of speech revealed, and some things elsee more neerely concerning them: by generall consent, & with the good liking of _massetto_, he was created the _fac-totum_ of the monasterie. all the neighbouring people dwelling thereabout, who knew _massetto_ to be dumbe, by fetching home wood daily from the forrest, and divers employments in other places; were made to beleeve that by the nunnes devoute prayers and discipline, as also the merits of the saint, in whose honour the monastery was built and erected, _massetto_ had his long restrained speech restored, and was now become their sole _fac-totum_, having power now to employ others in drudgeries, and ease himselfe of all such labours. and albeit he make the nunnes to be fruitfull, by encreasing some store of yonger sisters; yet all matters were so close & cleanly carried, as it was never talkt of, till after the death of the ladie abbesse, when _massetto_ beganne to grow in good yeares, and desired, to returne home to his native abiding, which (within a while after) was granted him. thus _massetto_, being rich and old, returned home like a wealthy father, taking no care for the nursing of his children, but bequeathed them to the place where they were bred and born, having (by his wit and ingenious apprehension) made such a benefit of his youthfull years, that now he merrily tooke ease in his age. _a querry of the stable, belonging to_ agilulffo; _king of the lombards, found the meanes of accesse to the queenes bed, without any knowledge or consent in her. this being secretly discovered by the king, and the party knowne, he gave him a marke, by shearing the haire of his head. whereupon, he that was so shorne, sheared likewise the heads of all his fellowes in the lodging, and so escaped the punishment intended towards him._ the second novell. _wherein is signified, the providence of a wise man, when he shall have reason to use revenge. and the cunning craft of another, when hee compasseth meanes to defend himselfe from perill._ when the novell of _philostratus_ was concluded, which made some of the ladies blush, and the rest to smile: it pleased the queene, that madam _pampinea_ should follow next, to second the other gone before; when she, smiling on the whole assembly, began thus. there are some men so shallow of capacity, that they will (neverthelesse) make shew of knowing and understanding such things, as neither they are able to doe, nor appertaine to them: whereby they will sometimes reprehend other mens errors, and such faults as they have unwillingly committed, thinking thereby to hide their owne shame, when they make it much more apparant and manifest. for proofe whereof, faire company, in a contrary kinde i will shew you the subtill cunning of one, who (perhaps) might be reputed of lesse reckoning then _massetto_; and yet hee went beyond a king, that thought himselfe to be a much wiser man. _agilulffo_, king of _lombardie_, according as his predecessours had done before him, made the principall seate of his kingdome, in the citie of _pavia_, having embraced in mariage, _tendelinga_, the late left widdow of _vetario_, who likewise had beene king of the _lombards_; a most beautifull, wise and vertuous lady, but made unfortunate by a mischance. the occurrences and estate of the whole realme, being in an honourable, quiet and well setled condition, by the discreete care and providence of the king; a querrie appertaining to the queenes stable of horse, being a man but of meane and lowe quality, though comely of person, and of equall stature to the king; became immeasurably amorous of the queene. and because his base and servile condition, had endued him with so much understanding, as to know infallibly, that his affection was mounted, beyond the compasse of conveniencie; wisely hee concealed it to himselfe, not acquainting any one therewith, or daring so much, as to discover it either by lookes, or any other affectionate behaviour. and although hee lived utterly hopelesse, of ever attaining to his hearts desires; yet notwithstanding, hee proudly gloried, that his love had soared so high a pitch, as to be enamoured of a queene. and dayly, as the fury of his flame encreased; so his cariage was farre above his fellowes and companions, in the performing of all such serviceable duties, as any way he imagined might content the queene. whereon ensued, that whensoever shee roade abroad to take the ayre, shee used oftner to mount on the horse, which this querrie brought when shee made her choise, then any of the other that were led by his fellowes. and this did he esteeme as no meane happinesse to him, to order the stirrope for her mounting, and therefore gave dayly his due attendance: so that, to touch the stirrope, but (much more) to put her foote into it, or touch any part of her garments, he thought it the onely heaven on earth. but, as we see it oftentimes come to passe, that by how much the lower hope declineth, so much the higher love ascendeth; even so fel it out with this poore querry; for, most irkesome was it to him, to endure the heavy waight of his continuall oppressions, not having any hope at all of the very least mitigation. and being utterly unable to relinquish his love divers times he resolved on some desperate conclusion, which might yet give the world an evident testimony, that he dyed for the love he bare to the queene. and upon this determination, hee grounded the successe of his future fortune, to dye in compassing some part of his desire, without either speaking to the queene, or sending any missive of his love; for to speake or write, were meerely in vaine, and drew on a worser consequence then death, which he could bestow on himselfe more easily, and when he listed. no other course now beleagers his braines, but onely for secret accesse to the queenes bed, and how he might get entrance into her chamber, under colour of the king, who (as he knew very well) slept manie nights together from the queene. wherefore, to see in what manner, & what the usuall habit was of the king, when he came to keepe companie with his queene: he hid himselfe divers nights in a gallery, which was betweene both their lodging chambers. at length, he saw the king come forth of his chamber, himselfe all alone, with a faire night-mantle wrapt about him, carrying a lighted taper in the one hand, and a small white wand in the other, so went he on to the queenes lodging; and knocking at the doore once or twice with the wand, and not using any word, the doore opened, the light was left without, and he entered the chamber, where he stayed not long, before his returning backe againe, which likewise very diligently he observed. so familiar was he in the wardrobe, by often fetching and returning the king and queenes furnitures; that the fellowe to the same mantle, which the king wore when he went to the queene, very secretly he conveighed away thence with him, being provided of a light, and the verie like wand. now bestowes he costly bathings on his body, that the least sent of the stable might not be felt about him; and finding a time sutable to his desire, when he knew the king to be at rest in his owne lodging, and all elsee sleeping in their beds; closely he steals into the gallery, where alighting his taper, with tinder purposely brought thither, the mantle folded about him, and the wand in his hand, valiantly he adventures upon his lives perill. twice hee knockt softly at the doore, which a wayting woman immediately opened, and receyving the light, went forth into the gallery, while the supposed king, was conversing with the queene. alas good queene, heere is sinne committed, without any guiltie thought in thee, as (within a while after) it plainely appeared. for, the querry having compassed what he most coveted, and fearing to forfeite his life by delay, when his amorous desire was indifferently satisfied: returned backe as he came, the sleepy waiting woman not so much as looking on him, but rather glad, that she might get her to rest againe. scarcely was the querrie stept into his bed, unheard or discerned by any of his fellowes, divers of them lodging both in that and the next chamber: but it pleased the king to visite the queene, according to his wonted manner, to the no little mervaile of the drowsie wayting woman, who was never twice troubled in a night before. the king being in bed, whereas alwayes till then, his resort to the queene, was altogether in sadnesse and melancholly, both comming and departing without speaking one word: now his majestie was become more pleasantly disposed, whereat the queene began not a little to mervaile. now trust mee sir, quoth shee, this hath been a long wished, and now most welcome alteration, vouchsafing twice in a night to visite me, and both within the compasse of one houre; for it cannot be much more, since your being here, and now comming againe. the king hearing these words, sodainly presumed, that by some counterfeit person or other, the queene had been this night beguiled: wherefore (very advisedly) hee considered, that in regard the party was unknowne to her, and all the women about her; to make no outward appearance of knowing it, but rather concealed it to himselfe. farre from the indiscretion of some hare-braind men, who presently would have answered and sworne; i came not hither this night, till now. whereupon many dangers might ensue, to the dishonour and prejudice of the queene; beside, hir error being discovered to hir, might afterward be an occasion, to urge a wandring in her appetite, and to covet after change againe. but by this silence, no shame redounded to him or her, whereas prating, must needes be the publisher of open infamie: yet was hee much vexed in his minde, which neither by lookes or words hee would discover, but pleasantly said to the queene. why madame, although i was once heere before to night, i hope you mislike not my second seeing you, nor if i should please to come againe. no truely sir, quoth she, i only desire you to have care of your health. well, said the king, i will follow your counsaile, and now returne to mine owne lodging againe, committing my queene to her good rest. his blood boyling with rage and distemper, by such a monstrous injurie offered him; he wrapt his night-mantle about him, and leaving his chamber, imagining, that whatsoever he was, needes he must be one of his owne house: he tooke a light in his hand, and convayed it into a little lanthorne, purposing to be resolved in his suspition. no guests or strangers were now in his court, but onely such as belonged to his houshold, who lodged altogether about the escurie and stables, being there appointed to divers beds. now, this was his conceite, that whosoever had beene so lately familiar with the queene, his heart and pulse could (as yet) be hardly at rest, but rather would be troubled with apparant agitation, as discovering the guilt of so great an offender. many chambers had hee passed thorow, where all were soundly sleeping, and yet he felt both their brests and pulses. at last he came to the lodging of the man indeede, that had so impudently usurped his place, who could not as yet sleepe, for joy of his atchieved adventure. when he espied the king come in, knowing well the occasion of his search, he began to waxe very doubtfull, so that his heart and pulse beating extremely, he felt a further addition of feare, as being confidently perswaded, that there was now no other way but death, especially if the king discovered his agony. and although many considerations were in his braine, yet because he saw that the king was unarmed, his best refuge was, to make shew of sleepe, in expectation what the king intended to doe. among them all he had sought, yet could not find any likelihood, whereby to gather a grounded probability; untill he came to this querry, whose heart and pulses laboured so sternely, that he said to himselfe; yea mary, this is the man that did the deede. neverthelesse, purposing to make no apparance of his further intention, he did nothing elsee to him, but drawing foorth a paire of sheares, which purposely he brought thither with him, he clipped away a part of his lockes, which (in those times) they used to weare very long, to the end that he might the better know him the next morning, and so returned backe to his lodging againe. the querry, who partly saw, but felt what was done to him; perceived plainely (being a subtill ingenious fellow) for what intent he was thus marked. wherefore, without any longer dallying, up he rose, and taking a paire of sheares, wherewith they used to trim their horses; softly he went from bed to bed, where they all lay yet soundly sleeping, and clipt away each mans locke from his right eare, in the selfe same manner as the king had done his, and being not perceived by any one of them, quietly he laide him downe againe. in the morning, when the king was risen, he gave command that before the pallace gates were opened, all his whole family should come before him, as instantly his will was fulfilled. standing all uncovered in his presence, he began to consider with himselfe, which of them was the man that he had marked. and seeing the most part of them to have their lockes cut, all after one and the selfe same manner; marvailing greatly, he saide to himselfe. the man whom i seeke for, though he be but of meane and base condition, yet it plainely appeareth, that he is of no deject or common understanding. and seeing, that without further clamour and noyse, he could not find out the party he looked for; he concluded, not to win eternall shame, by compassing a poore revenge: but rather (by way of admonition) to let the offender know in a word, that he was both noted and observed. so turning to them all, he saide; he that hath done it, let him be silent, and doe so no more, and now depart about your businesse. some other turbulent spirited man, no imprisonments, tortures, examinations, and interrogatories, could have served his turne; by which course of proceeding, he makes the shame to be publikely knowne, which reason requireth to keepe concealed. but admit that condigne vengeance were taken, it diminisheth not one title of the shame, neither qualifieth the peoples bad affections, who will lash out as liberally in scandall, and upon the very least babling rumor. such therefore as heard the kings words, few though they were, yet truly wise; marvelled much at them, and by long examinations among themselves, questioned, but came far short of his meaning; the man onely excepted, whom indeede they concerned, and by whom they were never discovered, so long as the king lived, neither did he dare at any time after, to hazard his life in the like action, under the frownes or favour of fortune. _under colour of confession, and of a most pure conscience, a faire young gentlewoman, being amourously affected to an honest man; induced a devoute and solemne religious friar, to advise her in the meanes (without his suspition or perceiving) how to enjoy the benefit of her friend, and bring her desires to their full effect._ the third novell. _declaring, that the leude and naughty qualities of some persons, doe oftentimes misguide good people, into very great and greevous errors._ when madam _pampinea_ sate silent, and the querries boldnesse equalled with his crafty cunning, and great wisedome in the king had passed among them with generall applause; the queene, turning her selfe to madam _philomena_, appointed her to follow next in order, and to hold rancke with her discourse, as the rest had done before her: whereupon _philomena_ graciously began in this manner. it is my purpose, to acquaint you with a notable mockery, which was performed (not in jest, but earnest) by a faire gentlewoman, to a grave and devoute religious friar, which will yeelde so much the more pleasure and recreation, to every secular understander, if but diligently he or shee doe observe; how commonly those religious persons (at least the most part of them) like notorious fooles, are the inventers of new courses and customes, as thinking themselves more wise and skilful in all things then any other; yet prove to be of no worth or validity, addicting the very best of all their devises, to expresse their owne vilenesse of minde, and fatten themselves in their sties, like to pampered swine. and assure your selves worthy ladies, that i doe not tell this tale onely to follow the order enjoyned me; but also to informe you that such saint-like holy sirs, of whom we are too opinative and credulous, may be, yea, and are (divers times) cunningly met withall, in their craftinesse, not onely by men, but likewise some of our owne sexe, as i shall make it apparant to you. in our owne city (more full of craft and deceit, then love or faithfull dealing) there lived not many yeeres since a gentlewoman, of good spirit, highly minded, endued with beauty and all commendable qualities, as any other woman (by nature) could be. her name, or any others, concerned in this novell, i meane not to make manifest, albeit i know them, because some are yet living, and thereby may be scandalized; and therefore it shall suffice to passe them over with a smile. this gentlewoman, seeing her selfe to be descended of very great parentage, and (by chance) married to an artezen, a clothier or drapier, that lived by the making and selling of cloth: shee could not (because he was a trades-man) take downe the height of her minde; conceiving, that no man of meane condition (how rich soever) was worthy to enjoy a gentlewoman in marriage. observing moreover, that with all his wealth and treasure, he understood nothing better, then to open skeines of yarne, fill shuttles, lay webbes in loomes, or dispute with his spinsters, about their businesse. being thus over-swayed with her proud opinion, shee would no longer be embraced, or regarded by him in any manner, saving onely because she could not refuse him; but would find some other for her better satisfaction, who might seeme more worthy of her respect, then the drapier her husband did. hereupon shee fell so deepe in love, with a very honest man of our city also, and of indifferent yeeres; as what day shee saw him not, shee could take no rest the night ensuing. the man himselfe knew nothing hereof, and therefore was the more neglect and carelesse, and she being curious, nice, yet wisely considerate; durst not let him understand it, neither by any womans close conveyed message, nor yet by letters, as fearing the perils which happen in such cases. but her eye observing his daily walkes and resorts, gave her notice of his often conversing with a religious friar, who albeit he was a fat and corpulent man, yet notwithstanding, because he seemed to leade a sanctimonious life, and was reported to be a most honest man; she perswaded her selfe, that he might be the best meanes, betweene her and her friend. having considered with her selfe, what course was best to be observed in this case; upon a day, apt and convenient, shee went to the convent, where he kept, and having caused him to be called, shee told him, that if his leysure so served, very gladly shee would be confessed, and onely had made her choyce of him. the holy man seeing her, and reputing her to be a gentlewoman, as indeede shee was no lesse; willingly heard her, and when shee had confessed what shee could, shee had yet another matter to acquaint him withall, and thereupon thus she began. holy father, it is no more then convenient, that i should have recourse to you, to be assisted by your help and councell, in a matter which i will impart unto you. i know, that you are not ignorant of my parents and husband, of whom i am affected as dearely as his life, for proofe whereof, there is not any thing that i can desire, but immediatly i have it of him, he being a most rich man, and may very sufficiently affoord it. in regard whereof, i love him equally as my selfe, and, setting aside my best endeavours for him; i must tell you one thing, if i should do anything contrary to his liking and honour, no woman can more worthily deserve death, then my selfe. understand then, good father, that there is a man, whose name i know not, but hee seemeth to be honest, and of good worth; moreover (if i am not deceived) hee resorteth oftentimes to you, being faire and comely of person, going alwayes in blacke garments of good price and value. this man, imagining (perhaps) no such minde in me, as truely there is; hath often attempted mee, and never can i be at my doore, or window, but hee is alwayes present in my sight, which is not a little displeasing to me; he watcheth my walkes, and much i mervaile, that he is not now here. let me tell you holy sir, that such behaviours, doe many times lay bad imputations upon very honest women, yet without any offence in them. it hath often run in my minde, to let him have knowledge thereof by my brethren: but afterward i considered, that men (many times) deliver messages in such sort, as draw on very ungentle answeres, whereon grow words, and words beget actions. in which respect, because no harme or scandall should ensue, i thought it best to be silent; determining, to acquaint you rather therewith, then any other, as well because you seeme to be his friend, as also in regard of your office, which priviledgeth you, to correct such abuses, not onely in friends, but also in strangers. enowe other women there are, (more is the pitty) who (perhaps) are better disposed to such suites, then i am, and can both like and allowe of such courting, otherwise then i can doe; as being willing to embrace such offers, and (happily) loath to yeeld deniall. wherefore, most humbly i entreat you, good father (even for our blessed ladies sake) that you would give him a friendly reprehension, and advise him, to use such unmanly meanes no more hereafter. with which words, shee hung downe her head in her bosome, cunningly dissembling, as if shee wept, wiping her eyes with her handkerchife, when not a teare fell from them, but indeed were dry enough. the holy religious man, so soone as he heard her description of the man, presently knew whom shee meant, and highly commending the gentlewoman, for her good and vertuous seeming disposition, beleeved faithfully all that shee had said: promising her, to order the matter so well and discreetly, as shee should not be any more offended. and knowing her to be a woman of great wealth (after all their usuall manner, when they cast forth their fishing nets for gaine:) liberally he commended almes-deedes, and dayly workes of charity, recounting to her (beside) his owne perticular necessities. then, giving him two pieces of gold, she said. i pray you (good father) to be mindfull of me, and if he chance to make any deniall: tell him boldly, that i spake it my selfe to you, and by the way of a sad complaint her confession being ended, and penance easie enough enjoyned her, shee promised to make her parents bountifull benefactours to the convent, and put more money into his hand, desiring him in his masses, to remember the soules of her deceased friends, and so returned home to her house. within a short while after her departure, the gentleman, of whom she had made this counterfeit complaint, came thither, as was his usuall manner, and having done his duty to the holy father; they sate downe together privately, falling out of one discourse into another. at the length, the frier (in very loving and friendly sort) mildly reproved him, for such amorous glaunces, and other pursuites, which (as he thought) hee dayly used to the gentlewoman, according to her owne speeches. the gentleman mervailed greatly thereat, as one that had never seene her, and very sildome passed by the way where she dwelt, which made him the bolder in his answeres; wherein the confessour interrupting him, said. never make such admiration at the matter, neither waste more words in these stout denials, because they cannot serve thy turne: i tell thee plainely, i heard it not from any neighbours, but even of her owne selfe, in a very sorrowfull and sad complaint. and though (perhaps) hereafter, thou canst very hardly refraine such follies; yet let mee tell thee so much of her (and under the seale of absolute assurance) that she is the onely woman of the world, who (in my true judgement) doth hate and abhorre all such base behaviour. wherefore, in regard of thine owne honour, as also not to vexe & prejudice so vertuous a gentlewoman: i pray thee refrain such idlenes henceforward, & suffer hir to live in peace. the gentleman, being a little wiser then his ghostly father, perceived immediatly (without any further meditating on the matter) the notable pollicie of the woman: whereupon, making somewhat bashfull appearance of any error already committed; hee said, hee would afterward be better advised. so, departing from the frier, he went on directly, to passe by the house where the gentlewoman dwelt, and she stood alwayes ready on her watch, at a little window, to observe, when hee should walke that way: and seeing him comming, she shewed her selfe so joyfull, and gracious to him, as he easily understood, whereto the substance of the holy fathers chiding tended. and, from that time forward, hee used dayly, though in covert manner (to the no little liking of the gentlewoman and himselfe) to make his passage through that streete, under colour of some important occasions there, concerning him. soone after, it being plainely discerned on either side, that the one was as well contented with these walkes, as the other could be: shee desired to enflame him a little further, by a more liberall illustration of her affection towards him, when time and place affoorded convenient opportunity. to the holy father againe shee went, (for shee had been too long from shrift) and kneeling downe at his feete, intended to begin her confession in teares; which the friar perceiving, sorrowfully demanded of her, what new accident had happened? holy father (quoth shee) no novell accident, but onely your wicked and ungracious friend, by whom (since i was here with you, yea, no longer agoe then yesterday) i have beene so wronged, as i verily beleeve that hee was borne to be my mortall enemie, and to make me doe something to my utter disgrace for ever; and whereby i shall not dare to be seene any more of you, my deare father. how is this? answered the friar, hath he not refrained from afflicting you so abusively? pausing a while, and breathing foorth many a dissembled sigh, thus shee replyed. no truly, holy father, there is no likelyhood of his abstaining; for since i made my complaint to you, he belike taking it in evill part, to be contraried in his wanton humours, hath (meerely in despight) walked seaven times in a day by my doore, whereas formerly, he never used it above once or twice. and well were it (good father) if he could be contented with those walkes, and gazing glaunces which hee dartes at me: but growne he is so bolde and shamelesse, that even yesterday, (as i tolde you) he sent a woman to me, one of his _pandoraes_, as it appeared, and as if i had wanted either purses or girdles, he sent me (by her) a purse and a girdle. whereat i grew so grievously offended, as had it not beene for my due respect and feare of god, and next the sacred reverence i beare to you my ghostly father; doubtlesse, i had done some wicked deede. neverthelesse, happily i withstood it, and will neither say or doe any thing in this case, till first i have made it knowne to you. then i called to minde, that having redelivered the purse and girdle to his shee messenger, (which brought them) with lookes sufficient to declare my discontentment: i called her backe againe, fearing least shee would keepe them to her selfe, and make him beleeve, that i had received them (as i have heard such kind of women use to doe sometimes) and in anger i snatcht them from her, and have brought them hither to you, to the end that you may give him them againe; and tell him, i have no neede of any such things, thankes be to heaven and my husband, as no woman can be better stored then i am. wherefore good father, purposely am i now come to you, and i beseech you accept my just excuse, that if he will not abstaine from thus molesting me, i will disclose it to my husband, father, and brethren, whatsoever shall ensue thereon: for i had rather he should receive the injury (if needs it must come) then i to be causelesly blamed for him; wherein good father tell me, if i doe not well. with many counterfeit sobbes, sighes, and teares, these wordes were delivered; and drawing foorth from under her gowne, a very faire and rich purse, as also a girdle of great worth, shee threw them into the friers lap. he verily beleeving all this false report, being troubled in his minde thereat beyond measure, tooke the gentlewoman by the hand, saying: daughter, if thou be offended at these impudent follies, assuredly i cannot blame thee, not will any wise man reproove thee for it; and i commend thee for following my counsell. but let me alone for schooling of my gentleman: ill hath he kept his promise made to mee; wherefore, in regard of his former offence, as also this other so lately committed, i hope to set him in such a heate, as shall make him leave off from further injurying thee. and in gods name, suffer not thy selfe to be conquered by choler, in disclosing this to thy kindred or husband, because too much harme may ensue thereon. but feare not any wrong to thy selfe; for, both before god and men, i am a true witnesse of thine honesty and vertue. now began she to appeare somewhat better comforted; & forbearing to play on this string any longer, as wel knowing the covetousness of him and his equals, she said. holy father, some few nights past, me thought in my sleepe, that divers spirits of my kindred appeared to me in a vision, who (me thought) were in very great paines, and desired nothing else but almes; especially my god-mother, who seemed to bee afflicted with such extreme poverty, that it was most pittifull to behold. and i am half perswaded, that her torments are the greater, seeing mee troubled with such an enemy to goodnesse. wherefore (good father) to deliver her soule and the others, out of those fearfull flames; among your infinite other devout prayers, i would have you to say the fortie masses of s. _gregory_, as a meanes for their happy deliverance, and so she put ten ducates into his hand. which the holy man accepted thankfully, and with good words, as also many singular examples, confirmed her bountifull devotion: and when he had given her his benediction, home she departed. after that the gentlewoman was gone, hee sent for his friend, whom she so much seemed to be troubled withall; and when he was come, hee beholding his holy father to looke discontentedly: thought, that now he should heare some newes from his mistresse, and therefore expected what he would say. the frier, falling into the course of his former reprehensions, but yet in more rough and impatient manner, sharpely checkt him for his immodest behaviour towards the gentlewoman, in sending her the purse and girdle. the gentleman, who as yet could not guesse whereto his speeches tended; somewhat coldly and temperately, denied the sending of such tokens to her, to the end that he would not be utterly discredited with the good man, if so bee the gentlewoman had shewne him any such things. but then the frier, waxing much more angry, sternly said. bad man as thou art, how canst thou deny a manifest trueth? see sir, these are none of your amorous tokens? no, i am sure you doe not know them, nor ever saw them till now. the gentleman, seeming as if he were much ashamed, saide. truely father i do know them, and confesse that i have done ill, and very greatly offended: but now i will sweare unto you, seeing i understande how firmely she is affected, that you shall never heare any more complaints of me. such were his vowes and protestations, as in the end the ghostly father gave him both the purse and girdle: then after he had preached, & severely conjured him, never more to vexe her with any gifts at all, and he binding himselfe thereto by a solemne promise, he gave him license to depart. now grew the gentleman very jocond, being so surely certified of his mistresses love, and by tokens of such worthy esteeme; wherefore no sooner was hee gone from the frier, but hee went into such a secret place, where he could let her behold at her window, what precious tokens he had receyved from her, whereof she was extraordinarily joyfull, because her devices grew still better and better; nothing now wanting, but her husbands absence, upon some journey from the city, for the full effecting of her desire. within a few dayes after, such an occasion hapned, as her husband of necessity must journey to _geneway_; and no sooner was hee mounted on horsebacke, taking leave of her and all his friends: but she, being sure hee was gone, went in all hast to her ghostly father; and, after a few faigned outward shewes, thus she spake. i must now plainly tell you, holy father, that i can no longer endure this wicked friend of yours; but because i promised you the other day, that i would not do any thing, before i had your counsell therein, i am now come to tell you, the just reason of my anger, and full purpose to avoid all further molestation. your friend i cannot terme him, but (questionles) a very divel of hell. this morning, before the breake of day, having heard (but how, i know not) that my husband was ridden to _geneway_: got over the wall into my garden, and climbing up a tree which standeth close before my chamber window, when i was fast asleepe, opened the casement, and would have entred in at the window. but, by great good fortune, i awaked, and made shew of an open out-cry: but that he entreated mee, both for gods sake and yours, to pardon him this error, and never after he would presume any more to offend me. when he saw, that (for your sake) i was silent, he closed fast the window againe, departed as he came, and since i never saw him, or heard any tidings of him. now judge you, holy father, whether these be honest courses, or no, and to be endured by any civil gentlewoman; neither would i so patiently have suffered this, but onely in my dutifull reverence to you. the ghostly father hearing this, became the sorrowfullest man in the world, not knowing how to make her any answer, but only demanded of her divers times, whether she knew him so perfectly, that she did not mistake him for some other? quoth she, i would i did not know him from any other. alas deere daughter (replied the frier) what can more be sayd in this case, but that it was over-much boldnesse, and very il done; & thou shewedst thy selfe a worthy wise woman, in sending him away so mercifully, as thou didst. once more i would entreat thee (deare and vertuous daughter) seeing grace hath hitherto kept thee from dishonour, and twice already thou hast credited my counsell, let me now advise thee this last time. spare speech, or complaining to any other of thy friends, and leave it to me, to try if i can overcome this unchained divel, whom i tooke to be a much more holy man. if i can recall him from this sensuall appetite, i shall account my labour well employed; but if i cannot do it, henceforward (with my blessed benediction) i give thee leave to do, even what thy heart will best tutor thee to. you see sir (said shee) what manner of man he is, yet would i not have you troubled or disobeyed, only i desire to live without disturbance, which work (i beseech you) as best you may: for i promise you, good father, never to solicite you more uppon this occasion: and so, in a pretended rage, shee returned backe from the ghostly father. scarsely was she gone forth of the church, but in commeth the man that had (supposedly) so much transgressed; and the fryer taking him aside, gave him the most injurious words that could be used to a man, calling him disloyall, perjured, and a traitor. hee who had formerly twice perceived, how high the holy mans anger mounted, did nothing but expect what he wold say; and, like a man extreamly perplexed, strove how to get it from him, saying; holy father, how come you to be so heinously offended? what have i done to incense you so strangely? heare mee dishonest wretch answered the frier, listen what i shall say unto thee. thou answerest me, as if it were a yeare or two past, since so foule abuses were by thee committed, & they almost quite out of thy remembrance. but tell me wicked man, where wast thou this morning, before breake of the day? wheresoever i was, replyed the gentleman, mee thinkes the tidings come very quickly to you. it is true, said the frier, they are speedily come to me indeed, and upon urgent necessity. after a little curbing in of his wrath, somewhat in a milder strain, thus he proceeded. because the gentlewomans husband is journeyed to _geneway_, proves this a ladder to your hope, that to embrace her in your armes, you must climbe over the garden wall, like a treacherous robber in the night season, mount up a tree before her chamber window, open the casement, as hoping to compasse that by importunity, which her spotlesse chastity will never permit. there is nothing in the world, that possibly she can hate more then you, and yet you will love her whether she will or no. many demonstrations her selfe hath made to you, how retrograde you are to any good conceit of her, & my loving admonishments might have had better successe in you, then as yet they shewe by outward apparance. but one thing i must tell you, her silent sufferance of your injuries all this while, hath not bin in any respect of you, but at my earnest entreaties, and for my sake. but now shee will be patient no longer, and i have given her free license, if ever heereafter you offer to attempt her any more, to make her complaint before her brethren, which will redound to your no meane danger. the gentleman, having wisely collected his love-lesson out of the holy fathers angry words, pacified the good old man so wel as he could with very solemne promises and protestations, that he should heare (no more) any misbehaviour of his. and being gone from him, followed the instructions given in her complaint, by climbing over the garden wall, ascending the tree, and entering at the casement, standing ready open to welcome him. thus the friers simplicity, wrought on by her most ingenuous subtiltie, made way to obtaine both their longing desires. _a yong scholler, named_ felice, _enstructed_ puccio di rinieri, _how to become rich in a very short time. while_ puccio _made experience of the instructions taught him;_ felice _obtained the favour of his daughter._ the fourth novell. _wherein is declared, what craft and subtilty some wily wits can devise, to deceive the simple, and compasse their owne desires._ after that _philomena_ had finished her tale, she sate still; and _dioneus_ with faire and pleasing language, commended the gentlewomans quaint cunning, but smiled at the confessors witlesse simplicity. then the _queen_, turning with chearefull looks towards _pamphilus_, commaunded him to continue on their delight; who gladly yeelded, and thus began. madame, many men there are, who while they strive to climbe from a good estate, to a seeming better; doe become in much worse condition then they were before. as happened to a neighbour of ours, and no long time since, as the accident will better acquaint you withall. according as i have heard it reported, neere to saint _brancazio_, there dwelt an honest man, and some-what rich, who was called _puccio di rinieri_, and who addicted all his paines and endeavours to alchimy: wherefore, he kept no other family, but onely a widdowed daughter, and a servant; and because he had no other art or exercise, hee used often to frequent the market place. and in regard he was but a weake witted man, and a gourmand or grosse feeder; his language was the more harsh and rude, like to our common porters or loutish men, and his carriage also absurd, boore-like, and clownish. his daughter, being named _monna isabetta_, aged not above eight and twenty, or thirty yeers; was a fresh indifferent faire, plumpe, round woman, cherry cheekt, like a queene-apple; and, to please her father, fed not so sparingly, as otherwise she wold have done, but when she communed or jested with any body, she would talke of nothing, but onely concerning the great vertue in alchimy, extolling it above all other arts. much about this season of the yeare, there returned a young scholler from _paris_, named _felice_, faire of complexion, comely of person, ingeniously witted, and skilfully learned, who (soone after) grew into familiarity with _puccio_: now because he could resolve him in many doubts, depending on his profession of alchimy, (himselfe having onely practise, but no great learning) he used many questions to him, shewed him very especiall matters of secrecy, entertaining him often to dinners and suppers, whensoever he pleased to come and converse with him; and his daughter likewise, perceiving with what favour her father respected him, became the more familiar with him, allowing him good regard and reverence. the young man continuing his resort to the house of _puccio_, and observing the widow to be faire, fresh, and prettily formall; he began to consider with himselfe, what those things might be, wherein shee was most wanting; and (if he could) to save anothers labour, supply them by his best endeavours. thus not alwayes carrying his eyes before him, but using many backe and circumspect regards, he proceeded so farre in his wylie apprehensions, that (by a few sparkes close kept together) he kindled part of the same fire in her, which began to flame apparantly in him. and he very wittily observing the same, as occasion first smiled on him, and allowed him favourable opportunity, so did hee impart his intention to her. now albeit he found her plyant enough, to gaine physick for her owne griefe, as soone as his; yet the meanes and manner were (as yet) quite out of all apprehension. for shee in no other part of the world, would trust her selfe in the young mans company, but onely in her fathers house; and that was a place out of all possibility, because _puccio_ (by a long continued custome) used to watch well neere all the night, as commonly he did, each night after other, never stirring foorth of the roomes, which much abated the edge of the young mans appetite. after infinite intricate revolvings, wheeling about his busied braine, he thought it not altogether an _herculian_ taske, to enjoy his happinesse in the house, and without any suspition, albeit _puccio_ kept still within doores, and watched as hee was wont to doe. upon a day as he sate in familiar conference with _puccio_, he began to speake unto him in this manner; i have many times noted, kinde friend _puccio_, that all thy desire and endeavour is, by what meanes thou mayest become very rich, wherein (me thinkes) thou takest too wide a course, when there is a much neere and shorter way, which _mighell, scotus,_ and other his associates, very diligently observed and followed, yet were never willing to instruct other men therein; whereby the misterie might be drowned in oblivion, and prosecuted by none but onely great lords, that are able to undergoe it. but because thou art mine especiall friend, and i have received from thee infinite kind favours; whereas i never intended, that any man (by me) should be acquainted with so rare a secret; if thou wilt imitate the course as i shall shew thee, i purpose to teach it thee in full perfection. _puccio_ being very earnestly desirous to understand the speediest way to so singular a mysterie, first began to entreat him (with no meane instance) to acquaint him with the rules of so rich a science; and afterward sware unto him, never to disclose it to any person, except hee gave his consent thereto; affirming beside, that it was a rarity, not easie to be comprehended by very apprehensive judgements. well (quoth _felice_) seeing thou hast made me such a sound and solemne promise, i will make it knowne unto thee. know then friend _puccio_, the philosophers do hold, that such as covet to become rich indeed, must understand how to make the stone: as i will tell thee how, but marke the manner very heedfully. i do not say, that after the stone is obtained, thou shalt be even as rich as now thou art; but thou shalt plainly perceive, that the very grosest substance, which hitherto thou hast seene, all of them shal be made pure golde, and such as afterward thou makest, shall be more certaine, then to go or come with _aqua fortis_, as now they do. most expedient is it therefore, that when a man will go diligently about this businesse, and purposeth to prosecute such a singular labour, which will and must continue for the space of 40 nights, he must give very carefull attendance, wholly abstaining from sleepe, slumbering, or so much as nodding all that while. moreover, in some apt and convenient place of thy house, there must be a forge or furnace erected, framed in decent and formall fashion, and neere it a large table placed, ordered in such sort, as standing upright on thy feete, and leaning the reines of thy backe against it; thou must stande stedfastly in that manner every night, without the least motion or stirring, untill the breake of day appeareth, and thine eyes still uppon the furnace fixed, to keepe ever in memory, the true order which i have prescribed. so soone as the morning is seene, thou mayst (if thou wilt) walke, or rest a little upon thy bed, and afterward go about thy businesse, if thou have any. then go to dinner, attending readily till the evenings approch, preparing such things as i will readily set thee downe in writing, without which there is not any thing to bee done; and then returne to the same taske againe, not varying a jot from the course directed. before the time be fully expired, thou shalt perceive many apparant signes, that the stone is still in absolute forwardnesse, but it will bee utterly lost if thou fayle in the least of all the observances. and when the experience hath crowned thy labour, thou art sure to have the philosophers stone, and thereby shalt be able to enrich all, and worke wonders beside. _puccio_ instantly replied. now trust me sir, there is no great difficultie in this labour; neither doth it require any extraordinary length of time: but it may very easily be followed and performed, and (by your friendly favour, in helping to direct the furnace and table, according as you imagine most convenient) on sunday at night next, i will begin my task. the scholler being gone, he went to his daughter, and tolde her all the matter, and what he had determined to do: which shee immediately understood sufficiently, and what would ensue on his nightly watching in that manner, returning him answer, that whatsoever he liked and allowed of, it became not her any way to mislike. thus they continued in this kinde concordance, till sunday night came. when _puccio_ was to begin his experience, and _felice_ to set forward upon his adventure. concluded it was, that every night the scholler must come to supper, partly to bee a witnesse of his constant performance, but more especially for his owne advantage. the place which _puccio_ had chosen, for his hopefull attaining to the philosophers stone, was close to the chamber where his daughter lay, having no other separation or division, but an old ruinous tottring wall. so that, when the scholler was playing his prize, _puccio_ heard an unwonted noise in the house, which he had never observed before, neither knew the wall to have any such motion: wherefore, not daring to stirre from his standing, least all should be marrd in the very beginning, he called to his daughter, demanding, what busie labour she was about? the widdow, being much addicted to frumping, according as questions were demanded of her, and (perhaps) forgetting who spake to her, pleasantly replied: whoop sir, where are we now? are the spirits of alchimy walking in the house, that we cannot lye quietly in our beds? _puccio_ mervailing at this answer, knowing she never gave him the like before; demanded againe, what she did? the subtle wench, remembring that she had not answered as became her, said: pardon mee father, my wits were not mine owne, when you demanded such a sodaine question; and i have heard you say an hundred times, that when folke go supperles to bed, either they walke in their sleepe, or being awake, talke very idely, as (no doubt) you have discernde by me. nay daughter (quoth he) it may be, that i was in a waking dreame, and thought i heard the olde wall totter: but i see i was deceived, for now it is quiet and still enough. talke no more good father, saide she, least you stirre from your place, and hinder your labour: take no care for mee, i am able enough to have care of my selfe. to prevent any more of these nightly disturbances, they went to lodge in another part of the house, where they continued out the time of _puccioes_ paines, with equall contentment to them both, which made her divers times say to _felice_: you teach my father the cheefe grounds of alchimy, while we helpe to waste away his treasure. thus the scholler being but poore, yet well forwarded in learning, made use of _puccioes_ folly, and found benefit thereby, to keepe him out of wants, which is the bane and overthrow of numberlesse good wits. and _puccio_ dying, before the date of his limitted time, because hee failed of the philosophers stone, _isabetta_ joyned in marriage with _felice_, to make him amends for enstructing her father, by which meanes he came to be her husband. ricciardo, _surnamed the magnifico, gave a horse to_ signior francesco vergellisi, _upon condition, that (by his leave and lisence) he might speake to his wife in his presence; which he did, and shee not returning him any answere, made answer to himselfe on her behalfe, and according to his answer, so the effect followed._ the fifth novell. _wherein is described the frailety of some women, and folly of such husbands, as leave them alone to their owne disposition._ _pamphilus_ having ended the novell of _puccio_ the alchimist, the queene fixing her eye on madam _eliza_, gave order, that shee should succeede with hers next. when shee looking somewhat more austerely, then any of the rest, not in any spleen, but as it was her usuall manner, thus began. the world containeth some particular people who doe beleeve (because themselves know something) that others are ignorant in all things; who for the most part, while they intend to make a scorne of other men, upon the proofe, doe finde themselves to carry away the scorne. and therefore i account it no meane follie in them, who (upon no occasion) will tempt the power of another mans wit or experience. but because all men and women (perhaps) are not of mine opinion; i meane that you shall perceive it more apparantly, by an accident happening to a knight of _pistoia_, as you shall heare by me related. in the towne of _pistoia_, bordering upon _florence_, there lived not long since, a knight named signior _francesco_; descended of the linage or family of the _vergellisi_, a man very rich, wise, and in many things provident, but gripple, covetous, and too close handed, without respect to his worth and reputation. he being called to the office of _podesta_ in the city of _millaine_, furnished himselfe with all things (in honourable manner) beseeming such a charge; only, a comely horse (for his owne saddle) excepted, which he knew not by any meanes how to compasse, so loath he was to lay out money, albeit his credit much depended thereon. at the same time, there lived in _pistoya_ likewise, a young man, named _ricciardo_, derived of meane birth, but very wealthy, quicke witted, and of commendable person, alwayes going so neate, fine, and formall in his apparrell, that he was generally tearmed the _magnifico_, who had long time affected, yea, and closely courted, (though without any advantage or successe) the lady and wife of _signior francesco_, who was very beautifull, vertuous, and chaste. it so chanced, that this _magnifico_ had the very choysest and goodliest ambling gelding in all _tuscanie_, which he loved dearely, for his faire forme, and other good parts. upon a flying rumor throughout _pistoria_, that he daily made love to the fore-said lady: some busie body, put it into the head of _signior francesco_, that if he pleased to request the gelding, the _magnifico_ would frankly give it him, in regard of the love he bare to his wife. the base minded knight, coveting to have the horse, and yet not to part with any money, sent for the _magnifico_, desiring to buy his faire gelding of him, because he hoped to have him of free gift. the _magnifico_ hearing his request, was not a little joyfull hereof, and thus answered; sir, if you would give me all the wealth which you possesse in this world, i will not sell you my horse, rather i will bestow him on you as a gentlemanly gift; but yet upon this condition, that before you have him delivered, i may with your lisence, and in your presence speake a few words to your vertuous ladie, and so farre off in distance from you, as i may not be heard by any, but onely her selfe. _signior francesco_, wholly conducted by his base avaricious desire, and meaning to make a scorne at the _magnifico_, made answere; that he was well contented, to let him speake with her when he would, and leaving him in the great hall of the house, he went to his wives chamber, and told her, how easily he might enjoy the horse; commanding her forth-with, to come and heare what he could say to her, onely shee should abstaine, and not returne him any answer. the lady with a modest blush, much condemned this folly in him, that his covetousnesse should serve as a cloake, to cover any unfitting speeches, which her chaste eares could never endure to heare: neverthelesse, being to obey her husbands will, shee promised to doe it, and followed him downe into the house, to heare what the _magnifico_ would say. againe, he there confirmed the bargaine made with her husband, and sitting downe by her in a corner of the hall, farre enough off from any ones hearing, taking her curteously by the hand, thus he spake. worthy lady, it appeareth to me for a certainty, that you are so truly wise, as you have (no doubt) a long while since perceived, what unfained affection your beauty (farre excelling all other womens that i know) hath compelled me to beare you. setting aside those commendable qualities, and singular vertues, gloriously shining in you, and powerfull enough to make a conquest of the very stoutest courage: i held it utterly needlesse, to let you understand by words, how faithfull the love is i beare you, were it not much more fervent and constant, then ever any other man can expresse to a woman. in which condition it shall still continue, without the least blemish or impaire, so long as i enjoy life or motion; yea, and i dare assure you, that if in the future world, affection may containe the same powerfull dominion, as it doth in this; i am the man, borne to love you perpetually. whereby you may rest confidently perswaded, that you enjoy not any thing, how poore or precious soever it be, which you can so solemnely account to be your owne, and in the truest title of right, as you may my selfe, in all that i have, or for ever shall be mine. to confirme your opinion in this case, by any argument of greater power, let me tell you, that i should repute it as my fairest and most gracious fortune, if you would command me some such service, as consisteth in mine ability to performe, and in your courteous favour to accept, yea, if it were to travaile thorow the whole world, right willing am i, and obedient. in which regard, faire madame, if i be so much yours, as you heare i am, i may boldly adventure (and not without good reason) to acquaint your chaste eares with my earnest desires, for on you onely dependeth my happinesse, life and absolute comfort, and as your most humble servant, i beseech you (my dearest good, and sole hope of my soule) that rigour may dwell no longer in your gentle brest, but lady-like pitty and compassion: whereby i shal say, that as your divine beauty enflamed mine affections, even so it extended such a mercifull qualification, as exceeded all my hope, but not the halfe part of your pitty. admit (miracle of ladies) that i should die in this distresse: alas, my death would be but your dishonour; i cannot be termed mine owne murtherer, when the dart came from your eye that did it, and must remaine a witnesse of your rigour. you cannot then chuse but call to minde, and say within your owne soule: alas! what a sinne have i committed, in being so unmercifull to my _magnifico_. repentance then serves to no purpose, but you must answere for such unkinde cruelty. wherefore, to prevent so blacke a scandall to your bright beauty, beside the ceaselesse acclamations, which will dogge your walkes in the day time, and breake your quiet sleepes in the night season, with fearefull sights and gastly apparitions, hovering and haunting about your bed; let all these move you to milde mercy, and spill not life, when you may save it. so the _magnifico_ ceasing, with teares streaming from his eyes, and sighes breaking from his heart, he sate still in exspectation of the ladies answere, who made neither long or short of the matter, neither tilts not tourneying, nor many lost mornings and evenings, nor infinite other such like offices, which the _magnifico_ (for her sake) from time to time had spent in vaine, without the least shew of acceptation, or any hope at all to winne her love: moved now in this very houre, by these solemne protestations, or rather most prevailing asseverations; she began to finde that in her, which (before) she never felt, namely love. and although (to keepe her promise made to her husband) shee spake not a word: yet her heart heaving, her soule throbbing, sighes intermixing, and complexion altering, could not hide her intended answere to the _magnifico_, if promise had beene no hinderance to her will. all this while the _magnifico_ sate as mute as she, and seeing she would not give him any answere at all; he could not chuse but wonder thereat, yet at length perceived, that it was thus cunningly contrived by her husband. notwithstanding, observing well her countenance, that it was in a quite contrary temper, another kinde of fire sparkling in her eye, other humours flowing, her pulses strongly beating, her stomack rising, and sighes swelling; all these were arguments of a change, and motives to advance his hope. taking courage by this tickling perswasion, and instructing his minde with a new kinde of counsell: he would needes answere himselfe on her behalfe, and as if she had uttered the words, he spake in this manner. _magnifico_, and my friend, surely it is a long time since, when i first noted thine affection towards me, to be very great and most perfect: but now i am much more certaine thereof, by thine owne honest and gentle speeches, which content me as they ought to doe. neverthelesse, if heretofore i have seemed cruell and unkinde to thee, i would not have thee thinke, that my heart was any way guilty of my outward severity; but did evermore love thee, and held thee dearer then any man living. but yet it became me to doe so, as well in feare of others, as for the renowne of mine owne reputation. but now the time is at hand, to let thee know more clearely, whether i doe affect thee or no: as a just guerdon of thy constant love, which long thou hast, and still doest beare to me. wherefore comfort thy selfe, and dwell upon this undoubted hope, because _signior francesco_ my husband, is to be absent hence for many dayes, being chosen _podesta_ at _millaine_, as thou canst not chuse but heare, for it is common through the country. i know (for my sake) thou hast given him thy goodly ambling gelding, and so soone as hee is gone, i promise thee upon my word, and by the faithfull love i beare thee: that i will have further conference with thee, and let thee understand somewhat more of my minde. and because this is neither fitting time nor place, to discourse on matters of such serious moment; observe heereafter, as a signall, when thou seest my crimson skarfe hanging in the window of my chamber, which is upon the garden side; that evening (so soone as it is night) come to the garden gate, with wary respect, that no eye doe discover thee, and there thou shalt finde me walking, and ready to acquaint thee with other matters, according as i shall finde occasion. when the _magnifico_, in the person of the lady, had spoken thus, then hee returned her this answere. most vertuous lady, my spirits are so transported with extraordinary joy, for this your gracious and welcome answere; that my sences so fayle mee, and all my faculties quite forsake me, as i cannot give you such thankes as i would. and if i could speake equally to my desire, yet the season sutes not therewith, neither were it convenient that i should be so troublesome to you. let me therefore humbly beseech you, that the desire i have to accomplish your will (which words availe not to expresse) may remaine in your kinde consideration. and, as you have commaunded me, so will i not faile to performe it accordingly, and in more thankfull manner, then as yet i am able to let you know. now there resteth nothing elsee to doe, but, under the protection of your gracious pardon, i to give over speech, and you to attend your worthy husband. notwithstanding all that hee had spoken, yet shee replied not one word, wherefore the _magnifico_ arose, and returned to the knight, who went to meete him, saying in a loude laughter. how now man? have i not kept my promise with thee? no sir, answered the _magnifico_, for you promised i should speake with your wife, and you have made mee talke to a marble statue. this answere was greatly pleasing to the knight, who, although hee had an undoubted opinion of his wife; yet this did much more strengthen his beliefe, and hee said. now thou confessest thy gelding to bee mine? i doe, replied the _magnifico_, but if i had thought, that no better successe would have ensued on the bargaine; without your motion for the horse, i would have given him you: and i am sorie that i did not, because now you have bought my horse, and yet i have not sold him. the knight laughed heartily at this answere, and being thus provided of so faire a beast, he rode on his journey to _millaine_, and there entred into his authority of _podesta_. the lady remained now in liberty at home, considering on the _magnificoes_ words, and likewise the gelding, which (for her sake) was given to her husband. oftentimes shee saw him passe to and fro before her windowe, still looking when the flagge of defiance should be hanged forth, that hee might fight valiantly under her colours. the story saith, that among many of her much better meditations, she was heard to talke thus idely to herselfe. what doe i meane? wherefore is my youth? the olde miserable man is gone to _millaine_, and god knoweth when hee comes backe againe, ever, or never. is dignity preferred before wedlockes holy duty, and pleasures abroade, more then comforts at home? ill can age pay youths arrerages, when time is spent, and no hope sparde. actions omitted, are often times repented, but done in due season, they are sildome sorrowed for. upon these un-lady-like private consultations, whether the window shewed the signall or no; it is no matter belonging to my charge: i say, husbands are unwise, to graunt such ill advantages, and wives much worse, if they take hold of them, onely judge you the best, and so the tale is ended. ricciardo minutolo _fell in love with the wife of_ philippello fighinolfi, _and knowing her to be very jealous of her husband, gave her to understand, that he was greatly enamoured of his wife, and had appointed to meete her privately in a bathing house, on the next day following: where she hoping to take him tardie with his close compacted mistresse, found herselfe to be deceived by the said_ ricciardo. the sixth novell. _declaring, how much perseverance, and a couragious spirit is availeable in love._ no more remained to be spoken by madame _eliza_, but the cunning of the _magnifico_, being much commended by all the company: the queene commanded madame _fiammetta_, to succeede next in order with one of her novelse, who (smilingly) made answere that she would, and began thus. gracious ladies, me thinkes wee have spoken enough already, concerning our owne citie, which as it aboundeth copiously in all commodities, so is it an example also to every convenient purpose. and as madam _eliza_ hath done, by recounting occasions happening in another world, so must we now leape a little further off, even so farre as _naples_, to see how one of those saint-like dames, that nicely seemes to shun loves allurings, was guided by the good spirit to a friend of hers, and tasted of the fruite, before shee knew the flowers. a sufficient warning for you, to apprehend before hand, what may follow after; and to let you see beside, that when an error is committed, how to be discreete in keeping it from publike knowledge. in the city of _naples_, it being of great antiquity, and (perhaps) as pleasantly scituated, as any other city in all _italie_, there dwelt sometime a young gentleman, of noble parentage, and well knowne to be wealthy, named _ricciardo minutolo_, who, although hee had a gentlewoman (of excellent beauty, and worthy the very kindest affecting) to his wife; yet his gadding eye gazed elsee-where, and he became enamoured of another, which (in generall opinion) surpassed all the _neapolitane_ women elsee, in feature, favour, and the choysest perfections, shee being named madam _catulla_, wife to as gallant a young gentleman, called _philippello fighinolfi_, who most dearely he loved beyond all other, for her vertue and admired chastity. _ricciardo_ loving this madam _catulla_, and using all such meanes, whereby the grace and liking of a lady might be obtained; found it yet a matter beyond possibility, to compasse the height of his desire: so that many desperate and dangerous resolutions beleagred his braine, seeming so intricate, and unlikely to affoord any hopefull issue, as he wished for nothing more then death. and death (as yet) being deafe to all his earnest imprecations, delayed him on in lingering afflictions, and continuing still in such an extreame condition, he was advised by some of his best friends, utterly to abstaine from this fond pursuite, because his hopes were meerely in vaine, and madam _catulla_ prized nothing more precious to her in the world, then unstayned loyaltie to her husband; and yet shee lived in such extreme jealousie of him, as fearing least some bird flying in the ayre, should snatch him from her. _ricciardo_ not unacquainted with this her jealous humour, as well by credible hearing thereof, as also by daily observation; began to consider with himselfe, that it were best for him, to dissemble amorous affection in some other place, and (hence-forward) to set aside all hope, of ever enjoying the love of madam _catulla_, because he was now become the servant to another gentlewoman, pretending (in her honour) to performe many worthy actions of armes, jousts, tournaments, and all such like noble exercises, as he was wont to doe for madam _catulla_. so that almost all the people of _naples_, but especially madam _catulla_, became verily perswaded, that his former fruitlesse love to her was quite changed, and the new elected lady had all the glory of his best endeavours, persevering so long in this opinion, as now it passed absolutely for currant. thus seemed he now as a meere stranger to her, whose house before he familiarly frequented; yet (as a neighbour) gave her the dayes salutations, according as he chanced to see her, or meete her. it came to passe, that it being now the delightfull summer season, when all gentlemen and gentlewomen used to meete together (according to a custome long observed in that countrey) sporting along on the sea coast, dining and supping there very often. _ricciardo minutolo_ happened to heare, that madam _catulla_ (with a company of her friends) intended also to be present there among them, at which time, consorted with a seemely traine of his confederates, he resorted thither, and was graciously welcommed by madam _catulla_, where he pretended no willing long time of tarrying; but that _catulla_ and the other ladies were faine to entreate him, discoursing of his love to his new elected mistresse: which _minutolo_ graced with so solemne a countenance, as it ministred much more matter of conference, all coveting to know what shee was. so farre they walked, and held on this kinde of discoursing, as every lady and gentlewoman, waxing weary of too long a continued argument, began to separate her selfe with such an associate as shee best liked, and as in such walking women are wont to doe; so that madam _catulla_ having few females left with her, stayed behind with _minutolo_, who suddenly shot foorth a word, concerning her husband _philippello_, & of his loving another woman beside her selfe. she that was overmuch jealous before, became so suddenly set on fire, to know what shee was of whom _minutolo_ spake; as shee sate silent a long while, till being able to containe no longer, shee entreated _ricciardo_, even for the ladies sake, whose love he had so devoutly embraced, to resolve her certainely, in this strange alteration of her husband; whereunto thus he answered. madam, you have so straitly conjured me, by urging the remembrance of her; for whose sake i am not able to denie any thing you can demand, as i am ready therein to pleasure you. but first you must promise me, that neither you, or any other person for you, shall at any time disclose it to your husband, untill you have seene by effect, that which i have tolde you proveth to be true: and when you please, i will instruct you how your selfe shall see it. the lady was not a little joyfull, to be thus satisfied in her husbands follie, and constantly crediting his words to be true, shee sware a solemne oath, that no one alive should ever know it. so stepping a little further aside, because no listening eare should heare him, thus he beganne. lady, if i did love you now so effectually, as heretofore i have done, i should be very circumspect, in uttering any thing which i imagined might distaste you. i know not whether your husband _philippello_, were at any time offended; because i affected you, or beleeved, that i received any kindnesse from you: but whether it were so or no, i could never discerne it by any outward apparance. but now awaiting for the opportunity of time, which he conceived should affoord me the least suspition; he seekes to compasse that, which (i doubt) he feares i would have done to him, in plaine termes madam, to have his pleasure of my wife. and as by some carriages i have observed, within few dayes past, he hath solicited and pursued his purpose very secretly, by many ambassages, and other meanes, as (indeede) i have learned from her selfe, and alwayes shee hath returned in such answers, as shee received by my direction. and no longer agoe madam, then this very morning, before my comming hither, i found a woman messenger in my house, in very close conference with my wife, when growing doubtfull of that which was true indeede, i called my wife, enquiring, what the woman would have with her; and shee tolde me it was another pursuite of _philippello fighinolfi_, who (quoth shee) upon such answers as you have caused me to send him from time to time, perhaps doth gather some hope of prevailing in the ende, which maketh him still to importune me as he doth. and now he adventureth so farre, as to understand my finall intention, having thus ordered his complot, that when i please, i must meete him secretly in an house of this city, where he hath prepared a bath ready for me, and hopeth to enjoy the ende of his desire, as very earnestly he hath solicited me thereto. but if you had not commanded me, to hold him in suspence with so many frivolous answers; i would (long ere this) have sent him such a message, as should have beene little to his liking. with patience (madam) i endured all before, but now (me thinkes) he proceedeth too farre, which is not any way to be suffered; and therefore i intended to let you know it, whereby you may perceive, how well you are rewarded, for the faithfull and loyall love you beare him, and for which i was even at the doore of death. now, because you may be the surer of my speeches, not to be any lies or fables, and that you may (if you be so pleased) approve the trueth by your owne experience: i caused my wife to send him word, that shee would meete him to morrow, at the bathing-house appointed, about the houre of noone-day, when people repose themselves, in regard of the heates violence; with which answere the woman returned very jocondly. let me now tell you lady, i hope you have better opinion of my wit, then any meaning in me, to send my wife thither; i rather did it to this ende, that having acquainted you with his treacherous intent, you should supply my wives place, by saving both his reputation and your owne, and frustrating his unkind purpose to me. moreover, upon the view of his owne delusion, wrought by my wife in meere love to you, he shall see his foule shame, and your most noble care, to keepe the rites of marriage betweene you still unstained. madame _catulla_, having heard this long and unpleasing report; without any consideration, either what he was that tolde the tale, or what a treason he intended against her: immediatly (as jealous persons use to doe) she gave faith to his forgerie, and began to discourse many things to him, which imagination had often misguided her in, against her honest minded husband, and enflamed with rage, suddenly replied; that shee would doe according as he had advised her, as being a matter of no difficulty. but if he came, she would so shame and dishonour him, as no woman whatsoever should better schoole him. _ricciardo_ highly pleased herewith; & being perswaded, that his purpose would take the full effect: confirmed the lady in her determination with many words more; yet putting her in memory, to keepe her faithfull promise made, without revealing the matter to any living person, as shee had sworne upon her faith. on the morrow morning, _ricciardo_ went to an auncient woman of his acquaintance, who was the mistresse of a bathing-house, and there where he had appointed madame _catulla_, that the bath should be prepared for her, giving her to understand the whole businesse, and desiring her to be favourable therein to him. the woman, who had beene much beholding to him in other matters, promised very willingly to fulfill his request, concluding with him, both what should be done and said. she had in her house a very darke chamber, without any window to affoord it the least light, which chamber shee had made ready, according to _ricciardoes_ direction, with a rich bed therein, so soft and delicate as possible could be, wherein he entred so soone as he had dined, to attend the arrivall of madame _catulla_. on the same day, as she had heard the speeches of _ricciardo_, and gave more credit to them then became her; shee returned home to her house in wonderfull impatience. and _philippello_ her husband came home discontentedly too, whose head being busied about some worldly affaires, perhaps he looked not so pleasantly, neither used her so kindly, as he was wont to doe. which _catulla_ perceiving, shee was ten times more suspicious then before, saying to herselfe. now apparant trueth doth disclose it selfe, my husbands head is troubled now with nothing elsee, but _ricciardoes_ wife, with whom (to morrow) he purposeth his meeting; wherein he shall be disappointed, if i live; taking no rest at all the whole night, for thinking how to handle her husband. what shall i say more? on the morrow, at the houre of mid-day, accompanied onely with her chamber-mayde, and without any other alteration in opinion; shee went to the house where the bath was promised; and meeting there with the olde woman, demaunded of her, if _philippello_ were come thither as yet or no? the woman, being well instructed by _ricciardo_, answered: are you shee that should meete him heere. yes, replied _catulla_. goe in then to him (quoth the woman) for he is not farre off before you. madame _catulla_, who went to seeke that which she would not finde, being brought vailed into the darke chamber where _ricciardo_ was, entred into the bath, hoping to finde none other there but her husband, and the custome of the countrey, never disallowed such meetings of men with their wives, but held them to be good and commendable. in a counterfeit voyce he bad her welcome, and she, not seeming to be any other then she was indeed, entertained his embracings in as loving manner; yet not daring to speake, least he should know her, but suffered him to proceede in his owne error. let passe the wanton follies passing betweene them, and come to madame _catulla_, who finding it a fit and convenient time, to vent forth the tempest of her spleene, began in this manner. alas! how mighty are the misfortunes of women, and how ill requited is the loyall love, of many wives to their husbands? i, a poore miserable lady, who, for the space of eight yeares now fully compleated, have loved thee more dearely then mine owne life, finde now (to my hearts endlesse griefe) how thou wastest and consumest thy desires, to delight them with a strange woman, like a most vile and wicked man as thou art. with whom doest thou now imagine thy selfe to be? thou art with her, whom thou hast long time deluded by false blandishments, feigning to affect her, when thou doatest in thy desires elsee-where. i am thine owne _catulla_, and not the wife of _ricciardo_, trayterous and unfaithfull man, as thou art. i am sure thou knowest my voyce, and i thinke it a thousand yeares, untill wee may see each other in the light, to doe thee such dishonour as thou justly deserveth, dogged, disdainefull, and villainous wretch. by conceiving to have another woman in thy wanton embraces, thou hast declared more joviall disposition, and demonstrations of farre greater kindnesse, then domesticke familiarity. at home thou lookest sower, sullen or surly, often froward, and sildome well pleased. but the best is, whereas thou intendest this husbandrie for another mans ground, thou hast (against thy will) bestowed it on thine owne, and the water hath runne a contrary course, quite from the current where thou meantst it. what answere canst thou make, devill, and no man? what, have my words smitten thee dumbe? thou mayest (with shame enough) hold thy peace, for with the face of a man, and love of an husband to his wife, thou art not able to make any answere. _ricciardo_ durst not speake one word, but still expressed his affable behaviour towards her, bestowing infinite embraces and kisses on her: which so much the more augmented her rage and anger, continuing on her chiding thus. if by these flatteries and idle follies, thou hopest to comfort or pacifie me, thou runnest quite byas from thy reckoning: for i shall never imagine my selfe halfe satisfied, untill in the presence of my parents, friends, and neighbours, i have revealed thy base behaviour. tell mee, treacherous man, am not i as faire, as the wife of _ricciardo_? am i not as good a gentlewoman borne, as shee is? what canst thou more respect in her, then is in mee? villaine, monster, why doest thou not answere mee? i will send to _ricciardo_, who loveth mee beyond all other women in _naples_, and yet could never vaunt, that i gave him so much as a friendly looke: he shall know, what a dishonour thou hadst intended towards him; which both he and his friends will revenge soundly upon thee. the exclamations of the lady were so tedious and irksome, that _ricciardo_ perceiving, if she continued longer in these complaints, worse would ensue thereon, then could be easily remedied: resolved to make himselfe knowne to her, to reclaime her out of this violent extasie, and holding her somewhat strictly, to prevent her escaping from him, he said. madam, afflict your selfe no further, for, what i could not obtaine by simply loving you, subtilty hath better taught me, and i am your _ricciardo_, which she hearing, and perfectly knowing him by his voyce; shee would have leapt out of the bath, but shee could not, and to avoyde her crying out, he layde his hand on her mouth, saying. lady, what is done, cannot now be undone, albeit you cried out all your lifetime. if you exclaime, or make this knowne openly by any meanes; two unavoydable dangers must needes ensue thereon. the one (which you ought more carefully to respect) is the wounding of your good renowne and honour, because, when you shall say, that by treacherie i drew you hither: i will boldly maintaine the contrary, avouching, that having corrupted you with gold, and not giving you so much as covetously you desired; you grew offended, and thereon made the out-cry, and you are not to learne, that the world is more easily induced to beleeve the worst, then any goodnesse, be it never so manifest. next unto this, mortall hatred must arise betweene your husband and me, and (perhaps) i shall as soone kill him, as he mee; whereby you can hardly live in any true contentment after. wherefore, joy of my life, doe not in one moment, both shame your selfe, and cause such perill betweene your husband and me: for you are not the first, neither can be the last, that shall be deceived. i have not beguiled you, to take any honour from you, but onely declared, the faithfull affection i beare you, and so shall doe for ever, as being your bounden and most obedient servant; and as it is a long time agoe, since i dedicated my selfe and all mine to your service, so hence-forth must i remaine for ever. you are wise enough (i know) in all other things; then shew your selfe not to be silly or simple in this. _ricciardo_ uttered these words, teares streaming aboundantly downe his cheekes, and madame _catulla_ (all the while) likewise showred forth her sorrowes equally to his, now, although she was exceedingly troubled in minde, and saw what her owne jealous folly had now brought her to, a shame beyond all other whatsoever: in the midst of her tormenting passions, she considered on the words of _ricciardo_, found good reason in them, in regard of the unavoydable evils, whereupon shee thus spake. _ricciardo_, i know not how to beare the horrible injurie, and notorious treason used by thee against me, grace and goodnesse having so forsaken me, to let me fall in so foule a manner. nor becommeth it me, to make any noyse or out-cry heere, whereto simplicity, or rather devillish jealousie, did conduct me. but certaine i am of one thing, that i shall never see any one joyfull day, till (by one meanes or other) i be revenged on thee. thou hast glutted thy desire with my disgrace, let me therefore goe from thee, never more to looke upon my wronged husband, or let any honest woman ever see my face. _ricciardo_ perceiving the extremity of her perplexed minde, used all manly and milde perswasions, which possibly he could devise to doe, to turne the torrent of this high tide, to a calmer course; as by outward shew shee made apparance of, untill (in frightfull feares shunning every one shee met withall, as arguments of her guiltinesse) shee recovered her owne house, where remorse so tortured her distressed soule, that shee fell into so fierce a melancholy, as never left her till shee died. upon the report whereof, _ricciardo_ becomming likewise a widdower, and grieving extraordinarily for his haynous transgression, penitently betooke himselfe to live in a wildernesse, where (not long after) he ended his dayes. thebaldo elisei, _having received an unkinde repulse by his beloved, departed from florence, and returning thither againe (a long while after) in the habite of a pilgrime; he spake with her, and made his wrongs knowne unto her. he delivered her father from the danger of death, because it was proved, that he had slaine_ thebaldo: _he made peace with his brethren, and in the ende, wisely enjoyed his hearts desire._ the seaventh novell. _wherein is signified the power of love, and the diversity of dangers, whereinto men may daily fall._ so ceased _fiammetta_ her discourse, being generally commended, when the queene, to prevent the losse of time, commanded _æmillia_ to follow next, who thus began. it liketh me best (gracious ladies) to returne home againe to our owne city, which it pleased the former two discoursers to part from: and there i will shew you, how a citizen of ours, recovered the kindnesse of his love, after he had lost it. sometime there dwelt in _florence_ a young gentleman, named _thebaldo elisei_, descended of a noble house, who became earnestly enamored of a widdow, called _hermelina_, the daughter to _aldobrandino palermini_: well deserving, for his vertues and commendable qualities, to enjoy of her whatsoever he could desire. secretly they were espoused together, but fortune, the enemy to lovers felicities, opposed her malice against them, in depriving _thebaldo_ of those deare delights, which sometime he held in free possession, and making him as a stranger to her gracious favours. now grew shee contemptibly to despise him, not onely denying to heare any message sent from him, but scorning also to vouchsafe so much as a sight of him, causing in him extreme griefe and melancholy, yet concealing all her unkindnesse so wisely to himselfe, as no one could understand the reason of his sadnesse. after he had laboured by all hopefull courses, to obtaine that favour of her, which he had formerly lost, without any offence in him, as his innocent soule truly witnessed with him, and saw that all his further endeavours were fruitlesse and in vaine; he concluded to retreate himselfe from the world, and not to be any longer irkesome in her eye, that was the onely occasion of his unhappinesse. hereupon, storing himselfe with such summes of money, as suddenly he could collect together, secretly he departed from _florence_, without speaking any word to his friends or kindred; except one kind companion of his, whom he acquainted with most of his secrets, and so travelled to _ancona_, where he termed himselfe by the name of _sandolescio_. repairing to a wealthy merchant there, he placed himselfe as his servant, and went in a ship of his with him to _cyprus_; his actions and behaviour proved so pleasing to the merchant, as not onely he allowed him very sufficient wages, but also grew into such association with him; as he gave the most of his affaires into his hands, which he guided with such honest and discreete care, that he himselfe (in few yeeres compasse) proved to be a rich merchant, and of famous report. while matters went on in this successefull manner, although he could not chuse, but still he remembred his cruell mistresse, and was very desperately transported for her love, as coveting (above all things elsee) to see her once more; yet was he of such powerfull constancy, as 7 whole yeers together, he vanquished all those fierce conflicts. but on a day it chanced he heard a song sung in _cyprus_, which he himselfe had formerly made, in honour of the love he bare to his mistresse, and what delight he conceived, by being daily in her presence; whereby he gathered, that it was impossible for him to forget her, and proceeded on so desirously, as he could not live, except he had a sight of her once more, and therefore determined on his returne to _florence_. having set all his affaires in due order, accompanied with a servant of his onely, he passed to _ancona_, where when he was arrived, he sent his merchandises to _florence_, in name of the merchant of _ancona_, who was his especiall friend and partner; travayling himselfe alone with his servant, in the habite of a pilgrime, as if he had beene newly returned from _jerusalem_. being come to _florence_, he went to an inne kept by two bretheren, neere neighbours to the dwelling of his mistresse, and the first thing he did, was passing by her doore, to get a sight of her if he were so happie. but he found the windowes, doores, and all parts of the house fast shut up, whereby he suspected her to be dead, or elsee to be changed from her dwelling: wherefore (much perplexed in minde) he went on to the two brothers inne, finding foure persons standing at the gate, attired in mourning, whereat he marvelled not a little; knowing himselfe to be so transfigured, both in body and habite, farre from the manner of common use at his parting thence, as it was a difficult matter to know him: he stept boldly to a shooe-makers shop neere adjoining, and demanded the reason of their wearing mourning. the shoo-maker made answer thus; sir, those men are clad in mourning, because a brother of theirs, being named _thebaldo_ (who hath beene absent hence a long while) about some fifteene dayes since was slaine. and they having heard, by proofe made in the court of justice, that one _aldobrandino palermini_ (who is kept close prisoner) was the murtherer of him, as he came in a disguised habite to his daughter, of whom he was most affectionately enamoured; cannot chuse, but let the world know by their outward habites, the inward affliction of their hearts, for a deede so dishonourably committed. _thebaldo_ wondered greatly hereat, imagining, that some man belike resembling him in shape, might be slaine in this manner, and by _aldobrandino_, for whose misfortune he grieved marvellously. as concerning his mistresse, he understood that shee was living, and in good health; and night drawing on apace, he went to his lodging, with infinite molestations in his minde, where after supper, he was lodged in a corne-loft with his man. now by reason of many disturbing imaginations, which incessantly wheeled about his braine, his bed also being none of the best, and his supper (perhaps) somewhat of the coursest; a great part of the night was spent, yet could he not close his eyes together. but lying still broade awake, about the dead time of night, he heard the treading of divers persons over his head, who discended downe a paire of stayres by his chamber, into the lower parts of the house, carrying a light with them, which he discerned by the chinkes and crannies in the wall. stepping softly out of his bed, to see what the meaning hereof might be, he espied a faire young woman, who carried the light in her hand, and three men in her company, descending downe the stayres together, one of them speaking thus to the young woman. now we may boldly warrant our safety, because we have heard it assuredly, that the death of _thebaldo elisei_, hath beene sufficiently approved by the brethren, against _aldobrandino palermini_, and he hath confessed the fact; whereupon the sentence is already set downe in writing. but yet it behoveth us notwithstanding, to conceale it very secretly, because if ever hereafter it should be knowne, that we are they who murthered him, we shall be in the same danger, as now _aldobrandino_ is. when _thebaldo_ had heard these words, hee began to consider with himselfe, how many and great the dangers are, wherewith mens minds may daily be molested. first, he thought on his owne brethren in their sorrow, and buried a stranger in steed of him, accusing afterward (by false opinion, and upon the testimony of as false witnesses) a man most innocent, making him ready for the stroke of death. next, he made a strict observation in his soule, concerning the blinded severity of law, and the ministers thereto belonging, who pretending a diligent and carefull inquisition for trueth, doe oftentimes (by their tortures and torments) heare lies avouched (onely for ease of paine) in the place of a true confession, yet thinking themselves (by doing so) to be the ministers of god and justice, whereas indeede they are the divelse executioners of his wickednesse. lastly, converting his thoughts to _aldobrandino_, the imagined murtherer of a man yet living, infinite cares beleagured his soule, in devising what might best be done for his deliverance. so soone as he was risen in the morning, leaving his servant behinde him in his lodging, he went (when he thought it fit time) all alone toward the house of his mistresse, where finding by good fortune the gate open, he entred into a small parlour beneath, and where he saw his mistresse sitting on the ground, wringing her hands, and wofully weeping, which (in meere compassion) moved him to weepe likewise; and going somewhat neere her, he saide. madam, torment your selfe no more, for your peace is not farre off from you. the gentlewoman hearing him say so, lifted up her head, and in teares spake thus. good man, thou seemest to me to be a pilgrim stranger; what doest thou know, either concerning my peace, or mine affliction? madam (replied the pilgrime) i am of _constantinople_, and (doubtlesse) am conducted hither by the hand of heaven, to convert your teares into rejoycing, and to deliver your father from death. how is this? answered shee: if thou be of _constantinople_, and art but now arrived here; doest thou know who we are, either i, or my father? the pilgrime discoursed to her, even from one end to the other, the history of her husbands sad disasters, telling her, how many yeeres since shee was espoused to him, and many other important matters, which wel shee knew, and was greatly amazed thereat, thinking him verily to be a prophet, and kneeling at his feete, entreated him very earnestly, that if hee were come to deliver her father _aldobrandino_ from death, to doe it speedily, because the time was very short. the pilgrime appearing to be a man of great holinesse, saide. rise up madam, refraine from weeping, and observe attentively what i shall say; yet with this caution, that you never reveale it to any person whatsoever. this tribulation whereinto you are falne, (as by revelation i am faithfully informed) is for a grievous sinne by you heretofore committed, whereof divine mercy is willing to purge you, and to make a perfect amends by a sensible feeling of this affliction; as seeking your sound and absolute recovery, least you fall into farre greater danger then before. good man (quoth shee) i am burthened with many sinnes, and doe not know for which any amends should be made by me, any one sooner then another: wherefore if you have intelligence thereof, for charities sake tell it me, and i will doe so much as lieth in me, to make a full satisfaction for it. madam, answered the pilgrime; i know well enough what it is, and will demand it no more of you, to winne any further knowledge thereof, then i have already: but because in revealing it yourselfe, it may touch you with the more true compunction of soule; let us goe to the point indeede, and tell me, doe you remember, that at any time you were married to an husband, or no? at the hearing of these words, shee breathed foorth a very vehement sigh, and was stricken with admiration at this question, beleeving that not any one had knowledge thereof. howbeit, since the day of the supposed _thebaldoes_ buriall, such a rumour ran abroade, by meanes of some speeches, rashly dispersed by a friend of _thebaldoes_, who (indeede) knew it; whereupon shee returned him this answere. it appeareth to me (good man) that divine ordinativation hath revealed unto you all the secrets of men; and therefore i am determined, not to conceale any of mine from you. true it is, that in my younger yeeres, being left a widow, i entirely affected an unfortunate young gentleman, who (in secret) was my husband, and whose death is imposed on my father. the death of him i have the more bemoaned, because (in reason) it did neerely concerne me, by shewing my selfe so savage and rigorous to him before his departure: neverthelesse, let me assure you sir, that neither his parting, long absence from me, or his untimely death, never had the power to bereave my heart of his remembrance. madame, saide the pilgrime, the unfortunate young gentleman that is slaine, did never love you; but sure i am, that _thebaldo elisei_ loved you dearely. but tell me, what was the occasion whereby you conceived such hatred against him? did he at any time offend you? no trulie sir, quoth shee; but the reason of my anger towards him, was by the wordes and threatnings of a religious father, to whom once i revealed (under confession) how faithfully i affected him, and what private familiarity had passed betweene us. when instantly he used such dreadfull threatnings to me, and which (even yet) doe afflict my soule, that if i did not abstaine, and utterly refuse him, the divell would fetch me quicke to hell, and cast me into the bottome of his quenchlesse and everlasting fire. these menaces were so prevailing with me, as i refused all further conversation with _thebaldo_, in which regard, i would receive neither letters or messages from him. howbeit, i am perswaded, that if he had continued here still, and not departed hence in such desperate manner as he did, seeing him melt and consume daily away, even as snowe by power of the sunne-beames: my austere deliberation had beene long agoe quite altered, because not at any time (since then) life hath allowed me one merry day, neither did i, or ever can love any man like unto him. at these wordes the pilgrime sighed, and then proceeded on againe thus. surely madam, this one onely sin, may justly torment you, because i know for a certainty, that _thebaldo_ never offered you any injury, since the day he first became enamoured of you; and what grace or favour you affoorded him, was your owne voluntary gift, and (as he tooke it) no more then in modesty might well become you; for he loving you first, you had beene most cruell and unkinde, if you should not have requited him with the like affection. if then he continued so just and loyall to you, as (of mine owne knowledge) i am able to say he did; what should move you to repulse him so rudely? such matters ought well to be considered on before hand; for if you did imagine, that you should repente it as an action ill done, yet you could not doe it, because as he became yours, so were you likewise onely his; and he being yours, you might dispose of him at your pleasure, as being truely obliged to none but you. how could you then with-draw your selfe from him, being onely his, and not commit most manifest theft, a farre unfitting thing for you to doe, except you had gone with his consent? now madam, let me further give you to understand, that i am a religious person, and a pilgrime, and therefore am well acquainted with all the courses of their dealing; if therefore i speake somewhat more amply of them, and for your good, it cannot be so unseeming for me to doe it, as it would appeare ugly in another. in which respect, i will speake the more freely to you, to the ende, that you may take better knowledge of them, then (as it seemeth) hitherto you have done. in former passed times such as professed religion, were learned and most holy persons; but our religious professours now adayes, and such as covet to be so esteemed; have no matter at all of religion in them, but onely the outward shew & habite. which yet is no true badge of religion neither, because it was ordained by religious institutions, that their garments should be made of narrow, plaine, and coursest spun cloth, to make a publike manifestation to the world, that (in meere devotion, and religious disposition) by wrapping their bodies in such base clothing, they condemned and despised all temporall occasions. but now adayes they make them large, deepe, glistering, and of the finest cloth or stuffes to be gotten, reducing those habites to so proude and pontificall a forme, that they walke peacock-like rustling, and strouting with them in the churches; yea, and in open publike places, as if they were ordinary secular persons, to have their pride more notoriously observed. and as the angler bestoweth his best cunning, with one line and baite to catch many fishes at one strike; even so do these counterfeited habite-mongers, by their dissembling and crafty dealing, beguile many credulous widowes, simple women, yea, and men of weake capacity, to credit whatsoever they doe or say, and herein they doe most of all excercise themselves. and to the end, that my speeches may not savour of any untruth against them; these men which i speake of, have not any habite at all of religious men, but onely the colour of their garments, and whereas they in times past, desired nothing more then the salvation of mens soules; these fresher witted fellowes, covet after women & wealth, and employ all their paines by their whispering confessions, and figures of painted feareful examples, to affright and terrifie unsetled and weake consciences, by horrible and blasphemous speeches; yet adding a perswasion withall, that their sinnes may be purged by almes-deedes and masses. to the end, that such as credit them in these their dayly courses, being guided more by apparance of devotion, then any true compunction of heart, to escape severe penances by them enjoyned: may some of them bring bread, others wine, others coyne, all of them matter of commoditie and benefit, and simply say, these gifts are for the soules of their good friends deceased. i make not any doubt, but almes-deedes and prayers, are very mighty, and prevailing meanes, to appease heavens anger for some sinnes committed; but if such as bestow them, did either see or know, to whom they give them: they would more warily keepe them, or elsee cast them before swine, in regard they are altogether so unworthy of them. but come we now to the case of your ghostly father, crying out in your eare, that secret mariage was a most greevous sinne: is not the breach thereof farre greater. familiar conversation betweene man and woman, is a concession meerely naturall: but to rob, kill, or banish anyone, proceedeth from the mindes malignity. that you did rob _thebaldo_, your selfe hath already sufficiently witnessed, by taking that from him, which with free consent in mariage you gave him. next i must say, that by all the power remaining in you, you kild him, because you would not permit him to remaine with you, declaring your selfe in the very height of cruelty, that hee might destroy his life by his owne hands. in which case the law requireth, that whosoever is the occasion of an ill act committed, hee or she is as deepe in the fault, as the party that did it. now concerning his banishment, and wandring seaven yeares in exile thorow the world; you cannot denie, but that you were the onely occasion thereof. in all which three severall actions, farre more capitally have you offended; then by contracting of mariage in such clandestine manner. but let us see, whether _thebaldo_ deserved all these severall castigations, or not. in trueth he did not, your selfe have confessed (beside that which i know) that hee loved you more dearely then himselfe, and nothing could be more honoured, magnified and exalted, then dayly you were by him, above all other women whatsoever. when hee came in any place, where honestly, and without suspition hee might speake to you: all his honour, and all his liberty, lay wholly committed into your power. was he not a noble young gentleman? was hee (among all those parts that most adorne a man, and appertaine to the very choycest respect) inferiour to any one of best merit in your citie? i know that you cannot make deniall to any of these demands. how could you then by the perswasion of a beast, a foole, a villaine, yea, a vagabond, envying both his happinesse and yours, enter into so cruell a minde against him? i know not what error misguideth women, in scorning and despising their husbands: but if they entred into a better consideration, understanding truly what they are, and what nobility of nature god hath endued man withall, farre above all other creatures; it would bee their highest title of glory, when they are are so preciously esteemed of them, so dearely affected by them, and so gladly embraced in all their best abilities. this is so great a sinne, as the divine justice (which in an equal ballance bringeth all operations to their full effect) did purpose not to leave unpunished; but, as you enforced against all reason, to take away _thebaldo_ from your selfe: even so your father _aldobrandino_, without any occasion given by _thebaldo_, is in perill of his life, and you a partaker of his tribulation. out of which if you desire to be delivered, it is very convenient that you promise one thing which i shall tell you, and may much better be by you performed. namely, that if _thebaldo_ doe at any time returne from his long banishment, you shall restore him to your love, grace, and good acceptation; accounting him in the selfe same degree of favour and private entertainement, as he was at the first, before your wicked ghostly father so hellishly incensed you against him. when the pilgrime had finished his speeches, the gentlewoman, who had listened to them very attentively (because all the alleaged reasons appeared to be plainely true) became verily perswaded, that all these afflictions had falne on her and her father, for the ingratefull offence by her committed, and therefore thus replied. worthy man, and the friend to goodnesse, i know undoubtedly, that the words which you have spoken are true, and also i understand by your demonstration, what manner of people some of those religious persons are, whom heretofore i have reputed to be saints, but find them now to be far otherwise. and to speake truly, i perceive the fault to be great and grievous, wherein i have offended against _thebaldo_, and would (if i could) willingly make amends, even in such manner as you have advised. but how is it possible to be done? _thebaldo_ being dead, can be no more recalled to this life; and therefore, i know not what promise i should make, in a matter which is not to be performed. whereto, the pilgrime without any longer pausing, thus answered. madam, by such revelations as have beene shewne to me, i know for a certainety, that _thebaldo_ is not dead, but living, in health, and in good estate; if he had the fruition of your grace and favour. take heede what you say sir (quoth the gentlewoman) for i saw him lie slaine before my doore, his body having received many wounds, which i folded in mine armes, and washed his face with my brinish teares; whereby (perhaps) the scandall arose, that flew abroade to my disgrace. beleeve me madam, (replied the pilgrime) say what you will, i dare assure you that _thebaldo_ is living, and if you dare make promise, concerning what hath beene formerly requested, and keepe it inviolably; i make no doubt, but you your selfe shall shortly see him. i promise it (quoth shee) and binde my selfe thereto by a sacred oath, to keepe it faithfully: for never could any thing happen, to yeeld me the like contentment, as to see my father free from danger, and _thebaldo_ living. at this instant _thebaldo_ thought it to be a very apt and convenient time to disclose himselfe, and to comfort the lady, with an assured signall of hope, for the deliverance of her father, wherefore he saide. lady, to the ende that i may comfort you infallibly, in this dangerous perill of your fathers life; i am to make knowne an especiall secret to you, which you are to keepe carefully (as you tender your owne life) from ever being revealed to the world. they were then in a place of sufficient privacy, and alone by themselves, because shee reposed great confidence in the pilgrimes sanctity of life, as thinking him none other, then as he seemed to be. _thebaldo_ tooke out of his purse a ring, which shee gave him, the last night of their conversing together, and he had kept with no meane care, and shewing it to her, he saide. doe you know this ring madam? so soone as shee saw it, immediately shee knew it, and answered. yes sir, i know the ring, and confesse that heretofore i gave it unto _thebaldo_. hereupon the pilgrime stood up, and suddenly putting off his poore linnen frocke, as also the hood from his head; using then his _florentine_ tongue, he saide. then tell me madam, doe you not know me? when shee had advisedly beheld him, and knew him indeede to be _thebaldo_; she was stricken into a wonderfull astonishment, being as fearefull of him, as shee was of the dead body, which shee saw lying in the streete. and i dare assure you, that shee durst not goe neere him, to respect him, as _thebaldo_ so lately come from _cyprus_: but (in terror) fled away from him; as if _thebaldo_ had beene newly risen out of his grave, and came thither purposely to affright her; wherefore he saide. be not afraide madam, i am your _thebaldo_, in health, alive, and never as yet died, neither have i received any wounds to kill mee, as you and my bretheren have formerly imagined. some better assurance getting possession of her soule, as knowing him perfectly by his voyce, and looking more stedfastly on his face, which constantly avouched him to be _thebaldo_; the teares trickling amaine downe her faire cheekes, shee ran to embrace him, casting her armes about his necke, and kissing him a thousand times, saying; _thebaldo_, my true and faithfull husband, nothing in the world can be so welcome to me. _thebaldo_ having most kindly kissed and embraced her, said; sweete wife, time will not now allow us those ceremonious curtesies, which (indeede) so long a separation doe justly challenge; but i must about a more weightie businesse, to have your father safe and soundly delivered, which i hope to doe before to morrow at night, when you shall heare tydings to your better contentment. and questionlesse, if i speede no worse then my good hope perswadeth me, i will see you againe to night, and acquaint you at better leysure, in such things as i cannot doe now at this present. so putting on his pilgrimes habite againe, kissing her once more, and comforting her with future good successe, he departed from her, going to the prison where _aldobrandino_ lay, whom he found more pensive, as being in hourely expectation of death, then any hope he had to be freed from it. being brought neerer to him by the prisoners favour, as seeming to be a man, come onely to comfort him; sitting downe by him, thus he began. _aldobrandino_, i am a friend of thine, whom heaven hath sent to doe thee good, in meere pitty and compassion of thine innocency. and therefore, if thou wilt grant me one small request, which i am earnestly to crave at thy hands; thou shalt heare (without any failing) before to morrow at night, the sentence of thy free absolution, whereas now thou expectest nothing but death; whereunto _aldobrandino_ thus answered. friendly man, seeing thou art so carefull of my safety (although i know thee not, neither doe remember that ever i saw thee till now) thou must needs (as it appeareth no lesse) be some especiall kind friend of mine. and to tell thee the trueth, i never committed the sinfull deede, for which i am condemned to death. most true it is, i have other heynous and grievous sinnes, which (undoubtedly) have throwne this heavy judgement upon me, and therefore i am the more willing to undergoe it. neverthelesse, let me thus farre assure thee, that i would gladly, not onely promise something, which might to the glory of god, if he were pleased in this case to take mercy on me; but also would as willingly performe and accomplish it. wherefore, demand whatsoever thou pleasest of me, for unfainedly (if i escape with life) i will truly keepe promise with thee. sir, replied the pilgrime, i desire nor demand any thing of you, but that you wold pardon the foure brethren of _thebaldo_, who have brought you to this hard extremity, as thinking you to be guilty of their brothers death, and that you would also accept them as your brethren and friends, upon their craving pardon for what they have done. sir, answered _aldobrandino_, no man knoweth how sweete revenge is, nor with what heate it is to be desired, but onely the man who hath been wronged. notwithstanding, not to hinder my hope, which onely aymeth at heaven; i freelie forgive them, and henceforth pardon them for ever; intending moreover, that if mercy give me life, and cleere me from this bloody imputation, to love and respect them so long as i shall live. this answer was most pleasing to the pilgrime, and without any further multiplication of speeches, he entreated him to be of good comfort, for he feared not but before the time prefixed, he should heare certaine tydings of his deliverance. at his departing from him, he went directly to the _signoria_, and prevailed so farre, that he spake privately with a knight, who was then one of the states chiefest lords, to whom he saide. sir, a man ought to bestow his best paines and diligence, that the truth of things should be apparantly knowne; especially, such men as hold the place and office as you doe: to the ende, that those persons which have committed no foule offence, should not be punished, but onely the guilty and haynous transgressors. and because it will be no meane honour to you, to lay the blame where it worthily deserveth; i am come hither purposely, to informe you in a case of most weighty importance. it is not unknowne to you, with what rigour the state hath proceeded against _aldobrandino palermini_, and you thinke verily he is the man that hath slaine _thebaldo elisei_, whereupon your law hath condemned him to dye. i dare assure you sir, that a very unjust course hath beene taken in this case, because _aldobrandino_ is falsly accused, as you your selfe will confesse before midnight, when they are delivered into your power, that were the murderers of the man. the honest knight, who was very sorrowfull for _aldobrandino_, gladly gave attention to the pilgrime, and having conferred on many matters, appertaining to the fact committed: the two brethren, who were _thebaldoes_ hostes, and their chamber-mayd, upon good advise given, were apprehended in their first sleepe, without any resistance made in their defence. but when the tortures were sent for, to understand truely how the case went; they would not endure any paine at all, but each aside by himselfe, and then altogether, confessed openly, that they did the deede, yet not knowing him to bee _thebaldo elisei_. and when it was demanded of them, upon what occasion they did so foule an act. they answered, that they were so hatefull against the mans life, because he would luxuriously have abused one of their wives, when they both were absent from their owne home. when the pilgrime had heard this their voluntary confession, hee tooke his leave of the knight, returning secretly to the house of madame _hermelina_, and there, because all her people were in their beds, she carefull awaited his returne, to heare some glad tydings of her father, and to make a further reconciliation betweene her and _thebaldo_, when, sitting downe by her, hee said. deare love, be of good cheare, for (upon my word) to morrow you shall have your father home safe, well, and delivered from all further danger: and to confirme her the more confidently in his words, hee declared at large the whole cariage of the businesse. _hermelina_ being wondrously joyfull, for two such suddaine and succesfull accidents to enjoy her husband alive and in health, and also to have her father freed from so great a danger; kissed and embraced him most affectionately, welcomming him lovingly into her bed, whereto so long time he had beene a stranger. no sooner did bright day appeare, but _thebaldo_ arose, having acquainted her with such matters as were to be done, and once more earnestly desiring her, to conceale (as yet) these occurrences to her selfe. so, in his pilgrimes habite, he departed from her house, to awaite convenient opportunity, for attending on the businesse belonging to _aldobrandino_. at the usuall houre appointed, the lords were all set in the _signioria_, and had received full information, concerning the offence imputed to _aldobrandino_: setting him at liberty by publique consent, and sentencing the other malefactors with death, who (within a fewe dayes after) were beheaded in the place where the murther was committed. thus _aldobrandino_ being released, to his exceeding comfort, and no small joy of his daughters, kindred and friends, all knowing perfectly, that this had happened by the pilgrimes meanes: they conducted him home to _aldobrandinoes_ house, where they desired him to continue so long as himselfe pleased, using him with most honourable and gracious respect; but especially _hermelina_, who knew (better then the rest) on whom shee bestowed her liberall favours, yet concealing all closely to her selfe. after two or three dayes were over-past, in these complementall entercoursings of kindnesse, _thebaldo_ began to consider, that it was high time for reconciliation, to be solemnely past betweene his brethren and _aldobrandino_. for, they were not a little amazed at his strange deliverance, and went likewise continually armed, as standing in feare of _aldobrandino_ and his friends; which made him the more earnest, for accomplishment of the promise formerly made unto him. _aldobrandino_ lovingly replied, that he was ready to make good his word. whereupon, the pilgrime provided a goodly banquet, whereat he purposed to have present, _aldobrandino_, his daughter, kindred, and their wives. but first, himselfe would goe in person, to invite them in peace to his banquet, to performe this desired pacification, and conferred with his brethren, using many pregnant and forcible arguments to them, such as are requisite in the like discordant cases. in the end, his reasons were so wise, and prevailing with them, that they willingly condiscended, and thought it no disparagement to them, for the recoverie of _aldobrandinoes_ kindnesse againe, to crave pardon for their great error committed. on the morrow following, about the houre of dinner time, the foure brethren of _thebaldo_, attired in their mourning garments, with their wives and friends, came first to the house of _aldobrandino_, who purposely attended for them, and having layd downe their weapons on the ground: in the presence of all such, as _aldobrandino_ had invited as his witnesses, they offered themselves to his mercy, and humbly required pardon of him, for the matter wherein they had offended him. _aldobrandino_, shedding teares, most lovingly embraced them, and (to bee briefe) pardon whatsoever injuries he had received. after this, the sisters and wives, all clad in mourning, courteously submitted themselves, and were graciously welcommed by madame _hermelina_, as also divers other gentlewomen there present with her. being all seated at the tables, which were furnished with such rarities as could be wished for; all things elsee deserved their due commendation, but onely sad silence, occasioned by the fresh remembrance of sorrow, appearing in the habites of _thebaldoes_ friends and kindred, which the pilgrime himselfe plainely perceived, to be the onely disgrace to him and his feast. wherefore, as before hee had resolved, when time served to purge away this melancholly; hee arose from the table, when some (as yet) had scarce begun to eate, and thus spake. gracious company, there is no defect in this banquet, or more debarres it of the honour it might elsee have, but onely the presence of _thebaldo_, who having beene continually in your company, it seemes you are not willing to take knowledge of him, and therefore i meane my selfe to shew him. so, uncasing himselfe out of his pilgrimes clothes, and standing in his hose and doublet: to their no little admiration, they all knew him, yet doubted (a good while) whether it were he or no. which hee perceiving, hee repeated his bretherens and absent kindreds names, and what occurrences had happened betweene them from time to time, beside the relation of his owne passed fortunes, inciting teares in the eyes of his brethren, and all elsee there present, every one hugging and embracing him, yea, many beside, who were no kin at all to him, _hermelina_ onely excepted, which when _aldobrandino_ saw, he said unto her. how now _hermelina_? why doest thou not welcome home _thebaldo_, so kindely as all here elsee have done? she making a modest courtesie to her father, and answering so loude as every one might heare her, said. there is not any in this assembly, that more willingly would give him all expression of a joyfull welcom home, and thankfull gratitude for such especiall favours received, then in my heart i could afford to do: but only in regard of those infamous speeches, noysed out against me, on the day when wee wept for him, who was supposed to be _thebaldo_, which slander was to my great discredit. goe on boldly, replied _aldobrandino_, doest thou thinke that i regard any such praters? in the procuring of my deliverance, hee hath approved them to be manifest liers, albeit i my selfe did never credit them. goe then i command thee, and let me see thee both kisse and embrace him. she who desired nothing more, shewed her selfe not slothfull in obeying her father, to do but her duty to her husband. wherefore, being risen; as all the rest had done, but yet in farre more effectual manner, she declared her unfeigned love to _thebaldo_. these bountifull favours of _aldobrandino_, were joyfully accepted by _thebaldoes_ brethren, as also every one elsee there present in company; so that all former rancour and hatred, which had caused heavy variances betweene them, was now converted to mutuall kindnesse, and solemne friendship on every side. when the feasting dayes were finished, the garments of sad mourning were quite layde aside, and those, becomming so generall a joy, put on, to make their hearts and habites suteable. now, concerning the man slaine, and supposed to be _thebaldo_, hee was one, that in all parts of body, and truenesse of complexion so neerely resembled him, as _thebaldoes_ owne brethren could not distinguish the one from the other: but hee was of _lunigiana_, named _fatinolo_, and not _thebaldo_, whom the two brethren inne-keepers maliced, about some idle suspition conceived, and having slaine him, layde his body at the doore of _aldobrandino_, where, by the reason of _thebaldoes_ absence, it was generally reputed to be he, and _aldobrandino_ charged to doe the deede, by vehement perswasion of the brethren, knowing what love had passed betweene him and his daughter _hermelina_. but happy was the pilgrimes returne, first to heare those words in the inne, the meanes to bring the murther to light; and then the discreete cariage of the pilgrime, untill hee plainely approved himselfe, to be truly _thebaldo_. ferando, _by drinking a certaine kinde of powder, was buried for dead. and by the abbot, who was enamoured of his wife, was taken out of his grave, and put into a darke prison, where they made him beleeve, that hee was in purgatorie. afterward, when time came that hee should bee raised to life againe; hee was made to keepe a childe, which the abbot had got by his wife._ the eight novell. _wherein is displayed, the apparant folly of jealousie: and the subtilty of some religious carnall minded men, to beguile silly and simple maried men._ when the long discourse of madame _æmilia_ was ended, not displeasing to any, in regard of the length, but rather held too short, because no exceptions could be taken against it, comparing the raritie of the accidents, and changes together: the queene turned to madame _lauretta_, giving her such a manifest signe, as she knew, that it was her turne to follow next, and therefore shee tooke occasion to begin thus. faire ladies, i intend to tell you a tale of trueth, which (perhaps) in your opinions, will seeme to sound like a lye: and yet i heard by the very last relation, that a dead man was wept and mournd for, in sted of another being then alive. in which respect, i am now to let you know, how a living man was buried for dead, and being raised againe, yet not as living, himselfe, and divers more beside, did beleeve that he came forth of his grave, and adored him as a saint, who was the occasion thereof, and who (as a bad man) deserved justly to be condemned. in _tuscanie_ there was sometime an abby, seated, as now we see commonly they are, in a place not much frequented with people, and thereof a monke was abbot, very holy and curious in all things elsee, save onely a wanton appetite to women: which yet hee kept so cleanly to himselfe, that though some did suspect it, yet it was knowne to very few. it came to passe, that a rich country franklin, named _ferando_, dwelt as a neere neighbour to the said abby, hee being a man materiall, of simple and grosse understanding, yet he fell into great familiarity with the abbot; who made use of this friendly conversation to no other end, but for divers times of recreation; when he delighted to smile at his silly and sottish behaviour. upon this his private frequentation with the abbot, at last he observed, that _ferando_ had a very beautifull woman to his wife, with whom he grew so deepely in love, as hee had no other meditations either by day or night, but how to become acceptable in her favour. neverthelesse, he concealed his amorous passions privately to himselfe, and could plainely perceive, that although ferando (in all things elsee) was meerely a simple fellow, and more like an idiot, then of any sensible apprehension: yet was he wise enough in loving his wife, keeping her carefully out of all company, as one (indeede) very jealous, least any should kisse her, but onely himselfe, which drove the abbot into despaire, for ever attaining the issue of his desire. yet being subtill, crafty, and cautelous, he wrought so on the flexible nature of _ferando_, that hee brought his wife with him divers dayes to the monasterie; where they walked in the goodly garden, discoursing on the beatitudes of eternall life, as also the most holy deedes of men and women, long since departed out of this life, in mervailous civill and modest manner. yet all these were but traines to a further intention, for the abbot must needes bee her ghostly father, and shee come to be confessed by him; which the foole _ferando_ tooke as an especiall favour, and therefore he gave his consent the sooner. at the appointed time, when the woman came to confession to the abbot, and was on her knees before him, to his no small contentment, before she would say any thing elsee, thus she began: sacred father, if god had not given me such an husband as i have, or elsee had bestowed on me none at all; i might have beene so happy, by the meanes of your holy doctrine, very easily to have entred into the way, whereof you spake the other day, which leadeth to eternall life. but when i consider with my selfe, what manner of man _ferando_ is, and thinke upon his folly withall; i may well terme my selfe to be a widdow, although i am a maried wife, because while he liveth, i cannot have any other husband. and yet (as sottish as you see him) he is (without any occasion given him) so extreamely jealous of me; as i am not able to live with him, but onely in continuall tribulation & hearts griefe. in which respect, before i enter into confession, i most humbly beseech you, that you would vouchsafe (in this distresse) to assist me with your fatherly advise and counsell, because, if thereby i cannot attaine to a more pleasing kinde of happinesse; neither confession, or any thing elsee, is able to doe me any good at all. these words were not a little welcome to my lord abbot, because (thereby) he halfe assured himselfe, that fortune had laid open the path to his hoped pleasures, whereupon he said. deare daughter, i make no question to the contrary, but it must needes be an exceeding infelicity, to so faire and goodly a young woman as you are, to be plagued with so sottish an husband, brain-sick, and without the use of common understanding; but yet subject to a more hellish affliction then all these, namely jealousie, and therefore you being in this wofull manner tormented, your tribulations are not only so much the more credited, but also as amply grieved for, & pittied. in which heavy and irksome perturbations, i see not any meanes of remedy, but onely one, being a kinde of physicke (beyond all other) to cure him of his foolish jealousie; which medicine is very familiar to me, because i know best how to compound it, alwayes provided, that you can be of so strong a capacity, as to be secret in what i shall say unto you. good father (answered the woman) never make you any doubt thereof, for i would rather endure death it selfe, then disclose any thing which you enjoyne me to keepe secret: wherefore, i beseech you sir to tell me, how, and by what meanes it may be done. if (quoth the abbot) you desire to have him perfectly cured, of a disease so dangerous and offensive, of necessity he must be sent into purgatory. how may that be done, saide the woman, he being alive? he must needs die, answered the abbot, for his more speedy passage thither; and when he hath endured so much punishment, as may expiate the quality of his jealousie, we have certaine devoute and zealous prayers, whereby to bring him backe againe to life, in as able manner as ever he was. why then, replyed the woman, i must remaine in the state of a widdow? very true, saide the abbot, for a certaine time, in all which space, you may not (by any meanes) marrie againe, because the heavens will therewith be highly offended: but _ferando_ being returned to life againe, you must repossesse him as your husband, but never to be jealous any more. alas sir (quoth the woman) so that he may be cured of his wicked jealousie, and i no longer live in such an hellish imprisonment, doe as you please. now was the abbot (well neere) on the highest step of his hope, making her constant promise, to accomplish it: but (quoth he) what shall be my recompence when i have done it? father, saide shee, whatsoever you please to aske, if it remaine within the compasse of my power: but you being such a vertuous and sanctified man, and i a woman of so meane worth or merit; what sufficient recompence can i be able to make you? whereunto the abbot thus replyed. faire woman, you are able to doe as much for me, as i am for you, because as i doe dispose my selfe, to performe a matter for your comfort and consolation, even so ought you to be as mindfull of me, in any action concerning my life and welfare. in any such matter sir (quoth shee) depending on your benefit so strictly, you may safely presume to command me. you must then (saide the abbot) grant me your love, and the kinde embracing of your person; because so violent are mine affections, as i pine and consume away daily, till i enjoy the fruition of my desires, and none can help me therein but you. when the woman heard these words, as one confounded with much amazement, this shee replied. alas, holy father! what a strange motion have you made to me? i beleeved very faithfully, that you were no lesse then a saint, and is it convenient, that when silly women come to aske counsell of such sanctified men, they should returne them such unfitting answeres? be not amazed good woman, saide the abbot, at the motion which i have made unto you, because holinesse is not thereby impaired a jot in me; for it is the inhabitant of the soule, the other is an imperfection attending on the body: but be it whatsoever, your beauty hath so powerfully prevailed on me, that entire love hath compelled me to let you know it. and more may you boast of your beauty, then any that ever i beheld before, considering, it is so pleasing to a sanctified man, that it can draw him from divine contemplations, to regard a matter of so humble an equalitie. let me tell you moreover, woorthy woman, that you see me reverenced here as lord abbot, yet am i but as other men are, and in regard i am neither aged, nor misshapen, me thinkes the motion i have made, should be the lesse offensive to you, and therefore the sooner granted. for, all the while as _ferando_ remaineth in purgatory, doe you but imagine him to be present with you, and your perswasion will the more absolutely be confirmed. no man can, or shall be privy to our close meetings, for i carrie the same holy opinion among all men, as you your selfe conceived of me, and none dare be so saucie, as to call in question whatsoever i doe or say, because my wordes are oracles, and mine actions more then halfe miracles; doe you not then refuse so gracious an offer. enow there are, who would gladly enjoy that, which is francke and freely presented to you, and which (if you be a wise woman) is meerely impossible for you to refuse. richly am i possessed of gold and jewelse, which shall be all yours, if you please in favour to be mine; wherein i will not be gaine-saide, except your selfe doe denie me. the woman having her eyes fixed on the ground, knew not wel how shee should denie him; and yet in plaine words, to say shee consented, shee held it to be over-base and immodest, and ill agreeing with her former reputation: when the abbot had well noted this attention in her, and how silent shee stood without returning any answer; he accounted the conquest to be more then halfe his owne: so that continuing on his formall perswasions, hee never ceased, but allured her still to beleeve whatsoever he saide. and shee much ashamed of his importunity, but more of her owne flexible yeelding weakenesse, made answer, that shee would willingly accomplish his request; which yet shee did not absolutelie grant, untill _ferando_ were first sent into purgatory. and till then (quoth the abbot) i will not urge any more, because i purpose his speedy sending thither: but yet, so farre lend me your assistance, that either to morrow, or elsee the next day, he may come hither once more to converse with me. so putting a faire gold ring on her finger, they parted till their next meeting. not a little joyfull was the woman of so rich a gift, hoping to enjoy a great many more of them, and returning home to her neighbours, acquainted them with wonderfull matters, all concerning the sanctimonious life of the abbot, a meere miracle of men, and worthy to be truely termed a saint. within two dayes after, _ferando_ went to the abbye againe, and so soone as the abbot espyed him, hee presently prepared for his sending of him into purgatorie. he never was without a certaine kinde of drugge, which being beaten into powder, would worke so powerfully upon the braine, and all the other vitall sences, as to entrance them with a deadly sleepe, and deprive them of all motion, either in the pulses, or any other part elsee, even as if the body were dead indeede; in which operation it would so hold and continue, according to the quantity given and drunke, as it pleased the abbot to order the matter. this powder or drugge, was sent him by a great prince of the east, and therewith he wrought wonders upon his novices, sending them into purgatory when he pleased, and by such punishments as he inflicted on them there, made them (like credulous asses) beleeve whatsoever himselfe listed. so much of this powder had the abbot provided, as should suffice for three dayes entrauncing, and having compounded it with a very pleasant wine, calling _ferando_ into his chamber, there gave it him to drinke, and afterward walked with him about the cloyster, in very friendly conference together, the silly sot never dreaming on the treachery intended against him. many monkes beside were recreating themselves in the cloyster, most of them delighting to behold the follies of _ferando_, on whom the potion beganne so to worke, that he slept in walking, nodding and reeling as hee went, till at the last hee fell downe, as if he had beene dead. the abbot pretending great admiration at this accident, called his monkes about him, all labouring by rubbing his temples, throwing cold water and vinegar in his face, to revive him againe; alleaging that some fume or vapour in the stomacke, had thus over-awed his understanding faculties, and quite deprived him of life indeede. at length, when by tasting the pulse, and all their best employed paines, they saw that their labour was spent in vaine; the abbot used such perswasions to the monkes, that they all beleeved him to be dead: whereupon they sent for his wife and friends, who crediting as much as the rest did, were very sad and sorrowfull for him. the abbot (cloathed as he was) laide him in a hollow vault under a tombe, such as there are used in stead of graves; his wife returning home againe to her house, with a young sonne which shee had by her husband, protesting to keepe still within her house, and never more to be seene in any company, but onely to attend her young sonne, and be very carefull of such wealth as her husband had left unto her. from the city of _bologna_, that very instant day, a well staide and governed monke there arrived, who was a neere kinsman to the abbot, and one whom he might securely trust. in the dead time of the night, the abbot and this monke arose, and taking _ferando_ out of the vault, carried him into a darke dungeon or prison, which he termed by the name of purgatory, and where hee used to discipline his monkes, when they had committed any notorious offence, deserving to be punished in purgatory. there they tooke off his usuall wearing garments, and cloathed him in the habite of a monke, even as if he had beene one of the house; and laying him on a bundle of straw, so left him untill his sences should be restored againe. on the day following, late in the evening, the abbot, accompanied with his trusty monke, (by way of visitation) went to see and comfort the supposed widow; finding her attired in blacke, very sad and pensive, which by his wonted perswasions, indifferently he appeased; challenging the benefit of her promise. shee being thus alone, not hindered by her husbands jealousie, and espying another goodly gold ring on his finger, how frailety and folly over-ruled her, i know not, shee was a weake woman, he a divelish deluding man; and the strongest holdes by over-long battery and besieging, must needes yeeld at the last, as i feare shee did: for very often afterward, the abbot used in this manner to visit her, and the simple ignorant countrey people, carrying no such ill opinion of the holy abbot, and having seene _ferando_ lying for dead in the vault, and also in the habite of a monke; were verily perswaded, that when they saw the abbot passe by to and fro, but most commonly in the night season, it was the ghost of _ferando_, who walked in this manner after his death, as a just pennance for his jealousie. when _ferandoes_ sences were recovered againe, and he found himselfe to be in such a darkesome place; not knowing where he was, he beganne to crie and make a noyse. when presently the monke of _bologna_ (according as the abbot had tutured him) stept into the dungeon, carrying a little waxe candle in the one hand, and a smarting whip in the other, going to _ferando_, he stript off his cloathes, and began to lash him very soundly. _ferando_ roaring and crying, could say nothing elsee, but, where am i? the monke (with a dreadfull voyce) replyed: thou art in purgatory. how? saide _ferando_; what? am i dead? thou art dead (quoth the monke) and began to lash him lustily againe. poore _ferando_, crying out for his wife and little sonne, demanded a number of idle questions, whereto the monke still fitted him with as fantasticke answers. within a while after, he set both foode and wine before him, which when _ferando_ sawe, he saide; how is this? doe dead men eate and drinke? yes, replyed the monke, and this foode which here thou seest, thy wife brought hither to their church this morning, to have masses devoutly sung for thy soule; and as to other, so must it be set before thee, for such is the command of the patrone of this place. _ferando_ having lyen entranced three dayes and three nights, felt his stomacke well prepared to eate, and feeding very heartily, still saide; o my good wife, o my loving wife, long mayest thou live for this extraordinary kindnesse. i promise thee (sweete heart) while i was alive, i cannot remember, that ever any foode and wine was halfe so pleasing to me. o my deare wife; o my hony wife. canst thou (quoth the monke) prayse and commend her now, using her so villainously in thy life time? then did he whip him more fiercely then before, when _ferando_ holding up his hands, as craving for mercy, demanded wherefore he was so severely punished? i am so commanded (quoth the monke) by supreme power, and twice every day must thou be thus disciplinde. upon what occasion? replyed _ferando_. because (quoth the monke) thou wast most notoriously jealous of thy wife, shee being the very kindest woman to thee, as all the countrey containeth not her equall. it is too true, answered _ferando_, i was over-much jealous of her indeede: but had i knowne, that jealousie was such a hatefull sinne against heaven, i never would have offended therein. now (quoth the monke) thou canst confesse thine owne wilfull follie, but this should have beene thought on before, and whilest thou wast living in the world. but if the fates vouchsafe to favour thee so much, as hereafter to send thee to the world once more; remember thy punishment here in purgatory, and sinne no more in that foule sinne of jealousie. i pray you sir tell me, replyed _ferando_, after men are dead, and put into purgatory, is there any hope of their ever visiting the world any more? yes, saide the monke, if the fury of the fates be once appeased. o that i knew (quoth _ferando_) by what meanes they would be appeased, and let me visite the world once againe: i would be the best husband that ever lived, and never more be jealous, never wrong so good a wife, nor ever use one unkind word against her. in the meane while, and till their anger may be qualified; when next my wife doth send me foode, i pray you worke so much, that some candles may be sent me also, because i live here in uncomfortable darknesse; and what should i doe with foode, if i have no light. shee sends lights enow, answered the monke, but they are burnt out on the altar in masse-time, and thou canst have none other here, but such as i must bring my selfe; neither are they allowed, but onely for the time of thy feeding and correcting. _ferando_ breathing foorth a vehement sigh, desired to know what he was, being thus appointed to punish him in purgatory? i am (quoth the monke) a dead man, as thou art, borne in _sardignia_, where i served a very jealous master; and because i soothed him in his jealousie, i had this pennance imposed on me, to serve thee here in purgatory with meate and drinke, and (twice every day) to discipline thy body, untill the fates have otherwise determined both for thee and me. why? saide _ferando_, are any other persons here, beside you and i? many thousands, replyed the monke, whom thou canst neither heare nor see, no more then they are able to doe the like by us. but how farre, saide _ferando_, is purgatory distant from our native countries? about some fifty thousand leagues, answered the monke; but yet passable in a moment, whensoever the offended fates are pleased: and many masses are daily saide for thy soule, at the earnest entreaty of thy wife, in hope of thy conversion; and becomming a new man, hating to be jealous any more hereafter. in these and such like speeches, as thus they beguiled the time, so did they observe it for a dayly course, sometime discipling, other whiles eating and drinking, for the space of ten whole moneths together: in the which time, the abbot sildome failed to visite _ferandoes_ wife, without the least suspition in any of the neighbours, by reason of their setled opinion, concerning the nightly walking of _ferandoes_ ghost. but, as all pleasures cannot bee exempted from some following paine or other, so it came to passe, that _ferandoes_ wife proved to be conceived with childe, and the time was drawing on for her deliverance. now began the abbot to consider, that _ferandoes_ folly was sufficiently chastised, and hee had beene long enough in purgatory: wherefore, the better to countenance all passed inconveniences, it was now thought high time, that _ferando_ should be sent to the world againe, and set free from the paines of purgatory, as having payed for his jealousie dearely, to teach him better wisedome hereafter. late in the dead time of the night the abbot himselfe entred into the darke dungeon, and in an hollow counterfeited voyce, called to _ferando_, saying. comfort thy selfe _ferando_, for the fates are now pleased, that thou shalt bee released out of purgatory, and sent to live in the world againe. thou didst leave thy wife newly conceived with childe, and this very morning she is delivered of a goodly sonne, whom thou shalt cause to be named _bennet_: because, by the incessant prayers of the holy abbot, thine owne loving wife, and for sweet saint _bennets_ sake, this grace and favour is afforded thee. _ferando_ hearing this, was exceeding joyfull, and returned this answere: for ever honoured be the fates, the holy lord abbot, blessed saint _bennet_, and my most dearely beloved wife, whom i will faithfully love for ever, and never more offend her by any jealousie in me. when the next foode was sent to _ferando_, so much of the powder was mingled with the wine, as would serve onely for foure houres entrauncing, in which time, they clothed him in his owne wearing apparell againe, the abbot himselfe in person, and his honest trusty monke of _bologna_, conveying and laying him in the same vault under the tombe, where at the first they gave him buriall. the next morning following, about the breake of day, _ferando_ recovered his sences, and thorow divers chinkes and crannies of the tombe, descried day-light, which hee had not seene in tenne moneths space before. perceiving then plainely, that he was alive, he cried out aloude, saying: open, open, and let mee forth of purgatory, for i have beene heere long enough in conscience. thrusting up his head against the cover of the tombe, which was not of any great strength, neither well closed together; hee put it quite off the tombe, and so got forth upon his feete: at which instant time, the monks having ended their morning mattins, and hearing the noyse, ran in hast thither, and knowing the voyce of _ferando_, saw that he was come forth of the monument. some of them were ancient signiors of the house, and yet but meere novices (as all the rest were) in these cunning and politique stratagems of the lord abbot, when hee intended to punish any one in purgatory, and therefore, being affrighted, and amazed at this rare accident; they fled away from him running to the abbot, who making a shew to them, as if he were but new come forth of his oratory, in a kinde of pacifying speeches, saide; peace my deare sonnes, bee not affraide, but fetch the crosse and holy-water hither; then follow me, and i will shew you, what miracle the fates have pleased to shew in our convent, therefore be silent, and make no more noise; all which was performed according to his command. _ferando_ looking leane and pale, as one, that in so long time hadde not seene the light of heaven, and endured such strict discipline twice everie day: stood in a gastly amazement by the tombes side, as not daring to adventure any further, or knowing perfectly, whether he was (as yet) truly alive, or no. but when he saw the monkes and abbot comming, with their lighted torches, and singing in a solemne manner of procession, he humbled himselfe at the abbots feete, saying. holy father, by your zealous prayers (as hath bin miraculously revealed to me) and the prayers of blessed s. _bennet_; as also of my honest, deare, and loving wife, i have bin delivered from the paines of purgatory, and brought againe to live in this world; for which unspeakable grace and favour, most humbly i thank the well-pleased fates, s. _bennet_, your father-hood, and my kinde wife, and will remember all your loves to me for ever. blessed be the fates, answered the abbot, for working so great a wonder heere in our monastery. go then my good son, seeing the fates have bin so gracious to thee; go (i say) home to thine owne house, and comfort thy kind wife, who ever since thy departure out of this life, hath lived in continuall mourning, love, cherish, and make much of her, never afflicting her henceforth with causlesse jealousie. no i warrant you good father, replyed _ferando_; i have bin well whipt in purgatory for such folly, and therefore i might be called a starke foole, if i should that way offend any more, either my loving wife, or any other. the abbot causing _miserere_ to be devoutly sung, sprinkling _ferando_ well with holy-water, and placing a lighted taper in his hand, sent him home so to his owne dwelling village: where when the neighbours beheld him, as people halfe frighted out of their wits, they fledde away from him, so scared and terrified, as if they had seene some dreadfull sight, or gastly apparition; his wife being as fearfull of him, as any of the rest. he called to them kindly by their severall names, telling them, that hee was newly risen out of his grave, and was a man as he had bin before. then they began to touch and feele him, growing into more certaine assurance of him, perceiving him to be a living man indeede: whereupon, they demanded many questions of him; and he, as if he were become farre wiser then before, tolde them tydings, from their long deceased kindred and friends, as if he had met with them all in purgatory, reporting a thousand lyes and fables to them, which (neverthelesse) they beleeved. then he told them what the miraculous voice had said unto him, concerning the birth of another young sonne, whom (according as he was commanded) he caused to be named _bennet ferando_. thus his returne to life againe, and the daily wonders reported by him, caused no meane admiration in the people, with much commendation of the abbots holynesse, and _ferandoes_ happy curing of his jealousie. juliet of narbona, _cured the king of france of a daungerous fistula, in recompence whereof, she requested to enjoy as her husband in marriage,_ bertrand _the count of_ roussillion. _hee having married her against his will, as utterly despising her, went to florence, where he made love to a young gentlewoman._ juliet, _by a queint and cunning policy, compassed the meanes (insted of his chosen new friend) to lye with her owne husband, by whom shee conceived, and had two sonnes; which being afterward made knowne unto count_ bertrand, _he accepted her into his favour again, and loved her as his loyall and honourable wife._ the ninth novell. _commending the good judgement and understanding in ladies or gentlewomen, that are of a quicke and apprehensive spirit._ now there remained no more (to preserve the priviledge granted to _dioneus_ uninfringed) but the queene onely, to declare her novell. wherefore, when the discourse of madam _lauretta_ was ended, without attending any motion to bee made for her next succeeding, with a gracious and pleasing disposition, thus she began to speake. who shall tell any tale heereafter, to carry any hope or expectation of liking, having heard the rare and wittie discourse of madame _lauretta_? beleeve me, it was verie advantageable to us all, that she was not this dayes first beginner, because few or none would have had any courage to follow after her, & therefore the rest yet remaining, are the more to be feared and suspected. neverthelesse, to avoid the breach of order, and to claime no priviledge by my place, of not performing what i ought to do: prove as it may, a tale you must have, and thus i proceed. there lived sometime in the kingdom of _france_, a gentleman named _isnarde_, being the count of _roussillion_, who because hee was continually weake, crazie and sickly, kept a physitian daily in his house, who was called master _gerard_ of _narbona_. count _isnarde_ had one onely sonne, very young in yeares, yet of towardly hope, faire, comely, and of pleasing person, named _bertrand_; with whom, many other children of his age, had their education: and among them, a daughter of the fore-named physitian, called _juliet_; who, even in these tender yeares, fixed her affection upon yong _bertrand_, with such an earnest and intimate resolution, as was most admirable in so yong a maiden, and more then many times is noted in yeares of greater discretion. old count _isnard_ dying, yong _bertrand_ fell as a ward to the king, and being sent to _paris_, remained there under his royall custodie and protection, to the no little discomfort of yong _juliet_, who became greevously afflicted in minde, because shee had lost the company of _bertrand_. within some few yeeres after, the physitian her father also dyed, and then her desires grew wholly addicted, to visite _paris_ her selfe in person, onely because she would see the yong count, awaiting but time & opportunitie, to fit her stolne journey thither. but her kindred and friends, to whose care and trust she was committed, in regard of her rich dowrie, and being left as a fatherlesse orphane: were so circumspect of her walks and daily behaviour, as she could not compasse any meanes of escaping. her yeeres made her now almost fit for marriage, which so much more encreased her love to the count, making refusall of many woorthie husbands, and laboured by the motions of her friends and kindred, yet all denyed, they not knowing any reason for her refusalles. by this time the count was become a gallant goodly gentleman, and able to make election of a wife, whereby her affections were the more violently enflamed, as fearing least some other should be preferred before her, & so her hopes be utterly disappointed. it was noysed abroad by common report, that the king of _france_ was in a very dangerous condition, by reason of a strange swelling on his stomacke, which failing of apt and convenient curing, became a fistula, afflicting him daily with extraordinary paine and anguish, no chirurgeon or physitian being found, that could minister any hope of healing, but rather encreased the greefe, and drove it to more vehement extreamitie, compelling the king, as dispairing utterly of all helpe, to give over any further counsell or advice. heereof faire _juliet_ was wondrously joyful, as hoping that this accident would prove the meanes, not only of hir journey to _paris_, but if the disease were no more then shee imagined; shee could easily cure it, and thereby compasse count _bertrand_ to be her husband. heereupon, quickning up her wits, with remembrance of those rules of art, which (by long practise and experience) she had learned of her skilfull father, shee compounded certaine hearbes together, such as she knew fitting for that kinde of infirmity, and having reduced hir compound into a powder, away she rode forthwith to paris. being there arrived, all other serious matters set aside, first shee must needs have a sight of count _bertrand_, as being the onely saint that caused her pilgrimage. next she made meanes for her accesse to the king, humbly entreating his majesty, to vouchsafe her the sight of his fistula. when the king saw her, her modest lookes did plainly deliver, that she was a faire, comely, and discreete young gentlewoman; wherefore, hee would no longer hide it, but layed it open to her view. when shee had seene and felt it, presently she put the king in comfort; affirming, that she knew her selfe able to cure his fistula, saying: sir, if your highnesse will referre the matter to me, without any perill of life, or any the least paine to your person, i hope (by the helpe of heaven) to make you whole and sound within eight dayes space. the king hearing her words, beganne merrily to smile at her, saying: how is it possible for thee, being a yong maiden, to do that which the best physitians in europe, are not able to performe? i commend thy kindnesse, and will not remaine unthankefull for thy forward willingnesse: but i am fully determined, to use no more counsell, or to make any further triall of physicke or chirurgery. whereto faire _juliet_ thus replied: great king, let not my skill and experience be despised, because i am young, and a maiden; for my profession is not physicke, neither do i undertake the ministering thereof, as depending on mine owne knowledge; but by the gracious assistance of heaven, & some rules of skilfull observation, which i learned of reverend _gerard_ of _narbona_, who was my worthy father, and a physitian of no meane fame, all the while he lived. at the hearing of these words, the king began somewhat to admire at her gracious carriage, and saide within himselfe. what know i, whether this virgin is sent to me by the direction of heaven, or no? why should i disdaine to make proofe of her skill? her promise is, to cure mee in a small times compasse, and without any paine or affliction to me: she shall not come so farre, to returne againe with the losse of her labour, i am resolved to try her cunning, and thereon saide. faire virgin, if you cause me to breake my setled determination, and faile of curing mee, what can you expect to follow thereon? whatsoever great king (quoth she) shall please you. let me bee strongly guarded, yet not hindred, when i am to prosecute the businesse: and then if i doe not perfectly heale you within eight daies, let a good fire be made, and therein consume my bodie unto ashes. but if i accomplish the cure, and set your highnesse free from all further greevance, what recompence then shall remaine to me? much did the king commend the confident perswasion which she had of her owne power, and presently replyed. faire beauty (quoth he) in regard that thou art a maide and unmarried, if thou keepe promise, and i finde my selfe to be fully cured: i will match thee with some such gentleman in marriage, as shal be of honourable and worthy reputation, with a sufficient dowry beside. my gracious soveraigne saide she, willing am i, and most heartily thankful withall, that your highnesse shal bestow me in marriage: but i desire then, to have such a husband, as i shal desire or demand by your gracious favour, without presuming to crave any of your sonnes, kindred, or alliance, or appertaining unto your royall blood. whereto the king gladly granted. young _juliet_ began to minister her physicke, and within fewer dayes then her limited time, the king was sound and perfectly cured; which when he perceyved, hee sayd unto her. trust me vertuous mayde, most woorthily hast thou wonne a husband, name him, and thou shalt have him. royall king (quoth she) then have i won the count _bertrand_ of _roussillion_, whom i have most entirely loved from mine infancy, and cannot (in my soule) affect any other. very loath was the king to grant her the young count, but in regard of his solemne passed promise, and his royal word engaged, which he would not by any meanes breake; he commanded, that the count should be sent for, and spake thus to him. noble count, it is not unknowne to us, that you are a gentleman of great honour, and it is our royall pleasure, to discharge your wardship, that you may repaire home to your owne house, there to settle your affaires in such order, as you may be the readier to enjoy a wife, which we intend to bestow upon you. the count returned his highnesse most humble thankes, desiring to know of whence, and what shee was? it is this gentlewoman, answered the king, who (by the helpe of heaven) hath beene the meanes to save my life. well did the count know her, as having very often before seene her; and although shee was very faire and amiable, yet in regard of her meane birth, which he held as a disparagement to his nobility in bloud; he made a scorne of her, and spake thus to the king. would your highnesse give me a quacksalver to my wife, one that deales in drugges and physicarie? i hope i am able to bestow my selfe much better then so. why? quoth the king, wouldst thou have us breake our faith; which for the recovery of our health, wee have given to this vertuous virgin, and shee will have no other reward, but onely count _bertrand_ to be her husband? sir, replied the count, you may dispossesse me of all that is mine, because i am your ward and subject, and any where elsee you may bestow me: but pardon me to tell you, that this marriage cannot be made with any liking or allowance of mine, neither will i ever give consent thereto. sir, saide the king, it is our will that it shall be so, vertuous she is, faire and wise; she loveth thee most affectionately, and with her mayest thou leade a more noble life, then with the greatest lady in our kingdome. silent, and discontented stoode the count, but the king commaunded preparation for the marriage; and when the appointed time was come, the count (albeit against his will) received his wife at the kings hand; she loving him deerely as her owne life. when all was done, the count requested of the king, that what elsee remained for further solemnization of the marriage, it might be performed in his owne countrey, reserving to himselfe what elsee he intended. being mounted on horseback, and humbly taking their leave of the king, the count would not ride home to his owne dwelling, but into _tuscany_, where he heard of a warre betweene the _florentines_ and the _senesi_, purposing to take part with the _florentines_, to whom he was willingly and honourably welcommed, being created captain of a worthy company, and continuing there a long while in service. the poore forsaken new married countesse, could scarsely be pleased with such dishonourable unkindnes, yet governing her impatience with no meane discretion, and hoping by her vertuous carriage, to compasse the meanes of his recall: home she rode to _roussillion_, where all the people received her very lovingly. now, by reason of the counts so long absence, all things were there farre out of order; mutinies, quarrelse, and civill dissentions, having procured many dissolute irruptions, to the expence of much blood in many places. but shee, like a jolly stirring lady, very wise and provident in such disturbances, reduced all occasions to such civility againe, that the people admired her rare behaviour, and condemned the count for his unkindnesse towards her. after that the whole countrey of _roussillion_ (by the policy and wisedome of this worthy lady was fully re-established) in their ancient liberties; she made choise of two discreet knights, whom she sent to the count her husband, to let him understand, that if in displeasure to her, hee was thus become a stranger to his owne countrey: upon the return of his answer, to give him contentment, shee would depart thence, and by no meanes disturbe him. roughly and churlishly he replied; let her doe as she list, for i have no determination to dwel with her, or neere where she is. tell her from me, when she shall have this ring, which you behold heere on my finger, and a sonne in her armes begotten by me; then will i come live with her, and be her love. the ring he made most precious and deere account of, and never tooke it off from his finger, in regard of an especial vertue and property, which he well knew to be remaining in it. and these two knights, hearing the impossibility of these two strict conditions, with no other favour elsee to be derived from him; sorrowfully returned backe to their ladie, and acquainted her with this unkinde answer, as also his unalterable determination, which wel you may conceive, must needs be verie unwelcome to her. after she had an indifferent while considered with her selfe, her resolution became so undauntable; that she would adventure to practise such meanes, whereby to compasse those two apparant impossibilities, and so to enjoy the love of her husband. having absolutely concluded what was to be done, she assembled all the cheefest men of the country, revealing unto them (in mournfull manner) what an attempt she had made already, in hope of recovering her husbands favour, and what a rude answer was thereon returned. in the end, she told them, that it did not sute with her unworthinesse, to make the count live as an exile from his owne inheritance, upon no other inducement, but only in regard of her: wherefore, she had determined betweene heaven and her soule, to spend the remainder of her dayes in pilgrimages and prayers, for preservation of the counts soule and her owne; earnestly desiring them, to undertake the charge and government of the countrey, and signifying unto the count, how she had forsaken his house, and purposed to wander so far thence, that never would she visite _roussillion_ any more. in the deliverie of these words, the lords and gentlemen wept and sighed extraordinarily, using many earnest imprecations to alter this resolve in her, but all was in vaine. having taken her sad and sorrowfull farewell of them all, accompanied onely with her maide, and one of her kinsmen, away she went, attired in a pilgrims habite, yet well furnished with money and precious jewelse, to avoide all wants which might befall her in travaile; not acquainting any one whether she went. in no place stayed she, untill she was arrived at florence, where happening into a poore widdowes house, like a poore pilgrim, she seemed well contented therewith. and desiring to heare some tydings of the count, the next day she saw him passe by the house on horse-backe, with his company. now, albeit shee knew him well enough, yet she demanded of the good old widdow, what gentleman he was? she made answer, that he was a stranger there, yet a nobleman, called count _bertrand_ of _roussillion_, a verie courteous knight, beloved and much respected in the city. moreover, that he was farre in love with a neighbour of hers, a yong gentlewoman, but verie poore and meane in substance, yet of honest life, vertuous, and never taxed with any evill report: onely her povertie was the maine imbarment of her marriage, dwelling in house with her mother, who was a wise, honest, and worthy lady. the countesse having wel observed her words, and considered thereon from point to point; debated soberly with her owne thoughts, in such a doubtfull case what was best to be done. when she had understood which was the house, the ancient ladies name, and likewise her daughters, to whom her husband was now so affectionately devoted; she made choise of a fit and convenient time, when (in her pilgrims habit), secretly she went to the house. there she found the mother and daughter in poore condition, and with as poore a family: whom after she had ceremoniously saluted, she told the old lady, that shee requested but a little conference with her. the ladie arose, and giving her courteous entertainment, they went together into a withdrawing chamber, where being both set downe, the countesse began in this manner. madame, in my poore opinion, you are not free from the frownes of fortune, no more then i my selfe am: but if you were so well pleased, there is no one that can comfort both our calamities in such manner, as you are able to do. and beleeve me answered the lady, there is nothing in the world that can bee so welcome to mee, as honest comfort. the countesse proceeding on in her former speeches said: i have now need (good madame) both of your trust and fidelity, whereon if i should rely, and you faile me, it will be your owne undooing as well as mine. speake then boldly, replied the olde ladie, and remaine constantly assured, that you shall no way be deceived by me. heereupon, the countesse declared the whole course of her love, from the verie originall to the instant, revealing also what she was, and the occasion of her comming thither, relating every thing so perfectly, that the ladie verily beleeved her, by some reports which she had formerly heard, and which mooved her the more to compassion. now, when all circumstances were at full discovered, thus spake the countesse. among my other miseries and misfortunes, which hath halfe broken my heart in the meere repetition, beside the sad and afflicting sufferance; two things there are, which if i cannot compasse to have, all hope is quite frustrate for ever, of gaining the grace of my lord and husband. yet those two things may i obtaine by your helpe, if all be true which i have heard, and you can therein best resolve mee. since my comming to this city, it hath credibly bene told me, that the count my husband, is deeply in love with your daughter. if the count (quoth the ladie) love my daughter, and have a wife of his owne, he must thinke, and so shall surely finde it, that his greatnesse is no priviledge for him, whereby to worke dishonour upon her poverty. but indeed, some apparances there are, and such a matter as you speake of, may be so presumed; yet so farre from a very thought of entertaining in her or me; as whatsoever i am able to do, to yeeld you any comfort and content, you shall find me therein both willing and ready: for i prize my daughters spotles poverty as at high a rate, as he can do the pride of his honour. madam, quoth the countesse, most heartily i thanke you. but before i presume any further on your kindnesse, let me first tell you, what faithfully i intend to do for you, if i can bring my purpose to effect. i see that your daughter is beautifull, and of sufficient yeares for mariage; and is debarred thereof (as i have heard) onely by lack of a competent dowry. wherefore madame, in recompence of the favour i expect from you, i will enrich her with so much ready money as you shall thinke sufficient to match her in the degree of honour. poverty made the poore lady, very well to like of such a bountifull offer, and having a noble heart she said: great countesse say, wherein am i able to do you any service, as can deserve such a gracious offer? if the action bee honest, without blame or scandall to my poore, yet undejected reputation, gladly i will do it; and it being accomplished, let the requitall rest in your owne noble nature. observe me then madam, replyed the countesse. it is most convenient for my purpose, that by some trusty and faithfull messenger, you should advertise the count my husband, that your daughter is, and shall be at his command: but because she may remain absolutely assured, that his love is constant to her, and above all other: shee must entreate him, to send her (as a testimony thereof) the ring which he weareth upon his little finger, albeit she hath heard, that he loveth it dearly. if he send the ring, you shal give it me, & afterward send him word, that your daughter is readie to accomplish his pleasure; but, for the more safety and secrecie, he must repaire hither to your house, where i being in bed insted of your daughter, faire fortune may so favour mee, that (unknowne to him) i may conceive with childe. uppon which good successe, when time shall serve, having the ring on my finger, and a child in my armes begotten by him, his love and liking may bee recovered, and (by your meanes) i continue with my husband, as everie vertuous wife ought to doe. the good old ladie imagined, that this was a matter somewhat difficult, and might lay a blamefull imputation on her daughter: neverthelesse, considering, what an honest office it was in her, to bee the meanes, whereby so worthy a countesse should recover an unkinde husband, led altogether by lust, and not a jot of cordiall love; she knew the intent to be honest, the countesse vertuous, and her promise religious, and therefore undertooke to effect it. within few dayes after, verie ingeniously, and according to the instructed order, the ring was obtained, albeit much against the counts will; and the countesse, in sted of the ladies vertuous daughter, was embraced by him in bed: the houre proving so auspicious, and _juno_ being lady of the ascendent, conjoyned with the witty _mercury_, she conceived of two goodly sonnes, and her deliverance agreed correspondently with the just time. thus the old lady, not at this time only, but at many other meetings beside; gave the countesse free possession of her husbands pleasures, yet alwayes in such darke and concealed secrecie, as it was never suspected, nor knowne by any but themselves, the count lying with his owne wife, and disappointed of her whom he more deerely loved. alwayes at his uprising in the mornings (which usually was before the breake of day, for preventing the least scruple of suspition) many familiar conferences passed betweene them, with the gifts of divers faire and costly jewelse; all which the countesse carefully kept, and perceiving assuredly, that shee was conceived with childe, she would no longer bee troublesome to the good old lady; but calling her aside, spake thus to her. madam, i must needs give thankes to heaven and you, because my desires are amply accomplished, and both time and your deserts doe justly challenge, that i should accordingly quite you before my departure. it remaineth nowe in your owne power, to make what demand you please of me, which yet i will not give you by way of reward, because that would seeme to bee base and mercenary: but onely whatsoever you shall receive of me, is in honourable recompence of faire & vertuous deservings, such as any honest and well-minded lady in the like distresse, may with good credit allow, and yet no prejudice to her reputation. although poverty might well have tutored the ladies tongue, to demand a liberall recompence for her paines; yet she requested but an 100 pounds, as a friendly helpe towards her daughters marriage, and that with a bashfull blushing was uttered too; yet the countesse gave hir five hundred pounds, beside so many rich and costly jewelse, as amounted to a farre greater summe. so she returned to her wonted lodging, at the aged widdowes house, where first she was entertained at her comming to _florence_; and the good old lady, to avoide the counts repairing to her house any more, departed thence sodainly with her daughter, to divers friends of hers that dwelt in the country, whereat the count was much discontented; albeit afterward, he did never heare any more tidings of hir or her daughter, who was worthily married, to her mothers great comfort. not long after, count _bertrand_ was re-called home by his people: and he having heard of his wives absence, went to _roussillion_ so much the more willingly. and the countesse knowing her husbands departure from _florence_, as also his safe arrivall at his owne dwelling, remained still in _florence_, untill the time of her deliverance, which was of two goodly sonnes, lively resembling the lookes of their father, and all the perfect lineaments of his body. perswade your selves, she was not a little carefull of their nursing; and when she saw the time answerable to her determination, she tooke her journey (unknowne to any) and arrived with them at _montpellier_, where shee rested her selfe for divers dayes, after so long and wearisome a journey. upon the day of all saints, the count kept a solemne festivall, for the assembly of his lords, knights, ladies, and gentlewomen: uppon which joviall day of generall rejoycing, the countesse attired in her wonted pilgrimes weed, repaired thither, entering into the great hall, where the tables were readily covered for dinner. preassing thorough the throng of people, with her two children in her armes, she presumed unto the place where the count sate, & falling on her knees before him, the teares trickling abundantly downe her cheekes, thus she spake. worthy lord, i am thy poor, despised, and unfortunate wife; who, that thou mightst returne home, and not bee an exile from thine owne abiding, have thus long gone begging through the world. yet now at length, i hope thou wilt be so honourably-minded, as to performe thine own too strict imposed conditions, made to the two knights which i sent unto thee, and which (by thy command) i was enjoyned to do. behold here in mine armes, not onely one sonne by thee begotten, but two twins, and thy ring beside. high time is it now, if men of honour respect their promises, that after so long and tedious travell, i should at last bee welcommed as thy true wife. the counte hearing this, stoode as confounded with admiration; for full well he knew the ring: and both the children were so perfectly like him, as he was confirmed to be their father by generall judgement. upon his urging by what possible meanes this could be broght to passe: the countesse in presence of the whole assembly, and unto her eternall commendation, related the whole history, even in such manner as you have formerly heard it. moreover, she reported the private speeches in bed, uttered betweene himselfe and her, being witnessed more apparantly, by the costly jewelse there openly shewn. all which infallible proofes, proclaiming his shame, and her most noble carriage to her husband; hee confessed, that she had told nothing but the truth in every point which she had reported. commending her admirable constancy, excellency of wit, & sprightly courage, in making such a bold adventure; hee kissed the two sweete boyes, and to keepe his promise, whereto he was earnestly importuned, by all his best esteemed friends there present, especially the honourable ladies, who would have no deniall, but by forgetting his former harsh and uncivill carriage towardes her, to accept her for ever as his lawfull wife: folding her in his armes, and sweetly kissing her divers times together, he bad her welcome to him, as his vertuous, loyall, & most loving wife, and so (for ever after) he would acknowledge her. well knew he that she had store of better beseeming garments in the house, and therefore requested the ladies to walke with her to her chamber, to uncase her of those pilgrimes weeds, and cloath her in her owne more sumptuous garments, even those which she wore on her wedding day, because that was not the day of his contentment, but onely this: for now he confessed her to be his wife indeede, and now he would give the king thanks for her, and now was count _bertrand_ truly married to the faire _juliet_ of _narbona_. _the wonderfull and chaste resolved continency of faire serictha, daughter to siwalde king of denmark, who being sought and sued unto by many worthy persons, that did affect her dearly, would not looke any man in the face, untill such time as she was married._ the tenth novell. _a very singular and worthy president, for all yong ladies and gentlewomen: not rashly to bestow themselves in mariage, without the knowledge and consent of their parents and friends._ _dioneus_ having diligently listened to the queens singular discourse, so soone as she had concluded, and none now remaining but himselfe, to give a full period unto that dayes pleasure: without longer trifling the time, or expecting any command from the queene, thus he began. gracious ladies, i know that you do now expect from me, some such queint tale, as shall be suteable to my merry disposition; rather savouring of wantonnesse, then any discreet and sober wisedom; and such a purpose indeed, i once had entertained. but having well observed all your severall relations, grounded on grave & worthy examples, especially the last, so notably delivered by the queene: i cannot but commend faire _juliet_ of _narbona_, in perfourming two such strange impossibilities, and conquering the unkindnesse of so cruel a husband. if my tale come short of the precedent excellency, or give not such content as you (perhaps) expect; accept my good will, and let me stand engaged for a better heereafter. the annales of _denmarke_ do make mention, that the king of the said country, who was first set downe as prince, contrary to the ancient custom and lawes observed among the _danes_, namely _hunguinus_; had a son called _siwalde_, who succeeded him in the estates and kingdome, belonging to his famous predecessors. that age, and the court of that royall prince, was verie highly renowned, by the honour of faire _serictha_, daughter to the sayde _siwalde_; who beside her generall repute, of being a myracle of nature, in perfection of beautie, and most compleate in all that the heart of man could desire to note, in a body full of grace, gentlenesse, and whatsoever elsee, to attract the eyes of everie one to beholde her: was also so chaste, modest, and bashfull, as it was meerely impossible, to prevaile so farre with her, that any man should come to speake with her. for, in those dayes, marriages were pursued and sought by valour, and by the onely opinion, which stoute warriours conceived, of the vertuous qualities of a ladie. notwithstanding, never could any man make his vaunt, that she had given him so much as a looke, or ever any one attained to the favour, to whisper a word in her eare. because both the custome and will of parents then (very respectively kept in those northerne parts of the world) of hearing such speak, as desired their daughters in marriage; grew from offering them some worthy services; and thereby compassed meanes, to yeeld their contentation, by some gracious and kinde answers. but she, who was farre off from the desire of any such follies, referring her selfe wholly to the will and disposition of the king her lord and father; was so contrary, to give any living man an answer, that her eye never looked on any one speaking to her, appearing as sparing in vouchsafing a glance, as her heart was free from a thought of affection. for, she had no other imagination, but that maides, both in their choise & will, ought to have any other disposition, but such as should bee pleasing to their parents, either to graunt, or denie, according as they were guided by their grave judgement. in like manner, so well had shee brideled her sensuall appetites, with the curbe of reason, wisedome, and providence; setting such a severe and constant restraint, on the twinkling or motions of her eyes, in absolute obedience to her father; as never was she seene to turne her head aside, to lend one looke on any man of her age. a worthy sight it was, to behold knights errant, passing, repassing to _denmarke_, and backe againe, labouring to conquer those setled eyes, to win the least signe of grace and favour, from her whom they so dutiously pursued, to steale but a silly glimpse or glance, and would have thought it a kind of honourable theft. but this immovable rock of beauty, although she knew the disseignes of them which thus frequented the court of the king her father, and could not pretend ignorance of their endeavour, ayming onely at obtaining her in mariage: yet did she not lend any look of her eye, yeelding the least signall of the hearts motion, in affecting any thing whatsoever, but what it pleased her father she should do. _serictha_ living in this strange and unusuall manner, it mooved manie princes and great lords, to come and court her, contending both by signes and words, to change her from this severe constancie, and make knowne (if possible it might be) whether a woman would or could be so resolute, as to use no respect at all towards them, coming from so manie strange countries, to honour her in the courts of the king her father. but in these dayes of ours, if such a number of gallant spirits should come, to aske but one looke of some of our beauties; i am halfe affraide, that they should finde the eyes of many of our dainty darlings, not so sparing of their glances, as those of _serictha_ were. considering, that our courtiers of these times, are this way emulous one of another, and women are so forward in offering themselves, that they performe the office of suters, as fearing lest they should not be solicited, yea, though it bee in honest manner. the king, who knew well enough, that a daughter was a treasure of some danger to keepe, and growing doubtfull withall least (in the end) this so obstinate severity would be shaken, if once it came to passe, that his daughter should feele the piercing apprehensions of love, & whereof (as yet) she never had any experience; he determined to use some remedy for this great concourse of lovers, and strange kinde of carriage in the princesse his daughter. for, hee apparantly perceived, that such excelling beauty as was in _serictha_, with those good and commendable customes, and other ornaments of his daughters mind, could never attaine to such an height of perfection; but yet there would be found some men, so wittily accute and ingenious, as to convert and humour a maid, according to their will, and make a mockery of them, who were (before) of most high esteeme. beside, among so great a troope of lords, as daily made tender of their amorous service, some one or other would prove so happy, as (at the last) she should be his mistresse. and therefore forbearing what otherwhise he had intended, as a finall conclusion of all such follies: calling his daughter alone to himselfe in his chamber, and standing cleere from all other attention, hee used to her this, or the like language. i know not faire daughter, what reason may move you to shew your selfe so disdainfull towards so many noble and worthy men, as come to visite you, and honour my court with their presence, offering me their love and loyall service, under this onely pretence (as i perceive) of obtaining you, and compassing the happinesse (as it appeareth in plaine strife among them) one day to winne the prize, you being the maine issue of all their hope. if it be bashfull modesty, which (indeede) ought to attend on all virgins of your yeares, and so veyles your eyes, as (with honour) you cannot looke on any thing, but what is your owne, or may not justly vouchsafe to see; i commend your maidenly continencie, which yet neverthelesse, i would not have to bee so severe; as (at length) your youth falling into mislike thereof, it maybe the occasion of some great misfortune, either to you, or me, or elsee to us both together: considering what rapes are ordinarily committed in these quarters, and of ladies equall every way to your selfe; which happening, would presently be the cause of my death. if it be in regard of some vow which you have consecrated to virginity, and to some one of our gods: i seeke not therein to hinder your disseignes, neither will bereave the celestiall powers, of whatsoever appertaineth to them. albeit i could wish, that it should bee kept in a place more straited, and separate from the resort of men; to the end, that so bright a beauty as yours is, should cause no discords among amorous suters, neither my court prove a campe destinied unto the conclusion of such quarrelse, or you be the occasion of ruining so many, whose service would beseeme a much more needfull place, then to dye heere by fond and foolish opinion of enjoying a vaine pleasure, yet remaining in the power of another bodie to grant. if therefore i shall perceive, that these behaviours in you do proceede from pride, or contempt of them, who endeavour to do you both honour and service, and in sted of granting them a gracious looke, in arrogancie you keepe from them, making them enemies to your folly and my sufferance: i sweare to you by our greatest god, that i will take such due order, as shall make you feele the hand of an offended father, and teach you (hencefoorth) to bee much more affable. wherefore deere daughter, you shall do me a singular pleasure, freely to acquaint me with your minde, and the reasons of your so stricte severity: promising you, upon the word and faith of a king, nay more, of a loving and kinde father, that if i finde the cause to bee just and reasonable, i will desist so farre from hindering your intent, as you shal rather perceive my fatherly furtherance, and rest truly resolved of my help and favour. wherefore faire daughter, neither blush or dismay, or feare to let me understand your will; for evidently i see, that meere virgin shame hath made a rapture of your soule, beeing nothing elsee but those true splendours of vertue derived from your auncestors, and shining in you most gloriously, gracing you with a much richer embellishing, then those beauties bestowed on you by nature. speake therefore boldly to your father, because there is no law to prohibit your speech to him: for when he commandeth, he ought to bee obeyed: promising uppon mine oath once againe, that if your reasons are such as they ought to be, i will not faile to accommodate your fancy. the wise and vertuous princesse, hearing the king to alledge such gracious reasons, and to lay so kinde a command on her; making him most lowe and humble reverence, in signe of dutifull accepting such favour, thus she answered. royall lord and father, seeing that in your princely court, i have gathered whatsoever may be termed vertuous in me, & you being the principall instructer of my life, from whom i have learned those lessons, how maides (of my age) ought to governe and maintaine themselves: you shall apparently perceive, that neither gazing lookes, which i ought not to yeelde without your consent, nor pride or arrogancie, never taught me by you, or the queene my most honourable lady and mother, are any occasion of my cariage towards them, which come to make ostentation of their folly in your court, as if a meere look of _serictha_, were sufficient to yeeld assurance effectually of their desires victory. nothing (my most royall lord and father) induceth mee to this kinde of behaviour, but onely due respect of your honour & mine owne: and to the end it may not be thought, that i belye my selfe, in not eying the affectionate offers of amorous pursuers, or have any other private reserved meaning, then what may best please king _siwalde_ my father: let it suffice sir, that it remaineth in your power onely, to make an apt election and choice for me; for i neither ought, nor will allowe the acceptance of any suters kindnesse, so much as by a looke (much lesse then by words) untill your highnesse shall nominate the man, to be a meete husband for _serictha_. it is onely you then (my lord) that beares the true life-blood of our ancestors. it is the untainted life of the queene my mother, that sets a chaste and strict restraint on mine eyes, from estranging my heart, to the idle amorous enticements of young giddy-headed gentlemen, and have sealed up my soule with an absolute determination, rather to make choise of death, then any way to alter this my warrantable severity. you being a wise king, and the worthie father of _serictha_, it is in you to mediate, counsell, and effect, what best shall beseeme the desseignes of your daughter: because it is the vertue of children, yea, and their eternall glory and renowne, to illustrate the lives and memories of their parents. it consisteth in you, either to grant honest license to such lords as desire me, or to oppose them with such discreete conditions, as both your selfe may sit free from any further afflicting, and they rest defeated of dangerous dissentions, according as you foresee what may ensue. which yet (neverthelesse) i hold as a matter impossible, if their discord should be grounded on the sole apprehension of their soules: and the onely prevention thereof, is, not to yeeld any signe, glance of the eie, or so much as a word more to one man then another: for, such is the setled disposition of your daughters soule, and which shee humbly entreateth, may so be still suffered. many meanes there are, whereby to winne the grace of the greatest king, by employing their paines in worthy occasions, answerable unto their yeeres and vertue, if any such sparkes of honour doe shine in their soules; rather then by gaining heere any matter of so meane moment, by endeavouring to shake the simplicity of a bashfull maide: let them cleare the kings high-wayes of theeves, who make the passages difficult: or let them expell pirates from off the seas, which make our _danish_ coasts every way inaccessible. these are such noble meanes to merit, as may throw deserved recompence uppon them, and much more worthily, then making idols of ladies lookes, or gazing for babies in their wanton eyes. so may you bestowe on them what is your owne, granting _serictha_ to behold none, but him who you shall please to give her: for otherwise, you know her absolute resolve, never to looke any living man in the face, but onely you my gracious lord and father. the king hearing this wise and modest answer of his daughter, could not choose but commend her in his heart; and smiling at the counsell which she gave him, returned her this answer. understand me wel, faire daughter; neither am i minded to breake your determination wholly, nor yet to governe my selfe according to your fancie. i stand indifferently contented, that untill i have otherwise purposed, you shall continue the nature of your ancient custome: yet conditionally, that when i command an alteration of your carriage, you faile not therein to declare your obedience. what elsee remaineth beside, for so silly a thing as a woman is, and for the private pleasing of so many great princes and lords, i will not endanger any of their lives; because their parents and friends (being sensible of such losses) may seeke revenge, perhaps to their owne ruine, and some following scourge to my indiscretion. for i consider (daughter) that i have neighbours who scarsely love me, and of whom (in time) i may right my selfe, having received (by their meanes) great wrongs & injuries. also i make no doubt, but to manage your love-sute with discretion, and set such a pleasing proceeding betweene them, as neyther shall beget any hatred in them towards me, nor yet offend them in their affections pursuite, till fortune may smile so favourably upon some one man, to reach the height of both our wished desires. _siwalde_ was thus determinately resolved, to let his daughter live at her owne discretion, without any alteration of her continued severitie, perceiving day by day, that many came still to request her in mariage; & he could not give her to them all, nor make his choise of any one, least all the rest should become his enemies, and fall in quarrell one with another. onely this therefore was his ordination, that among such a number of amorous suters, he onely should weare the lawrell wreath of victory, who could obtaine such favour of _serictha_, as but to looke him in the face. this condition seemed to bee of no meane difficulty, yea, and so impossible, that many gave over their amorous enterprize: whereof _serictha_ was wondrouslie joyfull, seeing her selfe eased of such tedious importunitie, dulling her eares with their proffered services, and foppish allegations of fantasticke servitude: such as ydle-headed lovers do use to protest before their mistresses, wherein they may beleeve them, if they list. among all them that were thus forward in their heate of affection, there was a young _danish_ lord, named _ocharus_, the sonne of a pirate, called _hebonius_, the same man, who having stolne the sister unto king _hunguinus_, and sister to _siwalde_, & affiancing himselfe to her, was slaine by king _haldune_, and by thus killing him, enjoyed both the lady, and the kingdome of the _gothes_ also, as her inheritance. this _ocharus_, relying much on his comelinesse of person, wealth, power, and valour, but (above all the rest) on his excellent and eloquent speaking; bestowed his best endeavour to obtaine _serictha_, notwithstanding the contemptible carriage of the rest towards him; whereupon prevailing for his accesse to the princesse, and admitted to speake, as all the other did, he reasoned with her in this manner. whence may it proceede, madam, that you being the fairest and wisest princesse living at this day in all the northerne parts, should make so small account of your selfe, as to denie that, which with honour you may yeeld to them, as seeke to doe you most humble service; and forgetting the rank you hold, doe refuse to deigne them recompence in any manner whatsoever, seeking onely to enjoy you in honourable marriage? perhaps you are of opinion, that the gods should become slaves to your beauty, in which respect, men are utterly unworthy to crave any such acquaintance of you. if it be so, i confesse my selfe conquered: but if the gods seeke no such association with women, and since they forsooke the world, they left this legacy to us men; i thinke you covet after none, but such as are extracted of their blood, or may make vaunt of their neere kindred and alliance to them. i know that many have wished, and doe desire you: i know also, that as many have requested you of the king your father, but the choyce remaineth in your power, and you being ordained the judge, to distinguish the merit of all your sutors; me thinkes you doe wrong to the office of a judge; in not regarding the parties which are in suite, to sentence the desert of the best and bravest, and so to delay them with no more lingering. i cannot thinke madam, that you are so farre out of your selfe, and so chill cold in your affection, but desire of occasions, equall to your vertue and singular beauty, doe sometime touch you feelingly, and make you to wish for such a man, answerable to the greatnesse of your excellency. and if it should be otherwise (as i imagine it to be impossible) yet you ought to breake such an obstinate designe, onely to satisfie the king your father, who can desire nothing more, then to have a sonne in law, to revenge him on the tyrant of _swetia_; who, as you well know, was sometime the murtherer of your grand-father _hunguinus_, and also of his father. if you please to vouchsafe me so much grace and favour, as to make me the man, whom your heart hath chosen to be your husband; i sweare unto you by the honour of a souldier, that i will undergoe such service, as the king shall be revenged, you royally satisfied, and my selfe advanced to no meane happinesse, by being the onely fortunate man of the world. gentle princesse, the most beautifull daughter to a king, open that indurate heart, and so soften it, that the sweete impressions of love may be engraven therein; see there the loyall pursuite of your _ocharus_, who, to save his life, cannot so much as winne one looke from his divine mistresse. this nicenesse is almost meerely barbarous, that i, wishing to adventure my life prodigally in your service, you are so cruell, as not to deigne recompence to this duty of mine, with the least signe of kindnesse that can be imagined. faire _serictha_, if you desire the death of your friendly servant _ocharus_, there are many other meanes whereby to performe it, without consuming him in so small a fire, and suffering him there to languish without any answere. if you will not looke upon me; if my face be so unworthy, that one beame of your bright sunnes may not shine upon it: if a word of your mouth be too precious for me; make a signe with your hand, either of my happinesse or disaster. if your hand be envious of mine ease, let one of your women be shee, to pronounce the sentence of life or death; because, if my life be hatefull to you, this hand of mine may satisfie your will, and sacrifice it to the rigour of your disdaine. but if (as i am rather perswaded) the ruine of your servants be against your more mercifull wishes; deale so that i may perceive it, and expresse what compassion you have of your _ocharus_, who coveteth nothing more, then your daily hearts ease and contentment, with a priviledge of honour above other ladies. all this discourse was heard by _serictha_, but so little was shee moved therewith, as shee was farre enough off from returning him any answer, neither did any of the gentlewomen attending on her, ever heare her use the very least word to any of her amorous sollicitors, nor did shee know any one of them, but by speech onely, which drove them all into an utter despaire, perceiving no possible meanes whereby to conquer her. the histories of the northerne countries doe declare, that in those times, the rapes of women were not much respected; and such as pursued any lady or gentlewoman with love, were verily perswaded, that they never made sufficient proofe of their amourous passions, if they undertooke not all cunning stratagems, with adventure of their lives to all perils whatsoever, for the rape or stealth of them, whom they purposed to enjoy in marriage. as we reade in the _gothes_ history of _gramo_, sonne to the king of _denmarke_, who being impatiently amourous of the daughter to the king of the _gothes_, and winning the love of the lady, stole her away, before her parents or friends had any notice thereof; by meanes of which rape, there followed a most bloody warre betweene the _gothes_ and the _danes_. in recompence of which injury, _sibdagerus_, king of _norway_, being chosen chiefe commander of the _swetians_ & _gothes_, entred powerfully into _denmarke_, where first he violated the sister to king _gramo_, and led away her daughter, whom in the like manner he made his spouse, as the _dane_ had done the daughter of _sigtruge_, prince of the _gothes_. i induce these briefe narrations, onely to shew, that while _ocharus_ made honest and affable meanes, to win respect from _serictha_, and used all honourable services to her, as the daughter of so great a prince worthily deserved: some there were, not halfe so conscientious as he, especially one of the amourous sutors, who being weary of the strange carriages of _serictha_, dissembling to prosecute his purpose no further; prevailed so farre, that he corrupted one of her governesses, for secretly training her to such a place, where the ravisher should lie in ambush to carry her away, so to enjoy her by pollicy, seeing all other meanes failed for to compasse his desire. behold to what a kind of foolish rage, which giddy headed dullards doe terme a naturall passion, they are led, who, being guided more by sensuality, then reason or discretion, follow the braine-sicke motions of their rash apprehensions. he which pursueth, and protesteth to love a lady for her gentillity and vertue; knoweth not how to measure what love is, neither seeth or conceiveth, how farre the permission of his owne endeavour extendeth. moreover, you may observe, that never any age was so grosse, or men so simple, but even almost from the beginning, avarice did hood-winke the hearts of men, and that (with gold) the very strongest fortification in the world hath beene broken, yea, and the best bard gates laide wide open. _serictha_, who shunned the light of all men, and never distrusted them which kept about her; shee who never knew (except some naturall sparke gave light to her understanding) what belonged to the embracements of men, must now (without dreaming thereon) fall as foode to the insatiable appetite of a wretch, who compassed this surprisall of her, to glory in his owne lewdnesse, and make a mocke of the princesses setled constancy. shee, good lady, following the councell of her trayterous guide, went abroade on walking, but weakely accompanied, as one that admitted no men to attend her, which shee might have repented very dearely, if heaven had not succoured her innocency, by the helpe of him, who wished her as well as the ravisher, though their desires were quite contrary; the one to enjoy her by violence, but the other affecting rather to die, then doe the least act which might displease her. no sooner was _serictha_ arrived at the destined place, where her false governesse was to deliver her; but behold a second _paris_ came, and seized on her, hurrying her in haste away, before any helpe could possibly rescue her; the place being farre off from any dwelling. now the ravisher durst not convey her to his owne abiding, to enjoy the benefit of his purchase; but haled her into a small thicket of trees, where, although shee knew the evident perill, whereinto her severe continency had now throwne her: yet notwithstanding, shee would not lift up her eyes, to see what he was that had thus stolne her, so firmely shee dwelt upon grounded deliberation, and such was the vigor of her chaste resolve. and albeit shee knew a wickednesse (worse then death) preparing for her, who had no other glory then in her vertue, and desire to live contentedly; yet was shee no more astouned thereat, then if hee had led her to the palace of the king her father: perswading herselfe, that violence done to the body, is no prejudice to honour, when the mind is free and cleere from consent. as thus this robber of beauty was preparing to massacre the modesty of the faire princesse, shee resisted him with all her power, yea, and defended her selfe so worthily, that he could not get one looke of her eye, one kisse of her cheeke, nor any advantage whatsoever, crying out shrilly, and strugling against him strongly: her outcryes were heard by one, who little imagined that shee was so neere, whom he loved more dearely then his owne life, namely, _ocharus_; who was walking accidentally alone in this wood, devising by what meanes hee might winne grace from his sterne mistresse. no sooner tooke he knowledge of her, and saw her (in the armes of another) to be ravished; but he cryed out to the thiefe, saying; hand off villaine, let not such a slave as thou, prophane with an unreverend touch the sacred honour of so chaste a princesse, who deserveth to be more royally respected, then thus rudely hurried: hand off i say, or elsee i sweare by her divine perfections, whom i esteeme above all creatures in this world, to make thee die more miserably, then ever any man as yet did. whosoever had seene a lyon or an ounce rouse himselfe, chafing when any one adventureth to rob him of his prey; and then with fierce eyes, mounted creasts, writhed tayles, and sharpened pawes, make against him that durst to molest him. in the like manner did the ravisher shew himselfe, and one while snarling, another while bristling the darted disdainefull lookes at _ocharus_, and spake to him in this manner. vile and base sea-thiefe, as thou art, welcome to thy deserved wages, and just repayment for thy proud presuming. it glads my heart not a little, to meete thee here, where thou shalt soone perceive what good will i beare thee, and whether thou be worthy or no to enjoy the honour of this lady, now in mine owne absolute possession. it will also encrease her more ample perswasion of my worth, and pleade my merit more effectually in her favour; when shee shall see what a powerfull arme i have, to punish this proud insolence of a pirate. this harsh language was so distastfull to _ocharus_, that like a bull, made angry by the teeth of some mastive dogge, or pricked by the point of a weapon, he ran upon his enemy, and was so roughly welcommed by him, as it could not easilly be judged which of them had the better advantage. but in the end fortune favoured most the honest man, and _ocharus_ having overthrowne the robber, hee smote the head of him quite from his shoulders, which he presented to her, whom he had delivered out of so great a peril, and thus he spake. you may now behold madam, whether _ocharus_ be a true lover of _sericthaes_ vertues, or no, and your knowledge fully resolved, at what end his affection aimeth; as also, how farre his honest desert extendeth, for you both to love him, and to recompence the loyall respect he hath used towards you. never looke on the villaines face, who strove to shame the king your fathers court, by violation of theevery, the chastest princesse on the earth; but regard _ocharus_, who is readie to sacrifice himselfe, if you take as much pleasure in his ruine, as (he thinketh) hee hath given you contentment, by delivering you from this traytor. doth it not appeare unto you madam, that i have as yet done enough, whereby to be thought a worthy husband, for the royall daughter of _denmarke_? have i not satisfied the kings owne ordinance, by delivering his daughter, as already i have done? will _serictha_ be so constant in her cruelty, as not to turne her eye towards him, who exposed his life, to no meane perill and daunger, onely in the defence of her chastity? then i plainely perceive, that the wages of my devoire, is ranked amongest those precedent services, which i have performed for so hurtfull a beautie. yet gentle princesse, let me tell you, my carriage hath bin of more importance, then all the others can be, and my merit no way to be compared with theirs; at least, if you pleased to make account of him, who is an unfeigned lover of your modesty, and devoutly honoureth your vertuous behaviour. and yet madame, shall i have none other answere from you, but your perpetuall silence? can you continue so obstinate in your opinion, in making your selfe still as strange to your _ocharus_, as to the rest, who have no other affection, but onely to the bare outside of beauty? why then, royall ladie, seeing (at this instant time) all my labour is but lost, and your heart seemeth much more hardned, in acknowledging any of my honest services: at least yet let me bee so happy, as to conduct you backe to the palace, and restore you to that sacred safetie, which will be my soules best comfort to behold. no outward signe of kinde acceptation, did any way expresse itselfe in her, but rather as fearing, lest the commodiousnesse of the place shold incite this young lord, to forget all honest respect, and imitate the other in like basenesse. but he, who rather wished a thousand deathes, then any way to displease his mistresse, as if hee were halfe doubtfull of her suspition, made offer of guiding her backe to the place, from whence shee had before bene stolne, where she found her company still staying, as not daring to stirre thence, to let the king know his daughters ill fortune; but when they saw her returne, and in the company of so worthie a knight, they grew resolved, that no violence had bene done unto her. the princesse, sharpely rebuking her women, for leaving her so basely as they had done, gave charge to one of them (because she would not seeme altogether negligent & discourteous) that she being gone thence, she should not faile to thanke _ocharus_, for the honest and faithfull service he had done unto her, which she would continually remember, and recompence as it lay in her power. neverthelesse, shee advised him withall, not to hope of any more advantage thereby, then reason should require. for, if it were the will of the gods, that she should be his wife, neither she or any other could let or hinder it: but if her destiny reserved her for another, all his services would availe to no purpose, but rather to make her the more rigorous towards him. this gracious answer, thus given him by her gentlewoman, although it gave some small contentment to the poore languishing lover: yet hee saw no assured signe whereon to settle his resolve, but his hopes vanished away in smoake, as fast as opinion bred them in his braine. and gladly he would have given over all further amorous solicitings, but by some private perswasions of her message sent him, which in time might so advance his services done for her sake, as would derive far greater favours from her. whereupon, he omitted no time or place, but as occasion gave him any gracious permission, still plied her memorie, with his manly rescuing her from the ravisher, sufficient to pleade his merite to her father, and that (in equity) she ought to bee his wife, by right both of honour and armes; no man being able to deserve her, as he had done. so long he pursued her in this manner, that his speeches seemed hatefull to her, and devising how to be free from his daily importunities, at length, in the habite of a poore chamber-maide, she secretly departed out of the court, wandering into the solitary parts of the country; where she entered into service, and had the charge of keeping sheepe. it may seeme strange, that a kings onely daughter should stray in such sort, and despising courtly life, betake herselfe to paines and servility: but such was her resolution, and women delighting altogether in extremes, spare no attempts to compasse their owne wils. all the court was in an uprore for the ladies losse, the father in no meane affliction, the lovers well-nere beside their wits, and every one elsee most greevously tormented, that a lady of such worth should so sodainly be gone, and all pursuit made after her, gaine no knowledge of her. in this high tide of sorrow and disaster, what shall we say of the gentle lord _ocharus_? what judgement can sound the depth of his wofull extreamity? fearing least some other theefe had now made a second stealth of his divine goddesse; he must needs follow her againe, seeking quite throughout the world, never more returning backe to the court, nor to the place of his owne abiding, untill hee heard tidings of his mistresse, or ended his dayes in the search of her. no village, town, cottage, castle, or any place elsee of note or name, did hee leave unsought, but diligently he searched for _serictha_; striving to get knowledge, under what habit she lived thus concealed, but all his labour was to no effect: which made him leave the places so much frequented, and visite the solitary desert shades, entering into all caves and rusticke habitations, whereon hee could fasten his eye, to seeke for the lost treasure of his soule. on a day, as hee wandred along in a spacious valley, seated betweene two pleasant hilles, taking delight to heare the gentle murmure of the rivers, running by the sides of two neighbouring rockes, planted with all kinde of trees, and very thickely spred with mosse: hee espied a flocke of sheepe feeding on the grasse, and not farre off from them sate a maide spinning on her distaffe; who having got a sight of him, presently covered her face with a veile. love, who sate as sentinell both in the heart and eye of the gentle _norwegian_ lord, as quickly discovered the subtilty of the faire shephearddesse, enstructing the soule of _ocharus_, that thus she hid her face, as coveting not to be knowne: whereupon he gathered, that doubtlesse this was shee, for whom he hadde sought with such tedious travaile, and therefore going directly unto her, thus hee spake. gentle princesse; wherefore do you thus hide your selfe from mee? why do you haunt these retreats and desolate abodes, having power to command over infinite men, that cannot live but by your presence? what hath moved you madame, to flye from company, to dwel among desert rockes, and serve as a slave, to such as are no way worthy of your service? why do you forsake a potent king, whose onely daughter and hope you are; leaving your countrey and royall traine of ladies, and so farre abasing your selfe, to live in the dejected state of a servant, and to some rusticke clowne or peazant? what reason have you, to despise so many worthy lords, that dearely love and honour you, but (above them all) your poore slave _ocharus_, who hath made no spare of his owne life, for the safety of yours, and also for the defence of your honour? royal maid, i am the same man that delivered you from the villaine, who would have violated your faire chastity; and since then, have not spared any payne or travell in your search: for whose losse, king _siwalde_ is in extreme anguish, the _danes_ in mourning habites, and _ocharus_ even at the doore of death, being no way able to endure your absence. are you of the minde, worthy madame, that i have not hitherto deserved so much as one good looke or glance of your eye, in recompence of so many good & loyall services? if alas! i am neither ravisher, nor demander of any unjust requests, or elsee incivill in my motions: i may merit one regard of my mistresse. i require onely so silly a favour, that her eyes may pay me the wages for all which i have hitherto done in her service. what would you do madam, if i were an importunate solicitor, and requested farre greater matters of you, in just recompence of my labours? i do not desire, that you should embrace me. i am not so bold, as to request a kisse of _sericthaes_, more then immortall lips. nor doe i covet, that she should any otherwise entreate mee, then with such severity as beseemeth so great a princesse. i aske no more, but onely to elevate your chaste eyes, and grace me with one little looke, as being the man, who for his vertue and loyall affection, hath deserved more then that favour, yea, a much greater and excellent recompence. can you then be so cruell, as to denie me so small a thing, without regarde of the maine debt, wherein you stand engaged to your _ocharus_? the princesse perceiving that it availed nothing to conceale hir selfe, being by him so apparantly discovered; began now to speake (which she had never done before, either to him, or any other of her amorous suters) answering him in this manner. lord _ocharus_, it might suffice you, that your importunity made me forsake my fathers court, and causeth me to live in this abased condition, which i purpose to prosecute all my life time; or so long (at the least) as you, and such as you are, pursue me so fondly as you have presumed to do. for i am resolved, never to favour you any otherwise, then hitherto i have done; desiring you therefore, that _serictha_ wanting an interpreter to tell you her will, you would now receive it from her owne mouth, determining sooner to dye, then alter a jot of her intended purpose. _ocharus_ hearing this unwelcome answer, was even upon the point to have slaine himselfe: but yet, not to lose the name of a valiant man, or to be thought of an effeminate or cowardly spirite, that a woman should force him to an acte, so farre unfitting for a man of his ranke; hee tooke his leave of her, solemnly promising, not to forget her further pursuite, but at all times to obey her so long as he lived, although her commaund was very hard for him to endure. so hee departed thence, not unto the court, she being not there, that had the power to enjoyne his presence: but home to his owne house, where he was no sooner arrived, but he began to waxe wearie of his former folly; accusing himselfe of great indiscretion, for spending so much time in vaine, and in her service, who utterly despised him, and all his endeavours which he undertooke. he began to accuse her of great ingratitude, laying over-much respect uppon her vertue, to have no feeling at all of his loyall sufferings; but meerely made a mockery of his martyrdome. heereupon, he concluded to give over all further affection, to languish no longer for her sake, that hated him and all his actions. while he continued in these melancholly passions, the princesse, who all this while had persisted in such strict severity, as astonished the courages of her stoutest servants; considering (more deliberately) on the sincere affection of _ocharus_, and that vertue onely made him the friend to her modesty, and not wanton or lascivious appetite; she felt a willing readinesse in her soule, to gratifie him in some worthy manner, and to recompence some part of his travailes. which to effect, she resolved to follow him (in some counterfeite habite) even to the place of his own abiding, to try, if easily he could take knowledge of her, whom so lately he saw in the garments of a shephearddesse. being thus minded, shee went to her mistresse whom she served, and who had likewise seen lord _ocharus_ (of whom she had perfect knowledge) when hee conferred with the shephearddesse, and enquiring the cause, why hee resorted in that manner to her; _serictha_ returned her this answer. mistresse, i make no doubt, but you will be somewhat amazed, and (perhaps) can hardly credit when you heare, that she who now serveth you in the poore degree of shephearddesse, is the onely daughter to _siwalde_ king of the _danes_: for whose love, so many great lords have continually laboured; and that i onely attracted hither _ocharus_, the noble sonne of valiant _hebonius_, to wander in these solitary deserts, to finde out her that fled from him, and helde him in as high disdaine, as i did all the rest of his fellow rivals. but if my words may not heerein sufficiently assure you, i would advise you, to send where _ocharus_ dwelleth, & there make further enquiry of him, to the end that you may not imagine me a lyar. if my speeches do otherwise prevaile with you, and you remain assured, that i am she, whom your noble neighbour so deerely affecteth, albeit i never made any account at all of him: then i do earnestly intreat you, so much to stand my friend, as to provide some convenient means for me, whereby i may passe unknowne to the castle of _ocharus_, to revenge my selfe on his civill honesty, & smile at him hereafter, if he prove not so cleerely sighted, as to know her being neere him, whom he vaunteth to love above all women elsee. the good countrey-woman hearing these wordes, and perceyving that she had the princesse in her house, of whose speeches she made not any doubt, in regard of her stout countenance, gravity, and faire demeanour, began to rellish something in her minde, farre differing from matter of common understanding, and therefore roundly replied in this kind of language. madam (for servant i may no longer call you) i make no question to the contrary, but that you are derived of high birth; having observed your behaviour, and womanly carriage. and so much the more i remaine assured thereof, having seene such great honour done unto you, by the noble lord, and worthy warriour _ocharus_: wherefore, it lieth not in my power, to impeach your desseignes, much lesse to talke of your longer service, because you are the princesse _serictha_, whom i am to performe all humble dutie unto, as being one of your meanest subjects. and although you were not shee, yet would i not presume any way to offend you, in regarde of the true and vertuous love, which that good knight _ocharus_ seemeth to beare you. if my company bee needefull for you, i beseech you to accept it: if not, take whatsoever is mine, which may any way sted you; for, to make you passe unknowne, i can and will provide sufficiently, even to your own contentment, and in such strange manner, as _ocharus_ (were he never so cleerely sighted) shal be deceived, you being attired in those fashion garments, which heere in these parts are usually worne. _serictha_ being wonderously joyfull at her answer, suffred hir to paint, or rather soile her faire face, with the juice of divers hearbes and rootes, and cloathed her in such an habite as those women use to weare that live in the mountaines of _norway_, upon the sea-coast fronting _great-britain_. being thus disguised, confidently she went, to beguile the eie of her dearest friend, and so to returne backe againe from him, having affoorded him such a secret favour, in requitall of his honourable services; delivering her out of so great a danger, and comming to visite her in so solitarie a life. nor would she have the womans company any further, then till she came within the sight of _ocharus_ his castle; where when she was arrived (he being then absent) the mother unto the noble gentleman, gave her courteous welcom; and, notwithstanding her grosse & homely outward appearance, yet she collected by her countenance, that there was a matter of much more worth in her, then to bee a woman of base breeding. when _ocharus_ was returned home, he received advertisement by his mother, concerning the arrivall of this stranger, when as sodainely his soule halfe perswaded him, of some kinde courtesie to proceede from his sweet rebell, pretending now some feigned excuse, in recompence of all his travailes, and passed honest offices. observing all her actions and gestures, her wonted rigour never bending one jot, or gave way to her eye to looke upon any man; he grew the better assured, that she was the daughter to king _siwalde_. yet feigning to take no knowledge thereof, he bethought himselfe of a queint policy, whereby to make triall, whether secret kindnesse had conducted this lady thither, or no, to conclude his torments, and give a final end to his greevous afflictions. upon a watch-word given to his mother, he pretended, and so caused it to be noised through the house, that he was to marry a very honourable lady; which the constant and chaste maide verily beleeved; and therefore gave the more diligent attendance (as a new-come servant) to see all things in due decency, as no one could expresse herselfe more ready, because she esteemed him above all other men. yet such was the obstinate opinion she concerned of her owne precisenesse, as she would rather suffer all the flames of love, then expresse the least shew of desire to any man living. neverthelesse, she was inwardly offended, that any other should have the honour, to make her vaunt of enjoying _ocharus_; whom (indeed) she coveted, and thought him only worthy in her heart, to be son in law to the king of _denmarke_. now, as the mother was very seriously busied in preparing the castle, for receiving the pretended bride; shee employed her new mayde (_serictha_ i meane) as busily as any of the rest. in the meane while, _ocharus_ was laid upon a bed, well noting all her carriage and behaviour, shee having a lighted candle in her hand, without any candlesticke to hold it in. as all the servants (both men and maids) were running hastily from place to place, to cary such occasions as they were commanded, the candle was consumed so neere to _sericthaes_ fingers, that it burned hir hand. she, not to faile a jote in her height of mind, and to declare that her corage was invincible; was so farre off from casting away the small snuffe which offended her, that she rather graspt it the more strongly, even to the enflaming of her owne flesh, which gave light to the rest about their businesse. a matter (almost) as marvellous, as the acte of the noble _romane_, who gave his hand to be burned, in presence of the _tuscane_ king, that had besiedged _rome_. thus this lady would needs make it apparantly knowne, by this generous acte of hers, that her heart could not be enflamed or conquered, by all the fires of concupiscence, in suffering so stoutly and couragiously, the burning of this materiall fire. _ocharus_, who (as we have already saide) observed every thing that _serictha_ did; perceiving that she spake not one worde, albeit her hand burned in such fierce manner, was much astonished at her sprightly mind. and as he was about to advise her, to hurle away the fire so much offending her; curiositie (meerely naturall unto women) made the ladie lift uppe her eyes, to see (by stealth) whether her friend had noted her invincible constancy, or no. heereby _ocharus_ won the honour of his long expected victory; and leaping from off the bed, hee ranne to embrace her, not with any such feare as he had formerly used, in not daring so much as to touch her: but boldly now clasping his armes about her, he said. at this instant madam, the king your fathers decree is fully accomplished, for i am the first man that ever you lookt in the face, & you are onely mine, without making any longer resistance. you are the princely lady and wife, by me so constantly loved and desired, whom i have followed with such painefull travelse, exposing my life to infinite perils in your service: you have seene and lookt on him, who never craved any thing of you, but onely this favour, whereof you cannot bereave me againe, because the gods themselves, at such time as i least expected it, have bestowne it on me, as my deserved recompence, and worthy reward. in the delivery of these words, he kissed and embraced her a thousand times, shee not using any great resistance against him, but onely as somewhat offended with her selfe, either for being so rash in looking on him, or elsee for delaying his due merit so long; or rather, because with her good will shee had falne into the transgression. shee declared no violent or contending motion, as loath to continue so long in his armes; but rather, evident signes of hearty contentment, yet in very bashfull and modest manner, willing enough to accept his loving kindnesse, yet not wandring from her wonted chaste carriage. he being favourably excused, for the outward expression of his amourous behaviour to her, and certified withall, that since the time of freeing her from the wretch, who sought the violating of her chastity, shee had entirely respected him, (albeit, to shun suspition of lightnesse, and to win more assurance, of what shee credited sufficiently already, shee continued her stiffe opinion against him) yet alwayes this resolution was set downe in her soule, never (with her will) to have any other husband but _ocharus_, who (above all other) had best deserved her, by his generosity, vertue, manly courage, and valiancy; whereof he might the better assure himselfe, because (of her owne voluntary disposition) shee followed to find him out, not for any other occasion, but to revenge her selfe (by this honest office) for all that he had done or undertaken, to winne the grace and love of the king of _denmarkes_ daughter, to whom he presented such dutifull service. _ocharus_, who would not loose this happinesse, to be made king of all the northerne ilands, with more then a thankfull heart, accepted all her gracious excuses. and being desirous to waste no longer time in vaine, lest fortune should raise some new stratagem against him, to dispossesse him of so faire a felicity; left off his counterfeit intended marriage, and effected this in good earnest, and was wedded to his most esteemed _serictha_. not long had these lovers lived in the lawfull and sacred rites of marriage, but king _siwalde_ was advertised, that his daughter had given her consent to _ocharus_, and received him as her noble husband. the party was not a jot displeasing to him, hee thought him to be a worthy son in law, and the condition did sufficiently excuse the match; onely herein lay the error and offence, that the marriage was sollemnized without his knowledge and consent, he being not called thereto, or so much as acquainting him therewith, which made him condemne _ocharus_ of overbold arrogancy, he being such a great and powerfull king, to be so lightly respected by his subject, and especially in the marriage of his daughter. but _serictha_, who was now metamorphosed from a maide to a wife, and had lyen a few nights by the side of a soldiour, was become much more valiant and adventurous then she was before. she took the matter in hand, went to her father, who welcommed her most lovingly, and so pleasing were her speeches, carried with such wit and womanly discretion, that nothing wanted to approve what she had done. matters which he had never knowne, or so much as heard of, were now openly revealed, how _ocharus_ had delivered her from the ravisher, what worthie respect he then used towards her, and what honour he extended to her in the deserts, where she tended her flocke as a shephearddesse, with manie other honourable actions beside: that the kings anger became mildely qualified, and so farre he entred into affection, that he would not do any thing thence-forward, without the counsell and advise of his sonne in law, whom so highly he esteemed, and liked so respectively of him, and his race; that his queene dying, hee married with the sister to _ocharus_, going hand in band with the gentle and modest princesse _serictha_. this novell of _dioneus_, was commended by all the company, and so much the rather, because it was free from all folly and obscennesse. and the queene perceiving, that as the tale was ended, so her dignitie must now be expired: she tooke the crowne of laurell from off her head, & graciously placed it on the head of _philostratus_, saying; the worthy discourse of _dioneus_, being out of his wonted wanton element, causeth mee (at the resignation of mine authority) to make choise of him as our next commander, who is best able to order and enstruct us all; and so i yeeld both my place and honour to _philostratus_, i hope with the good liking of all our assistants: as plainly appeareth by their instant carriage towards him, with all their heartiest love and sufferages. whereupon _philostratus_, beginning to consider on the charge committed to his care, called the maister of the houshold, to knowe in what estate all matters were, because where any defect appeared, everie thing might be the sooner remedied, for the better satisfaction of the company, during the time of his authority. then returning backe to the assembly, thus he began. lovely ladies, i would have you to knowe, that since the time of ability in me, to distinguish betweene good and evill, i have alwayes bene subject (perhaps by the meanes of some beautie heere among us) to the proud and imperious dominion of love, with expression of all duty, humility, and most intimate desire to please: yet all hath prooved to no purpose, but still i have bin rejected for some other, whereby my condition hath falne from ill to worse, and so still it is likely, even to the houre of my death. in which respect, it best pleaseth me, that our conferences to morrow, shal extend to no other argument, but only such cases as are most conformable to my calamity, namely of such, whose love hath had unhappy ending, because i await no other issue of mine; nor willingly would i be called by any other name, but onely, the miserable and unfortunate lover. having thus spoken, he arose againe; granting leave to the rest, to recreate themselves till supper time. the garden was very faire and spacious, affoording large limits for their severall walkes; the sun being already so low descended, that it could not be offensive to anyone, the connies, kids, and young hindes skipping every where about them, to their no meane pleasure and contentment. _dioneus_ & _fiammetta_, sate singing together, of _messire guiglielmo_ and the lady of _vertue. philomena_ and _pamphilus_ playing at the chesse, all sporting themselves as best they pleased. but the houre of supper being come, and the tables covered about the faire fountaine, they sate downe and supt in most loving manner. then _philostratus_, not to swerve from the course which had beene observed by the queenes before him, so soone as the tables were taken away, gave command, that madam _lauretta_ should beginne the dance, and likewise to sing a song. my gracious lord (quoth shee) i can skill of no other songs, but onely a peece of mine owne, which i have already learned by heart, & may well beseeme this faire assembly: if you please to allow of that, i am ready to performe it with all obedience. lady, replyed the king, you your selfe being so faire and lovely, so needs must be whatsoever commeth from you, therefore let us heare such as you have. madam _lauretta_, giving enstruction to the chorus, prepared, and began in this manner. _the song. no soule so comfortlesse, hath more cause to expresse, like woe and heavinesse, as i poore amorous maide. he that did forme the heavens and every starre, made me as best him pleased, lovely and gracious, no element at jarre, or elsee in gentle breasts to moove sterne warre, but to have strifes appeased where beauties eye should make the deepest scarre. and yet when all things are confest, never was any soule distrest, like mine poore amorous maide. no soule so comfortlesse, &c. there was a time, when once i was helde deare, blest were those happy dayes: numberlesse love-suites whispred in mine eare, all of faire hope, but none of desperate feare; and all sung beauties praise. why should blacke clowdes obscure so bright a cleare? and why should others swimme in joy, and no heart drowned in annoy, like mine poore amorous maide? no soule so comfortlesse, &c. well may i curse that sad and dismall day, when in unkinde exchange; another beauty did my hopes betray, and stole my dearest love from me away: which i thought very strange, considering vowes were past, and what elsee may assure a loyall maidens trust, never was lover so unjust, like mine poore amorous maide. no soule so comfortlesse, &c. come then kinde death, and finish all my woes, thy helpe is now the best. come lovely nymphes, lend hands mine eyes to close, and let him wander wheresoere he goes, vaunting of mine unrest; beguiling others by his treacherous showes, grave on my monument, no true love was worse spent, then mine poore amorous maide. no soule so comfortlesse, &c._ so did madam _lauretta_ finish her song, which beeing well observed of them all, was understood by some in divers kinds: some alluding it one way, & others according to their own apprehensions, but all consenting, that both it was an excellent ditty, well devised, and most sweetly sung. afterward, lighted torches being brought, because the stars had already richly spangled all the heavens, and the fit houre of rest approaching: the king commanded them all to their chambers, where wee meane to leave them untill the next morning. _the end of the third day._ the fourth day. _wherein all the severall discourses, are under the government of honourable_ philostratus: _and concerning such persons, whose loves have had successelesse ending._ the induction unto the ensuing novelles. most worthy ladies, i have alwayes heard, as well by the sayings of the judicious, as also by mine owne observation and reading, that the impetuous and violent windes of envy, do sildome blow turbulently; but on the highest towers and tops of the trees most eminently advanced. yet (in mine opinion) i have found my selfe much deceived; because, by striving with my very uttermost endeavour, to shunne the outrage of those implacable winds; i have laboured to go, not onely by plaine and even pathes, but likewise through the deepest vallies. as very easily may be seene and observed in the reading of these few small novelse, which i have written not only in our vulgar _florentine_ prose, without any ambitious title: but also in a most humble stile, so low and gentle as possibly i could. and although i have bene rudely shaken, yea, almost halfe unrooted, by the extreame agitation of those blustering winds, and torne in peeces by that base back-biter, envy: yet have i not (for all that) discontinued, or broken any part of mine intended enterprize. wherefore, i can sufficiently witnesse (by mine owne comprehension) the saying so much observed by the wise, to bee most true; that nothing is without envy in this world, but misery onely. among variety of opinions, faire ladies; some, seeing these novelties, spared not to say; that i have bene over-pleasing to you, and wandered too farre from mine owne respect, imbasing my credit and repute, by delighting my selfe too curiously, for the fitting of your humours, and have extolled your worth too much, with addition of worse speeches then i meane to utter. others, seeming to expresse more maturity of judgment, have likewise said, that it was very unsuteable for my yeares, to meddle with womens wanton pleasures, or contend to delight you by the verie least of my labours. many more, making shew of affecting my good fame and esteeme, say; i had done much more wisely, to have kept mee with the muses at _parnassus_, then to confound my studies with such effeminate follies. some other beside, speaking more despightfully then discreetly, saide; i had declared more humanity, in seeking means for mine owne maintenance, and wherewith to support my continuall necessities, then to glut the worlde with gulleries, and feede my hopes with nothing but winde. and others, to calumniate my travailes, would make you beleeve, that such matters as i have spoken of, are meerly disguised by me, and figured in a quite contrary nature, quite from the course as they are related. whereby you may perceive (vertuous ladies) how while i labour in your service, i am agitated and molested with these blusterings, and bitten even to the bare bones, by the sharpe and venomous teeth of envy; all which (as heaven best knoweth) i gladly endure, and with good courage. now, albeit it belongeth onely to you, to defend me in this desperate extremity; yet, notwithstanding all their utmost malice, i will make no spare of my best abilities, and, without answering them any otherwise then is fitting, will quietly keepe their slanders from mine eares, with some sleight reply, yet not deserving to be dreamt on. for i apparantly perceive, that (having not already attained to the third part of my pains) they are growne to so great a number, and presume very farre uppon my patience: they may encrease, except they be repulsed in the beginning, to such an infinitie before i can reach to the end, as with their verie least paines taking, they will sinke me to the bottomlesse depth, if your sacred forces (which are great indeede) may not serve for me in their resistance. but before i come to answer any one of them, i will relate a tale in mine owne favour; yet not a whole tale, because it shall not appeare, that i purpose to mingle mine, among those which are to proceed from a company so commendable. onely i will report a parcell thereof, to the end, that what remaineth untold, may sufficiently expresse, it is not to be numbred among the rest to come. by way then of familiar discourse, and speaking to my malicious detractors, i say, that a long while since, there lived in our city, a citizen who was named _philippo balduccio_, a man but of meane condition, yet verie wealthy, well qualified, and expert in many things appertaining unto his calling. he had a wife whom he loved most intirely, as she did him, leading together a sweet and peaceable life, studying on nothing more, then how to please each other mutually. it came to passe, that as all flesh must, the good woman left this wretched life for a better, leaving one onely sonne to her husband, about the age of two yeares. the husband remained so disconsolate for the losse of his kinde wife, as no man possibly could be more sorrowfull, because he had lost the onely jewell of his joy. and being thus divided from the company which he most esteemed: he determined also to separate himselfe from the world, addicting al his endeavours to the service of god; and applying his yong sonne likewise, to the same holy exercises. having given away all his goods for gods sake, he departed to the mountaine _asinaio_, where he made him a small cell, and lived there with his little sonne, onely upon charitable almes, in abstinence and prayer, forbearing to speak of any worldly occasions, or letting the lad see any vaine sight: but conferred with him continually, on the glories of eternall life, of god and his saints, and teaching him nothing elsee but devout prayers, leading this kinde of life for many yeares together, not permitting him ever to goe forth of the cell, or shewing him any other but himselfe. the good old man used divers times to go to _florence_, where having received (according to his opportunities) the almes of divers well disposed people, he returned backe againe to his hermitage. it fortuned, that the boy being now about eighteene yeeres olde, and his father growne very aged; he demanded of him one day, whether hee went? wherein the old man truly resolved him: whereuppon, the youth thus spake unto him. father, you are now growne very aged, and hardly can endure such painfull travell: why do you not let me go to _florence_, that by making me knowne to your well disposed friends, such as are devoutly addicted both to god, and you; i, who am young, and better able to endure travaile then you are, may go thither to supply our necessities, and you take your ease in the mean while? the aged man, perceiving the great growth of his sonne, and thinking him to be so well instructed in gods service, as no wordly vanities could easily allure him from it; did not dislike the lads honest motion, but when he went next to _florence_, tooke him thither along with him. when he was there, and had seene the goodly palaces, houses, and churches, with all other sights to be seene in so populous a cittie: hee began greatly to wonder at them, as one that had never seene them before, at least within the compasse of his remembrance; demanding many things of his father, both what they were, and how they were named: wherein the old man still resolved him. the answers seemed to content him highly, and caused him to proceede on in further questionings, according still as they found fresh occasions: till at the last, they met with a troope of very beautifull women, going on in seemely manner together, as returning backe from a wedding. no sooner did the youth behold them, but he demanded of his father, what things they were; whereto the olde man replyed thus. sonne, cast downe thy lookes unto the ground, and do not seeme to see them at all, because they are bad things to behold. bad things father? answered the lad: how do you call them? the good olde man, not to quicken any concupiscible appetite in the young boy, or any inclinable desire to ought but goodnesse; would not terme them by their proper name of women, but tolde him that they were called young gozlings. heere grew a matter of no meane mervaile, that hee who had never seene any women before now; appeared not to respect the faire churches, palaces, goodly horses, golde, silver, or any thing elsee which he had seene; but, as fixing his affection onely upon this sight, sodainly said to the old man. good father, do so much for me, as to let me have one of these gozlings. alas sonne (replyed the father) holde thy peace i pray thee, and do not desire any such naughty things. then by way of demand, he thus proceeded, saying. father, are these naughty things made of themselves? yes sonne, answered the old man. i know not father (quoth the lad) what you meane by naughtinesse, nor why these goodly things should be so badly termed; but in my judgement, i have not seene any thing so faire and pleasing in mine eye, as these are, who excell those painted angelse, which heere in the churches you have shewn me. and therefore father, if either you love me, or have any care of me, let mee have one of these gozlings home to our cell, where we can make means sufficient for her feeding. i will not (said the father) be so much thine enemy, because neither thou, or i, can rightly skill of their feeding. perceiving presently, that nature had farre greater power then his sonnes capacity and understanding; which made him repent, for fondly bringing his sonne to _florence_. having gone so farre in this fragment of a tale, i am content to pause heere, and will returne againe to them of whom i spake before; i meane my envious depravers: such as have saide (faire ladies) that i am double blame-worthy, in seeking to please you, and that you are also over-pleasing to me; which freely i confesse before all the world, that you are singularly pleasing to me, and i have stroven how to please you effectually. i would demand of them (if they seeme so much amazed heereat,) considering, i never knew what belonged to true love kisses, amorous embraces, and their delectable fruition, so often received from your graces; but onely that i have seene, and do yet daily behold, your commendable conditions, admired beauties, noble adornments by nature, and (above all the rest) your womenly and honest conversation. if hee that was nourished, bred, and educated, on a savage solitary mountain, within the confines of a poore small cell, having no other company then his father: if such a one, i say, uppon the very first sight of your sexe, could so constantly confesse, that women were onely worthy of affection, and the object which (above all things elsee) he most desired; why should these contumelious spirits so murmure against me, teare my credite with their teeth, and wound my reputation to the death, because your vertues are pleasing to mee, and i endeavour likewise to please you with my utmost paines? never had the auspitious heavens allowed me life, but onely to love you; and from my very infancie, mine intentions have alwaies bene that way bent: feeling what vertue flowed from your faire eies, understanding the mellifluous accents of your speech, whereto the enkindled flames of your sighes gave no meane grace. but remembring especially, that nothing could so please an hermite, as your divine perfections, an unnurtured lad, without understanding, and little differing from a meere brutish beast: undoubtedly, whosoever loveth not women, and desireth to be affected of them againe; may well be ranked among these women-haters, speaking out of cankred spleene, and utterly ignorant of the sacred power (as also the vertue) of naturall affection, whereof they seeming so carelesse, the like am i of their depraving. concerning them that touch me with mine age; do not they know, that although leeks have white heads, yet the blades of them are alwaies greene? but referring them to their flouts and taunts, i answer, that i shal never hold it any disparagement to mee, so long as my life endureth, to delight my selfe with those exercises, which _guido cavalconti_, and _dante alighieri_, already aged, as also _messer cino de pistoia_, older then either of them both, held to be their chiefest honour. and were it not a wandering too farre from our present argument, i would alledge histories to approove my words, full of very ancient and famous men, who in the ripest maturity of all their time, were carefully studious for the contenting of women, albeit these cock-braines neither know the way how to do it, nor are so wise as to learne it. now, for my dwelling at _parnassus_ with the muses, i confesse their counsell to be very good: but wee cannot alwayes continue with them, nor they with us. and yet neverthelesse, when any man departeth from them, they delighting themselves, to see such things as may bee thought like them, do not therein deserve to be blamed. wee finde it recorded, that the muses were women, and albeit women cannot equall the performance of the muses; yet in their very prime aspect, they have a lively resemblance with the muses: so that, if women were pleasing for nothing elsee, yet they ought to be generally pleasing in that respect. beside all this, women have bin the occasion of my composing a thousand verses, whereas the muses never caused me to make so much as one. verie true it is, that they gave me good assistance, and taught me how i shold compose them, yea, and directed me in writing of these novelse. and how basely soever they judge of my studies, yet have the muses never scorned to dwell with me, perhaps for the respective service, and honourable resemblance of those ladies with themselves, whose vertues i have not spared to commend by them. wherefore, in the composition of these varieties, i have not strayed so farre from _parnassus_, nor the muses; as in their silly conjectures they imagine. but what shall i say to them, who take so great compassion on my povertie, as they advise me to get something, whereon to make my living? assuredly, i know not what to say in this case, except by due consideration made with my selfe, how they would answer mee, if necessitie should drive me to crave kindnesse of them; questionles, they would then say: goe, seeke comfort among thy fables and follies. yet i would have them know, that poore poets have alwayes found more among their fables & fictions; then many rich men ever could do, by ransacking all their bags of treasure. beside, many other might be spoken of, who made their age and times to flourish, meerely by their inventions and fables: whereas on the contrary, a great number of other busier braines, seeking to gaine more then would serve them to live on; have utterly runne uppon their owne ruine, and overthrowne themselves for ever. what should i say more? to such men, as are either so suspitious of their owne charitie, or of my necessity, whensoever it shall happen: i can answere (i thanke my god for it) with the apostle; i know how to abounde, & how to abate, yea, how to endure both prosperity and want; and therefore, let no man be more carefull of me, then i am of my selfe. for them that are so inquisitive into my discourses, to have a further construction of them, then agrees with my meaning, or their own good manners, taxing me with writing one thing, but intending another; i could wish, that their wisedom would extend so farre, as but to compare them with their originals, to finde them a jot discordant from my writing; and then i would freely confesse, that they had some reason to reprehend me, and i should endeavour to make them amends. but untill they can touch me with any thing elsee, but words onely; i must let them wander in their owne giddy opinions, and followe the course projected to my selfe, saying of them, as they do of me. thus holding them all sufficiently answered for this time, i say (most worthy ladies) that by heavens assistance and yours, whereto i onely leane: i will proceede on, armed with patience; and turning my backe against these impetuous windes, let them breath till they burst, because i see nothing can happen to harme me, but onely the venting of their malice. for the roughest blastes, do but raise the smallest dust from off the ground, driving it from one place to another; or, carrying it up to the aire, many times it falleth downe againe on mens heads, yea, upon the crownes of emperors and kings, and sometimes on the highest palaces and tops of towers; from whence, if it chance to descend again by contrarie blasts, it can light no lower, then whence it came at the first. and therefore, if ever i strove to please you with my uttermost abilities in any thing, surely i must now contend to expresse it more then ever. for, i know right well, that no man can say with reason, except some such as my selfe, who love and honour you, that we do any otherwise then as nature hath commanded us; and to resist her lawes, requires a greater and more powerfull strength then ours: and the contenders against her supreame priviledges, have either laboured meerely in vaine, or elsee incurred their owne bane. which strength, i freely confesse my selfe not to have, neither covet to be possessed of it in this case: but if i had it, i wold rather lend it to some other, then any way to use it on mine own behalfe. wherefore, i would advise them that thus checke and controule mee, to give over, and be silent; and if their cold humours cannot learne to love, let them live still in their frostie complexion, delighting themselves in their corrupted appetites: suffering me to enjoy mine owne, for the little while i have to live; and this is all the kindnesse i require of them. but now it is time (bright beauties) to returne whence we parted, and to follow our former order begun, because it may seeme we have wandered too farre. by this time the sun had chased the starre-light from the heavens, and the shadie moisture from the ground, when _philostratus_ the king being risen, all the company arose likewise. when being come into the goodly garden, they spent the time in varietie of sports, dining where they had supt the night before. and after that the sun was at his highest, and they had refreshed their spirits with a little slumbering, they sate downe (according to custome) about the faire fountaine. and then the king commanded madam _fiammetta_, that she should give beginning to the dayes novelse: when she, without any longer delaying, began in this gracious manner. tancrede, _prince of_ salerne, _caused the amorous friend of his daughter to be slaine, and sent her his heart in a cup of gold: which afterward she steeped in an impoysoned water, and then drinking it so dyed._ the first novell. _wherein is declared the power of love, and their cruelty justly reprehended, who imagine to make the vigour thereof cease, by abusing or killing one of the lovers._ our king (most noble and vertuous ladies) hath this day given us a subject, very rough and stearne to discourse on, and so much the rather, if we consider, that we are come hither to be merry & pleasant, where sad tragicall reports are no way suteable, especially, by reviving the teares of others, to bedew our owne cheekes withall. nor can any such argument be spoken of, without moving compassion both in the reporters, and hearers. but (perhaps) it was his highnesse pleasure, to moderate the delights which we have already had. or whatsoever elsee hath provoked him thereto, seeing it is not lawfull for mee, to alter or contradict his appointment; i will recount an accident very pittiful, or rather most unfortunate, and well worthy to bee graced with our teares. _tancrede_, prince of _salerne_ (which city, before the consulles of _rome_ held dominion in that part of _italy_, stoode free, and thence (perchance) tooke the moderne title of a principality) was a very humane lord, and of ingenious nature; if, in his elder yeares, he had not soiled his hands in the blood of lovers, especially one of them, being both neere and deere unto him. so it fortuned, that during the whole life time of this prince, he had but one onely daughter (albeit it had bene much better, if he had had none at all) whom he so choisely loved and esteemed, as never was any childe more deerely affected of a father: and so farre extended his over-curious respect of her, as he would sildome admit her to be foorth of his sight; neither would he suffer her to marry, although she had outstept (by divers yeares) the age meete for marriage. neverthelesse, at length, he matched her with the sonne to the duke of _capua_, who lived no long while with her; but left her in a widdowed estate, and then shee returned home to her father againe. this lady, had all the most absolute perfections, both of favour and feature, as could be wished in any woman, yong, queintly disposed, and of admirable understanding, more (perhappes) then was requisite in so weake a bodie. continuing thus in court with the king her father, who loved her beyond all his future hopes; like a lady of great and glorious magnificence, she lived in all delights & pleasure. she well perceiving, that her father thus exceeding in his affection to her, had no mind at all of re-marrying her, and holding it most immodest in her, to solicite him with any such suite: concluded in her mindes private consultations, to make choise of some one especiall friend or favourite (if fortune would prove so furtherous to her) whom she might acquaint secretly, with her sober, honest, and familiar purposes. her fathers court beeing much frequented, with plentifull accesse of brave gentlemen, and others of inferiour quality, as commonly the courts of kings & princes are, whose carriage and demeanour she very heedfully observed. there was a yong gentleman among all the rest, a servant to her father, and named _guiscardo_, a man not derived from any great descent by bloode, yet much more noble by vertue and commendable behaviour, then appeared in any of the other, none pleased her opinion, like as he did; so that by often noting his parts and perfections, her affection being but a glowing sparke at the first, grewe like a bavin to take flame, yet kept so closely as possibly she could; as ladies are warie enough in their love. the yong gentleman, though poore, being neither blocke nor dullard, perceived what he made no outward shew of, and understood himselfe so sufficiently, that holding it no meane happinesse to bee affected by her, he thought it very base and cowardly in him, if he should not expresse the like to her againe. so loving mutually (yet secretly) in this manner, and shee coveting nothing more, then to have private conference with him, yet not daring to trust anyone with so important a matter; at length she devised a new cunning stratageme, to compasse her longing desire, and acquaint him with her private purpose, which proved to bee in this manner. shee wrote a letter, concerning what was the next day to be done, for their secret meeting together; and conveying it within the joynt of an hollow cane, in jesting manner threw it to _guiscardo_, saying; let your man make use of this, insted of a paire of bellowes, when he meaneth to make fire in your chamber. _guiscardo_ taking up the cane, and considering with himselfe, that neither was it given, or the wordes thus spoken, but doubtlesse on some important occasion: went unto his lodging with the cane, where viewing it respectively, he found it to be cleft, and opening it with his knife, found there the written letter enclosed. after he had reade it, and well considered on the service therein concerned; he was the most joyfull man of the world, and began to contrive his aptest meanes, for meeting with his gracious mistresse, and according as she had given him direction. in a corner of the kings palace, it being seated on a rising hill, a cave had long beene made in the body of the same hill, which received no light into it, but by a small spiracle or vent-loope, made out ingeniously on the hills side. and because it hadde not in long time bene frequented, by the accesse of any body, that vent-light was over-growne with briars and bushes, which almost engirt it round about. no one could descend into this cave or vault, but only by a secret paire of staires, answering to a lower chamber of the palace, and very neere to the princesses lodging, as beeing altogether at her command, by meanes of a strong barred and defensible doore, whereby to mount or descend at her pleasure. and both the cave it selfe, as also the degrees conducting downe into it, were now so quite worne out of memory (in regard it had not bene visited by any one in long time before) as no man remembred that there was any such thing. but love, from whose bright discerning eies, nothing can be so closely concealed, but at the length it commeth to light: had made this amorous lady mindefull thereof, and because she would not bee discovered in her intention, many dayes together, her soule became perplexed; by what meanes that strong doore might best be opened, before shee could compasse to performe it. but after that she had found out the way, and gone downe her selfe alone into the cave; observing the loope-light, & had made it commodious for her purpose, shee gave knowledge thereof to _guiscardo_, to have him devise an apt course for his descent, acquainting him truly with the height, and how farre it was distant from the ground within. after he had found the souspirall in the hills side, and given it a larger entrance for his safer passage; he provided a ladder of cords, with steppes sufficient for his descending and ascending, as also a wearing sute made of leather, to keepe his skinne unscratched of the thornes, and to avoide all suspition of his resorting thither. in this manner went he to the saide loope-hole the night following, and having fastened the one end of his corded ladder, to the strong stumpe of a tree being closely by it; by meanes of the saide ladder, he descended downe into the cave, and there attended the comming of his lady. she, on the morrow morning, pretending to her waiting woman, that she was scarsly well, and therefore would not be diseased the most part of that day; commanded them to leave her alone in her chamber, and not to returne untill she called for them, locking the doore her selfe for better security. then opened she the doore of the cave, and going downe the staires, found there her amorous friend _guiscardo_, whom she saluting with a chaste and modest kisse; caused him to ascend up the stayres with her into her chamber. this long desired, and now obtained meeting, caused the two deerely affecting lovers, in kinde discourse of amorous argument (without incivill or rude demeanour) to spend there the most part of that day, to their hearts joy and mutuall contentment. and having concluded on their often meeting there, in this cunning & concealed sort; _guiscardo_ went downe into the cave againe, the princesse making the doore fast after him, and then went forth among her women. so in the night season, _guiscardo_ ascended uppe againe by his ladder of cords, and covering the loope-hole with brambles and bushes, returned (unseene of any) to his owne lodging: the cave being afterward guilty of their often meeting there in this manner. but fortune, who hath alwayes bin a fatall enemy to lovers stolne felicities, became envious of their thus secret meeting, and overthrew (in an instant) all their poore happinesse, by an accident most spightfull and malicious. the king had used divers dayes before, after dinner time, to resort all alone to his daughters chamber, there conversing with her in most loving manner. one unhappy day amongst the rest, when the princesse, being named _ghismonda_, was sporting in her privat garden among her ladies, the king (at his wonted time) went to his daughters chamber, being neither heard or seene by any. nor would he have his daughter called from her pleasure, but finding the windowes fast shut, and the curtaines close drawne about the bed; he sate downe in a chaire behind it, and leaning his head upon the bed; his body being covered with the curtaine, as if he hid himselfe purposely; hee mused on so many matters, untill at last he fell fast asleepe. it hath bin observed as an ancient adage, that when disasters are ordained to any one, commonly they prove to be inevitable, as poore _ghismonda_ could witnesse too well. for, while the king thus slept, shee having (unluckily) appointed another meeting with _guiscardo_, left hir gentlewomen in the garden, and stealing softly into her chamber, having made all fast and sure, for being descried by any person: opened the doore to _guiscardo_, who stood there ready on the staire-head, awaiting his entrance; and they sitting downe on the bed side (according as they were wont to do) began their usuall kinde conference againe, with sighes and loving kisses mingled among them. it chanced that the king awaked, & both hearing and seeing this familiarity of _guiscardo_ with his daughter, he became extreamly confounded with greefe thereat. once he intended, to cry out for helpe, to have them both there apprehended; but he helde it a part of greater wisedome, to sit silent still, and (if hee could) to keepe himselfe so closely concealed: to the end, that he might the more secretly, and with far less disgrace to himselfe, performe what hee had rashly intended to do. the poore discovered lovers, having ended their amorous interparlance, without suspition of the kings being so neer in person, or any else, to betray their over-confident trust; _guiscardo_ descended againe into the cave, and she leaving the chamber, returned to her women in the garden; all which _tancrede_ too well observed, and in a rapture of fury, departed (unseene) into his owne lodging. the same night, about the houre of mens first sleepe, and according as he had given order; _guiscardo_ was apprehended, even as he was comming forth of the loope-hole, & in his homely leather habite. very closely was he brought before the king, whose heart was swolne so great with greefe, as hardly was hee able to speake: notwithstanding, at the last he began thus. _guiscardo_, the love & respect i have used towards thee, hath not deserved the shameful wrong which thou hast requited me withall, and as i have seene with mine owne eyes this day. whereto _guiscardo_ could answer nothing elsee, but onely this: alas my lord! love is able to do much more, then either you, or i. whereupon, _tancrede_ commanded, that he should bee secretly well guarded, in a neere adjoining chamber, and on the next day, _ghismonda_ having (as yet) heard nothing heereof, the kings braine being infinitely busied and troubled, after dinner, and as he often had used to do: he went to his daughters chamber, where calling for her, and shutting the doores closely to them, the teares trickling downe his aged white beard, thus he spake to her. _ghismonda_, i was once grounded in a setled perswasion, that i truely knew thy vertue, and honest integrity of life; and this beleefe could never have bene altred in mee, by any sinister reports whatsoever, had not mine eyes seene, and mine eares heard the contrary. nor did i so much as conceive a thought either of thine affection, or private conversing with any man, but onely he that was to be thy husband. but now, i my selfe being able to avouch thy folly, imagine what an heart-breake this will be to me, so long as life remaineth in this poore, weak, and aged body. yet, if needs thou must have yeelded to this wanton weakenesse, i would thou hadst made choise of a man, answerable to thy birth & nobility: whereas on the contrary, among so many worthy spirits as resort to my court, thou likest best to converse with that silly yong man _guiscardo_, one of very meane and base descent, and by mee (even for gods sake) from his very youngest yeares, brought uppe to this instant in my court; wherein thou hast given me much affliction of minde, and so overthrowne my senses, as i cannot wel imagine how i should deale with thee. for him, whom i have this night caused to be surprized, even as he came forth of your close contrived conveyance, and detaine as my prisoner, i have resolved how to proceed with him: but concerning thy selfe, mine oppressions are so many and violent, as i know not what to say of thee. one way, thou hast meerly murthered the unfeigned affection i bare thee, as never any father could expresse more to his child: and then againe, thou hast kindled a most just indignation in me, by thine immodest and wilfull folly, and whereas nature pleadeth pardon for the one, yet justice standeth up against the other, and urgeth cruell severity against thee: neverthelesse, before i will determine upon any resolution, i come purposely first to heare thee speake, and what thou canst say for thy selfe, in a bad case, so desperate and dangerous. having thus spoken, he hung downe the head in his bosome, weeping as abundantly, as if it had beene a childe severely disciplinde. on the other side, _ghismonda_ hearing the speeches of her father, and perceiving withall, that not onely her secret love was discovered, but also _guiscardo_ was in close prison, the matter which most of all did torment her; shee fell into a very strange kinde of extasie, scorning teares, and entreating tearmes, such as feminine frailety are alwayes aptest unto: but rather, with height of courage, controling feare or servile basenesse, and declaring invincible fortitude in her very lookes, shee concluded with her selfe, rather then to urge any humble perswasions, shee would lay her life downe at the stake. for plainely shee perceived, that _guiscardo_ already was a dead man in law, and death was likewise as welcome to her, rather then the deprivation of her love; and therefore, not like a weeping woman, or as checkt by the offence committed, but carelesse of any harme happening to her: stoutly and couragiously, not a teare appearing in her eye, or her soule any way to be perturbed, thus shee spake to her father. _tancrede_, to denie what i have done, or to entreate any favour from you, is now no part of my disposition: for as the one can little availe me, so shall not the other any way advantage me. moreover, i covet not, that you should extend any clemency or kindnesse to me, but by my voluntary confession of the truth; doe intend (first of all) to defend mine honour, with reasons sound, good, and substantiall, and then vertuously pursue to full effect, the greatnesse of my minde and constant resolution. true it is, that i have loved, and still doe, honourable _guiscardo_, purposing the like so long as i shall live, which will be but a small while: but if it bee possible to continue the same affection after death, it is for ever vowed to him onely. nor did mine owne womanish weaknesse so much thereto induce me, as the matchlesse vertues shining cleerely in _guiscardo_, and the little respect you had of marrying me againe. why royall father, you cannot be ignorant, that you being composed of flesh and blood, have begotten a daughter of the selfe same composition, and not made of stone or yron. moreover, you ought to remember (although now you are farre stept in yeeres) what the lawes of youth are, and with what difficulty they are to be contradicted. considering withall, that albeit (during the vigour of your best time) you evermore were exercised in armes; yet you should likewise understand, that negligence and idle delights, have mighty power, not onely in yong people, but also in them of greatest yeeres. i being then made of flesh and blood, and so derived from your selfe; having had also so little benefit of life, that i am yet in the spring, and blooming time of my blood: by either of these reasons, i must needs be subject to naturall desires, wherein such knowledge as i have once already had, in the estate of my marriage, perhaps might move a further intelligence of the like delights, according to the better ability of strength, which exceeding all capacity of resistance, induced a second motive to affection, answerable to my time and youthful desires, and so (like a yong woman) i became amorous againe; yet did i strive, even with all my utmost might, and best vertuous faculties abiding in me, no way to disgrace either you or my selfe, as (in equall censure) yet i have not done. but nature is above all humane power, and love, commanded by nature, hath prevailed for love, joyning with fortune: in meere pity and commiseration of my extreme wrong, i found them both most benigne and gracious, teaching me a way secret enough, whereby i might reach the height of my desires, howsoever you became instructed, or (perhaps) found it out by accident; so it was, and i denie it not. nor did i make election of _guiscardo_ by chance, or rashly, as many women doe, but by deliberate counsell in my soule, and most mature advise; i chose him above all other, and having his honest harmelesse conversation, mutually we enjoyed our hearts contentment. now it appeareth, that i having not offended but by love; in imitation of vulgar opinion, rather then truth: you seeke to reprove me bitterly, alleaging no other maine argument for your anger, but onely my not choosing a gentleman, or one more worthy. wherein it is most evident, that you doe not so much checke my fault, as the ordination of fortune; who many times advanceth men of meanest esteeme, and abaseth them of greater merit. but leaving this discourse, let us looke into the originall of things, wherein wee are first to observe, that from one masse or lumpe of flesh, both we, and all other received our flesh, and one creator hath created all things; yea, all creatures, equally in their forces and faculties, and equall likewise in their vertue: which vertue was the first that made distinction of our birth and equality, in regard, that such as had the most liberall portion thereof, and performed actions thereto answerable, were thereby termed noble, all the rest remaining unnoble: now although contrary use did afterward hide and conceale this law, yet was it not therefore banished from nature or good manners. in which respect, whosoever did execute all his actions by vertue, declared himselfe openly to be noble; and he that tearmed him otherwise, it was an error in the miscaller, and not in the person so wrongfully called; as the very same priviledge is yet in full force among us at this day. cast an heedfull eye then (good father) upon all your gentlemen, and advisedly examine their vertues, conditions and manner of behaviour. on the other side, observe those parts remaining in _guiscardo_: and then, if you will judge truly, and without affection, you will confesse him to be most noble, and that all your gentlemen (in respect of him) are but base groomes and villaines. his vertues and excelling perfections, i never credited from the report or judgement of any person; but onely by your speeches, and mine owne eyes as true witnesses. who did ever more commend _guiscardo_, extolling all those singularities in him, most requisite to be in an honest vertuous man; then you your selfe have done? nor neede you to be sorry, or ashamed of your good opinion concerning him; for, if mine eyes have not deceived my judgement, you never gave him the least part of praise, but i have knowne much more in him, then ever your words were able to expresse: wherefore, if i have beene any way deceived, truly the deceit proceeded onely from you. how will you then maintaine, that i have throwne my liking on a man of base condition? in troth (sir) you cannot. perhaps you will alleadge, that he is meane and poore; i confesse it, and surely it is to your shame, that you have not bestowne place of more preferment, on a man so honest and well deserving, and having beene so long a time your servant. neverthelesse, poverty impaireth not any part of noble nature, but wealth hurries it into horrible confusions. many kings and great princes have heretofore beene poore, when divers of them that have delved into the earth, and kept flockes in the feld, have beene advanced to riches, and exceeded the other in wealth. now, as concerning your last doubt, which most of all afflicteth you, namely, how you shall deale with me; boldly rid your braine of any such disturbance, for if you have resolved now in your extremity of yeeres, to doe that which your younger dayes evermore despised, i meane, to become cruell; use your utmost cruelty against me, for i will never entreate you to the contrary, because i am the sole occasion of this offence, if it doe deserve the name of an offence. and this i dare assure you, that if you deale not with me, as you have done already, or intend to _guiscardo_, mine owne hands shall act as much: and therefore give over your teares to women, and if you purpose to be cruel, let him and me in death drinke both of one cup, at least, if you imagine that we have deserved it. the king knew well enough the high spirit of his daughter, but yet (neverthelesse) he did not beleeve, that her words would prove actions, or shee doe as shee saide. and therefore parting from her, and without intent of using any cruelty to her; concluded, by quenching the heate of another, to coole the fiery rage of her distemper, commanding two of his followers (who had the custody of _guiscardo_) that without any rumour or noyse at all, they should strangle him the night ensuing, and taking the heart forth of his body, to bring it to him, which they performed according to their charge. on the next day, the king called for a goodly standing cup of gold, wherein he put the heart of _guiscardo_, sending it by one of his most familiar servants to his daughter, with command also to use these words to her. thy father hath sent thee this present, to comfort thee with that thing which most of all thou affectest, even as thou hast comforted him with that which he most hated. _ghismonda_, nothing altered from her cruell deliberation, after her father was departed from her, caused certaine poysonous rootes & hearbs to be brought her, which shee (by distillation) made a water of, to drinke suddenly, whensoever any crosse accident should come from her father; whereupon, when the messenger from her father had delivered her the present, and uttered the words as he was commanded: shee tooke the cup, and looking into it with a setled countenance, by sight of the heart, and effect of the message, shee knew certainely, that it was the heart of _guiscardo_; then looking stearnely on the servant, thus she spake unto him. my honest friend, it is no more then right and justice, that so worthy a heart as this is, should have any worser grave then gold, wherein my father hath dealt most wisely. so, lifting the heart up to her mouth; and sweetly kissing it, shee proceeded thus. in all things, even till this instant, (being the utmost period of my life) i have evermore found my fathers love most effectuall to me; but now it appeareth farre greater, then at any time heretofore: and therefore from my mouth, thou must deliver him the latest thankes that ever i shall give him, for sending me such an honourable present. these words being ended, holding the cup fast in her hand, and looking seriously upon the heart, shee began againe in this manner. thou sweete entertainer of all my dearest delights, accursed be his cruelty, that causeth me thus to see thee with my corporall eyes, it being sufficient enough for me, alwayes to behold thee with the sight of my soule. thou hast runne thy race, and as fortune ordained, so are thy dayes finished: for as all flesh hath an ending; so hast thou concluded, albeit too soone, and before thy due time. the travailes and miseries of this world, have now no more to meddle with thee, and thy very heaviest enemy, hath bestowed such a grave on thee, as thy greatnesse in vertue worthily deserveth; now nothing elsee is wanting, wherewith to beautifie thy funerall, but onely her sighes & teares, that was so deare unto thee in thy life time. and because thou mightest the more freely enjoy them, see how my mercilesse father (on his owne meere motion) hath sent thee to me; and truly i will bestow them frankly on thee, though once i had resolved, to die with drie eyes, and not shedding one teare, dreadlesse of their utmost malice towards me. and when i have given thee the due oblation of my teares, my soule, which sometime thou hast kept most carefully, shall come to make a sweete conjunction with thine: for in what company elsee can i travaile more contentedly, and to those unfrequented silent shades, but onely in thine? as yet i am sure it is present here, in this cup sent me by my father, as having a provident respect to the place, for possession of our equall and mutuall pleasures; because thy soule affecting mine so truely, cannot walke alone, without his deare companion. having thus finished her complaint, even as if her head had been converted into a well-spring of water, so did teares abundantly flow from her faire eyes, kissing the heart of _guiscardo_ infinite times. all which while, her women standing by her, neither knew what heart it was, nor to what effect her speeches tended: but being moved to compassionate teares, they often demanded (albeit in vaine) the occasion of her sad complaining, comforting her to their utmost power. when shee was not able to weepe any longer, wiping her eyes, and lifting up her head, without any signe of the least dismay, thus shee spake to the heart. deare heart, all my duty is performed to thee, and nothing now remaineth uneffected; but onely breathing my last, to let my ghost accompany thine. then calling for the glasse of water, which shee had readily prepared the day before, and powring it upon the heart lying in the cup, couragiously advancing it to her mouth, shee dranke it up every drop; which being done, shee lay downe upon her bed, holding her lovers heart fast in her hand, and laying it so neere to her owne as she could. now although her women knew not what water it was, yet when they had seene her to quaffe it off in that manner, they sent word to the king, who much suspecting what had happened, went in all haste to his daughters chamber, entring at the very instant, when shee was laide upon her bed; beholding her in such passionate pangs, with teares streaming downe his reverend beard, he used many kinde words to comfort her, when boldly thus shee spake unto him. father (quoth she) well may you spare these teares, because they are unfitting for you, and not any way desired by me; who but your selfe, hath seene any man to mourne for his owne wilfull offence. neverthelesse, if but the least jot of that love doe yet abide in you, whereof you have made such liberall profession to me; let me obtaine this my very last request, to wit, that seeing i might not privately enjoy the benefit of _guiscardoes_ love, and while he lived; let yet (in death) one publike grave containe both our bodies, that death may affoord us, what you so cruelly in life denied us. extremity of griefe and sorrow, with-held his tongue from returning any answer, and shee perceiving her end approaching, held the heart still closed to her owne bare brest, saying; here fortune, receive two true hearts latest oblation, for, in this manner are we comming to thee. so closing her eyes, all sense forsooke her, life leaving her body breathlesse. thus ended the haplesse love of _guiscardo_, and _ghismonda_, for whose sad disaster, when the king had mourned sufficiently, and repented fruitlessly; he caused both their bodies to be honourably embalmed, and buried in a most royall monument, not without generall sorrow of the subjects of _salerne_. _fryar_ albert _made a young venetian gentlewoman beleeve, that god_ cupid _was falne in love with her, and he resorted oftentimes unto her, in the disguise of the same god. afterward, being frighted by the gentlewomans kindred and friends, he cast himselfe out of her chamber window, and was hidden in a poore mans house; on the day following, in the shape of a wilde or savage man, he was brought upon the rialto of saint_ marke, _and being there publikely knowne by the brethren of his order; he was committed to prison._ the second novell. _reprehending the lewd lives of dissembling hypocrites; and checking the arrogant pride of vaine-headed women._ the novell recounted by madam _fiammetta_, caused teares many times in the eyes of all the company; but it being finished, the king shewing a stearne countenance, saide; i should much have commended the kindnesse of fortune, if in the whole course of my life, i had tasted the least moity of that delight, which _guiscardo_ received by conversing with faire _ghismonda_. nor neede any of you to wonder thereat, or how it can be otherwise, because hourely i feele a thousand dying torments, without enjoying any hope of ease or pleasure: but referring my fortunes to their owne poore condition, it is my will, that madam _pampinea_ proceed next in the argument of successelesse love, according as madam _fiammetta_ hath already begun, to let fall more dew-drops on the fire of mine afflictions. madam _pampinea_ perceiving what a taske was imposed on her, knew well (by her owne disposition) the inclination of the company, whereof shee was more respective, then of the kings command: wherefore, chusing rather to recreate their spirits, then to satisfie the kings melancholy humour; shee determined to relate a tale of mirthfull matter, and yet to keepe within compasse of the purposed argument. it hath been continually used as a common proverbe; that a bad man, taken and reputed to be honest and good, may commit many evils, yet neither credited, or suspected: which proverbe giveth mee very ample matter to speake of, and yet not varying from our intention, concerning the hypocrisie of some religious persons, who having their garments long and large, their faces made artificially pale, their language meeke and humble, to get mens goods from them; yet sower, harsh, and stearne enough, in checking and controuling other mens errors, as also in urging others to give, and themselves to take, without any other hope or meanes of salvation. nor doe they endeavour like other men, to worke out their soules health with feare and trembling; but, even as if they were sole owners, lords, and possessors of paradice, will appoint to every dying person, places (there) of greater or lesser excellency, according as they thinke good, or as the legacies left by them are in quantity, whereby they not onely deceive themselves, but all such as give credit to their subtile perswasions. and were it lawfull for me, to make knowne no more then is meerely necessary; i could quickly disclose to simple credulous people, what craft lieth concealed under their holy habites: and i would wish, that their lies and deluding should speed with them, as they did with a _franciscane_ friar, none of the younger novices, but one of them of greatest reputation, and belonging to one of the best monasteries in _venice_. which i am the rather desirous to report, to recreate your spirits, after your teares for the death of faire _ghismonda_. sometime (honourable ladies) there lived in the city of _imola_, a man of most lewd and wicked life; named, _bertho de la massa_, whose shamelesse deedes were so well knowne to all the citizens, and won such respect among them; as all his lies could not compasse any beleefe, no, not when he delivered a matter of sound truth. wherefore, perceiving that his lewdnesse allowed him no longer dwelling there; like a desperate adventurer, he transported himselfe thence to _venice_, the receptacle of all foule sinne and abhomination, intending there to exercise his wonted bad behaviour, and live as wickedly as ever he had done before. it came to passe, that some remorse of conscience tooke hold of him, for the former passages of his dissolute life, and he pretended to be surprized with very great devotion, becomming much more catholike then any other man, taking on him the profession of a _franciscane cordelier_, and calling himselfe fryar _albert_ of _imola_. in this habite and outward appearance, hee seemed to leade an austere and sanctimonious life, highly commending penance & abstinence, never eating flesh, or drinking wine, but when hee was provided of both in a close corner. and before any person could take notice thereof, hee became (of a theefe) ruffian, forswearer and murtherer, as formerly he had beene a great preacher; yet not abandoning the forenamed vices, when secretly he could put any of them in execution. moreover, being made priest, when he was celebrating masse at the altar, if he saw himselfe to be observed by any; he would most mournefully reade the passion of our saviour, as one whose teares cost him little, whensoever hee pleased to use them: so that, in a short while, by his preaching and teares, he fed the humours of the _venetians_ so pleasingly; that they made him executour (well neere) of all their testaments, yea, many chose him as depositary or guardion of their monies; because he was both confessour and councellor, almost to all the men and women. by this well seeming out-side of sanctity, the wolfe became a shepheard, and his renown for holinesse was so famous in those parts, as saint _frances_ himselfe had hardly any more. it fortuned, that a young gentlewoman, being somewhat foolish, wanton and proud minded, named madam _lisetta de caquirino_, wife to a wealthy merchant, who went with certaine gallies into _flanders_, and there lay as lieger long time, in company of other gentlewomen, went to be confessed by this ghostly father; kneeling at his feete, although her heart was high enough, like a proud minded woman, (for _venetians_ are presumptuous, vaine-glorious, and witted much like to their skittish gondoloes) she made a very short rehearsall of her sinnes. at length fryar _albert_ demanded of her, whether shee had any amorous friend or lover? her patience being exceedingly provoked, stearne anger appeared in her lookes, which caused her to returne him this answer. how now sir _domine_? what? have you no eyes in your head? can you not distinguish between mine, and these other common beauties? i could have lovers enow, if i were so pleased; but those perfections remaining in me, are not to be affected by this man, or that. how many beauties have you beheld, any way answerable to mine, and are more fit for gods, then mortals. many other idle speeches shee uttered, in proud opinion of her beauty, whereby friar _albert_ presently perceived, that this gentlewoman had but a hollow braine, and was fit game for folly to flye at; which made him instantly enamoured of her, and that beyond all capacity of resisting, which yet he referred to a further, and more commodious time. neverthelesse, to shew himselfe an holy and religious man now, he began to reprehend her, and told her plainely, that she was vain-glorious, and overcome with infinite follies. hereupon, she called him a logger headed beast, and he knew not the difference between an ordinary complexion, and beauty of the highest merit. in which respect, friar _albert_, being loth to offend her any further; after confession was fully ended, let her passe away among the other gentlewomen, she giving him divers disdainfull lookes. within some few dayes after, taking one of his trusty brethren in his company, he went to the house of madam _lisetta_, where requiring to have some conference alone with her selfe; shee tooke him into a private parlour, and being there, not to be seene by any body, he fell on his knees before her, speaking in this manner. madam, for charities sake, and in regard of your own most gracious nature, i beseech you to pardon those harsh speeches, which i used to you the other day, when you were with me at confession: because, the very night ensuing thereon, i was chastised in such cruell manner, as i was never able to stirre forth of my bed, untill this very instant morning; whereto the weake witted gentlewoman thus replyed. and who i pray you (quoth she) did chastise you so severely? i will tell you madam, said friar _albert_, but it is a matter of admirable secrecie. being alone by my selfe the same night in my dorter, and in very serious devotion, according to my usuall manner: suddenly i saw a bright splendour about me, and i could no sooner arise to discerne what it might be, and whence it came, but i espied a very goodly young lad standing by me, holding a golden bow in his hand, and a rich quiver of arrowes hanging at his back. catching fast hold on my hood, against the ground he threw me rudely, trampling on me with his feete, and beating me with so many cruell blowes, that i thought my body to be broken in peeces. then i desired to know, why he was so rigorous to me in his correction? because (quoth he) thou didst so saucily presume this day, to reprove the celestiall beauty of madam _lisetta_, who (next to my mother _venus_) i love most dearely. whereupon i perceived, he was the great commanding god _cupid_, and therefore i craved most humbly pardon of him. i will pardon thee (quoth he) but upon this condition, that thou goe to her so soone as conveniently thou canst, and (by lowly humility) prevaile to obtaine her free pardon: which if she will not vouchsafe to grant thee, then shall i in stearne anger returne againe, and lay so many torturing afflictions on thee, that all thy whole life time shall be most hateful to thee. and what the displeased god saide elsee beside, i dare not disclose, except you please first to pardon me. mistresse shallow braine, being swolne big with this wind, like an empty bladder; conceived no small pride in hearing these words, constantly crediting them to be true, and therefore thus answered. did i not tel you father _albert_, that my beauty was celestiall? but i sweare by my beauty, notwithstanding your idle passed arrogancy, i am heartily sorry for your so severe correction; which that it may no more be inflicted on you, i doe freely pardon you; yet with this _proviso_, that you tell me, what the god elsee saide unto you; whereto fryar _albert_ thus replyed. madam, seeing you have so graciously vouchsafed to pardon me, i will thankfully tell you all: but you must be very carefull and respective, that whatsoever i shall reveale unto you, must so closely be concealed, as no living creature in the world may know it; for you are the onely happy lady now living, and that happinesse relieth on your silence and secrecie: with solemne vowes and protestations shee sealed up her many promises, and then the fryar thus proceeded. madam, the further charge imposed on me by god _cupid_, was to tell you, that himselfe is so extremely enamoured of your beauty, and you are become so gracious in his affection; as, many nights he hath come to see you in your chamber, sitting on your pillow, while you slept sweetly, and desiring very often to awake you, but onely fearing to affright you. wherefore, now he sends you word by me, that one night he intendeth to come visite you, and to spend some time in conversing with you. but in regard he is a god, and meerely a spirit in forme, whereby neither you or any elsee have capacity of beholding him, much lesse to touch or feele him: he saith, that (for your sake) he will come in the shape of a man, giving me charge also to know of you, when you shall please to have him come, and in whose similitude you would have him to come, whereof he will not faile; in which respect, you may justly thinke your selfe to be the onely happy woman living, and farre beyond all other in your good fortune. mistris want-wit presently answered, shee was well contented, that god _cupid_ should love her, and she would returne the like love againe to him; protesting withall, that wheresoever shee should see his majesticall picture, she would set a hallowed burning taper before it. moreover, at all times he should be most welcome to her, whensoever hee would vouchsafe to visite her; for, he should alwayes finde her alone in her private chamber: on this condition, that his olde love _psyches_, and all other beauties elsee whatsoever, must be set aside, and none but her selfe only to be his best mistresse, referring his personall forme of appearance, to what shape himselfe best pleased to assume, so that it might not be frightfull, or offensive to her. madam (quoth friar _albert_) most wisely have you answered, & leave the matter to me; for i will take order sufficiently, and to your contentment. but you may do me a great grace, and without any prejudice to your selfe, in granting me one poore request; namely, to vouchsafe the gods appearance to you, in my bodily shape and person, and in the perfect forme of a man as now you behold me, so may you safely give him entertainment, without any taxation of the world, or ill apprehension of the most curious inquisition. beside, a greater happinesse can never befall me: for, while he assumeth the soule out of my body, and walketh on the earth in my humane figure: i shall be wandering in the joyes of lovers paradise, feeling the fruition of their felicities; which are such, as no mortality can be capeable of, no, not so much as in imagination. the wise gentlewoman replied, that she was well contented, in regard of the severe punishment inflicted on him by god _cupid_, for the reproachfull speeches he had given her; to allow him so poore a kinde of consolation, as he had requested her to grant him. whereuppon fryar _albert_ saide: be ready then madam to give him welcome to morrow in the evening, at the entering into your house, for comming in an humane body, he cannot but enter at your doore, whereas, if (in powerfull manner) he made use of his wings, he then would flye in at your window, and then you could not be able to see him. upon this conclusion, _albert_ departed, leaving _lisetta_ in no meane pride of imagination, that god _cupid_ should bee enamored of her beauty; and therefore she thought each houre a yeare, till she might see him in the mortall shape of friar _albert_. and now was his braine wonderfully busied, to visite her in more then common or humane manner; and therefore he made him a sute (close to his body) of white taffata, all poudred over with starres, and spangles of gold, a bow and quiver of arrowes, with wings also fastened to his backe behinde him, and all cunningly covered with his friars habit, which must be the sole meanes for his safe passage. having obtained licence of his superiour, and being accompanyed with an holy brother of the convent, yet ignorant of the businesse by him intended; he went to the house of a friend of his, which was his usuall receptacle, whensoever he went about such deeds of darkness. there did he put on his dissembled habit of god _cupid_, with his winges, bowe, and quiver, in formall fashion; and then (clouded over with his monkes cowle) leaves his companion to awaite his returning backe, while he visited foolish _lisetta_, according to her expectation, readily attending for the gods arrivall. _albert_ being come to the house, knocked at the doore, and the maid admitting him entrance, according as her mistresse had appointed, shee conducted him to her mistresses chamber, where laying aside his friars habite, and she seeing him shine with such glorious splendour, adding action also to his assumed dissimulation, with majesticke motion of his body, wings, and bow, as if he had bene god _cupid_, indeede converted into a body much bigger of stature, then painters commonly do describe him, her wisedome was so overcome with feare and admiration, that she fell on her knees before him, expressing all humble reverence unto him. and he spreading his wings over her, as with wiers and strings hee had made them pliant; shewed how graciously he accepted her humiliation; folding her in his armes, and sweetly kissing her many times together, with repetition of his entire love and affection towards her. so delicately was he perfumed with odorifferous favours, and so compleate of person in his spangled garments, that she could do nothing elsee, but wonder at his rare behaviour, reputing her felicity beyond all womens in the world, and utterly impossible to bee equalled, such was the pride of her presuming. for he told her divers tales and fables, of his awefull power among the other gods, and stolne pleasures of his upon the earth; yet gracing her praises above all his other loves, and vowes made now, to affect none but her onely, as his often visitations should more constantly assure her, that shee verily credited all his protestations, and thought his kisses and embraces, farre to exceed any mortall comparison. after they had spent so much time in amorous discoursing, as might best fit with this their first meeting, and stand cleare from suspition on either side: our _albert-cupid_, or _cupid-albert_, which of them you best please to terme him, closing his spangled winges together againe behinde his backe, fastening also on his bow and quiver of arrowes, over-clouds all with his religious monkes cowle, and then with a parting kisse or two, returned to the place where he had left his fellow and companion, perhaps imployed in as devout an exercise, as he had bin in his absence from him; whence both repayring home to the monastery, all this nightes wandering was allowed as tollerable, by them who made no spare of doing the like. on the morrow following, madam _lisetta_ immediately after dinner, being attended by her chamber-maid, went to see friar _albert_, finding him in his wonted forme and fashion, and telling him what had hapned betweene her and god _cupid_, with all the other lies and tales which hee had told her. truly madam (answered _albert_) what your successe with him hath beene, i am no way able to comprehend; but this i can assure you, that so soone as i had acquainted him with your answer, i felt a sodaine rapture made of my soule, and visibly (to my apprehension) saw it carried by elves and fairies, into the floury fields about _elisium_, where lovers departed out of this life, walk among the beds of lillies and roses, such as are not in this world to be seene, neither to be imagined by any humane capacity. so super-abounding was the pleasure of this joy and solace, that, how long i continued there, or by what meanes i was transported hither againe this morning, it is beyond all ability in mee to expresse, or how i assumed my body againe after that great god hadde made use thereof to your service. well friar _albert_ (quoth shee) you may see what an happinesse hath befalne you, by so grosse an opinion of my perfections, and what a felicity you enjoy, and still are like to do, by my pardoning your error, and granting the gods accesse to me in your shape: which as i envy not, so i wish you heereafter to be wiser, in taking upon you to judge of beautie. much other idle folly proceeded from hir, which still he soothed to her contentment, and (as occasion served) many meetings they had in the former manner. it fortuned within a few dayes after, that madam _lisetta_ being in company with one of her gossips, and their conference (as commonly it falleth out to be) concerning other women of the city; their beautie, behaviour, amorous suters and servants, and generall opinion conceived of their worth and merit; wherein _lisetta_ was over-much conceyted of her selfe, not admitting any other to be her equall. among other speeches, favouring of an unseasoned braine: gossip (quoth she) if you knew what account is made of my beauty, and who holdes it in no meane estimation, you would then freely confesse, that i deserve to bee preferred before any other. as women are ambitious in their owne opinions, so commonly are they covetous of one anothers secrets, especially in matter of emulation, whereupon the gossip thus replyed. beleeve me madam, i make no doubt but your speeches may bee true, in regard of your admired beauty, and many other perfections beside: yet let me tell you, priviledges, how great and singular soever they be, without they are knowen to others, beside such as do particularly enjoy them; they carrie no more account, then things of ordinary estimation. whereas on the contrary, when any lady or gentlewoman hath some eminent and peculiar favour, which few or none other can reach unto, and it is made famous by generall notion: then do all women elsee admire and honour her, as the glory of their kinde, and a miracle of nature. i perceive gossip said _lisetta_ whereat you ayme, & such is my love to you, as you should not lose your longing in this case, were i but constantly secured of your secrecy, which as hitherto i have bene no way able to tax, so would i be loth now to be more suspitious of then needs. but yet this matter is of such maine moment, that if you will protest as you are truely vertuous, never to reveale it to any living body, i will disclose to you almost a miracle. the vertuous oath being past, with many other solemne protestations beside, _lisetta_ then proceeded in this manner. i know gossip, that it is a matter of common & ordinary custome, for ladies and gentlewomen to be graced with favourites, men of fraile & mortall conditions, whose natures are as subject to inconstancy, as their very best endeavours dedicated to folly, as i could name no mean number of our ladies heere in _venice_. but when soveraigne deities shal feele the impression of our humane desires, and behold subjects of such prevailing efficacy, as to subdue their greatest power, yea, and make them enamored of mortall creatures: you may well imagine gossip, such a beauty is superiour to any other. and such is the happy fortune of your friend _lisetta_, of whose perfections, great _cupid_ the awefull commanding god of love himselfe, conceived such an extraordinary liking: as he hath abandoned his seate of supreme majesty, and appeared to me in the shape of a mortall man, with lively expression of his amorous passions, and what extremities of anguish he hath endured, onely for my love. may this be possible? replyed the gossip. can the gods be toucht with the apprehension of our fraile passions? true it is gossip, answered _lisetta_, and so certainly true, that his sacred kisses, sweet embraces, and most pleasing speeches, with proffer of his continuall devotion towards me, hath given me good cause to confirme what i say, and to thinke my felicity farre beyond all other womens, being honoured with his often nightly visitations. the gossip inwardly smiling at her idle speeches, which (nevertheles) she avouched with very vehement asseverations; fell instantly sicke of womens naturall disease, thinking every minute a tedious month, till she were in company with some other gossips, to breake the obligation of her vertuous promise, and that others (as well as her selfe) might laugh at the folly of this shallow-witted woman. the next day following, it was her hap to be at a wedding, among a great number of other women, whom quickly she acquainted with this so strange a wonder; as they did the like to their husbands: and passing so from hand to hand, in lesse space then two daies, all _venice_ was fully possessed with it. among the rest, the brethren to this foolish woman, heard this admirable newes concerning their sister; and they discreetly concealing it to themselves, closely concluded to watch the walks of this pretended god: and if he soared not too lofty a flight, they would clip his wings, to come the better acquainted with him. it fortuned, that the friar hearing his cupidicall visitations over-publikely discovered, purposed to check and reprove _lisetta_ for her indiscretion. and being habited according to his former manner, his friarly cowle covering al his former bravery, he left his companion where he used to stay, and closely walked along unto the house. no sooner was he entred, but the brethren being ambushed neer to the doore, went in after him, and ascending the staires, by such time as he had uncased himselfe, and appeared like god _cupid_, with his spangled wings displayed: they rushed into the chamber, and he having no other refuge, opened a large casement, standing directly over the great gulfe or river, and presently leapt into the water; which being deepe, and hee skilfull in swimming, he had no other harme by his fall, albeit the sodain affright did much perplex him. recovering the further side of the river, he espied a light, & the doore of an house open, wherein dwelt a poore man, whom he earnestly intreated, to save both his life and reputation, telling him many lies and tales by what meanes he was thus disguised, and throwne by night-walking villaines into the water. the poore man, being moved to compassionate his distressed estate, laid him in his owne bed, ministring such other comforts to him, as the time and his poverty did permit; and day drawing on, he went about his businesse, advising him to take his rest, and it should not be long till he returned. so, locking the doore, and leaving the counterfeit god in bed, away goes the poore man to his daily labour. the brethren to _lisetta_, perceiving god _cupid_ to bee fled and gone, and shee in melancholly sadnesse sitting by them: they tooke up the reliques he had left behind him, i meane the friars hood and cowle, which shewing to their sister, and sharply reproving her unwomanly behaviour: they lefte her in no meane discomfort, returning home to their owne houses, with their conquered spoiles of the forlorne friar. during the time of these occurrences, broad day speeding on, & the poore man returning homeward by the _rialto_, to visit his guest so lefte in bed: he beheld divers crouds of people, and a generall rumor noysed among them, that god _cupid_ had beene that night with madame _lisetta_, where being over-closely pursued by her brethren, for fear of being surprized, he leapt out of her window into the gulfe, and no one could tell what was become of him. heereupon, the poore man beganne to imagine, that the guest entertained by him in the night time, must needs bee the same supposed god cupid, as by his wings and other embellishments appeared: wherefore being come home, and sitting downe on the beds side by him, after some few speeches passing between them, he knew him to be friar albert, who promised to give him fifty ducates, if hee would not betray him to _lisettaes_ brethren. upon the acceptation of this offer, the money being sent for, and paied downe; there wanted nothing now, but some apt and convenient meanes, whereby _albert_ might safely be conveyed into the monasterie, which being wholly referred to the poore mans care and trust, thus hee spake. sir, i see no likely-hoode of your cleare escaping home, except in this manner as i advise you. we observe this day as a merry festivall, & it is lawfull for any one, to disguise a man in the skin of a beare, or in the shape of a savage man, or any other forme of better device. which being so done, he is brought upon s. _marks_ market place, where being hunted a while with dogs, upon the huntings conclusion, the feast is ended; and then each man leades his monster whether him pleaseth. if you can accept any of these shapes, before you bee seene heere in my poore abiding, then can i safely (afterward) bring you where you would bee. otherwise, i see no possible meanes, how you may escape hence unknown; for it is without all question to the contrary, that the gentlewomans brethren, knowing your concealment in some one place or other, will set such spies and watches for you throughout the city, as you must needs be taken by them. now, although it seemed a most severe imposition, for _albert_ to passe in any of these disguises: yet his exceeding feare of _lisettaes_ brethren and friends, made him gladly yeelde, and to undergo what shape the poore man pleased, which thus he ordered. annointing his naked body with hony, he then covered it over with downy small feathers, and fastning a chaine about his necke, and a strange ugly vizard on his face; hee gave him a great staffe in the one hand, and two huge mastive dogs chained together in the other, which he had borrowed in the butchery. afterward, he sent a man to the _rialto_, who there proclaimed by the sound of trumpet: that all such as desired to see god _cupid_, which the last night had descended downe from the skies, and fell (by ill hap) into the _venetian_ gulfe, let them repaire to the publike market place of s. _marke_, and there he would appeare in his owne likenesse. this being done, soone after he left his house, and leading him thus disguised along by his chaine, hee was followed by great crowds of people, every one questioning of whence, and what he was. in which manner, he brought him to the market place, where an infinite number of people were gathered together, as well of the followers, as of them that before heard the proclamation. there he made choise of a pillar, which stood in a place somewhat highly exalted, whereto he chained his savage man, making shew, as if he meant to awaite there, till the hunting shold begin: in which time, the flies, waspes, and hornets, did so terribly sting his naked body, being annointed with hony, that he endured thereby unspeakable anguish. when the poore man saw, that there needed no more concourse of people; pretending, as if he purposed to let loose his salvage man; he tooke the maske or vizard from _alberts_ face, and then he spake aloud in this manner. gentlemen and others, seeing the wilde boare commeth not to our hunting, because i imagine that he cannot easily be found: i meane (to the end you may not lose your labour in comming hither) to shew you the great god of love called _cupid_, whom poets feigned long since to be a little boy, but now growne to manly stature. you see in what manner he hath left his high dwelling, onely for the comfort of our _venetian_ beauties: but belike, the night-fogs over-flagging his wings, he fell into our gulfe, and comes now to present his service to you. no sooner had he taken off his vizard, but every one knew him to be friar _albert_; and sodainly arose such shoutes and out-cries, with most bitter words breathed forth against him, hurling also stones, durt and filth in his face, that his best acquaintance then could take no knowledge of him, and not any one pittying his abusing. so long continued the offended people in their fury, that newes thereof was carried to the convent, and six of his religious brethren came, who casting an habite about him, and releasing him from his chain, they led him to the monastery, not without much molestation and trouble of the people; where imprisoning him in their house, severitie of some inflicted punishment, or rather conceite for his open shame, shortned his dayes, and so he dyed. thus you see faire ladies, when licentious life must be clouded with a cloake of sanctity, and evill actions dayly committed, yet escaping uncredited: there will come a time at length, for just discovering of all, that the good may shine in their true luster of glory, and the bad sinke in their owne deserved shame. _three yong gentlemen affecting three sisters, fledde with them into_ candie. _the eldest of them (through jealousie) becommeth the death of her lover: the second, by consenting to the duke of_ candies _request, is the meanes of saving her life. afterward, her owne friend killeth her, and thence flyeth away with the elder sister. the third couple, both man & woman, are charged with her death, and being committed prisoners, they confesse the facte: and fearing death, by corruption of money they prevaile with their keepers, escaping from thence to_ rhodes, _where they died in great poverty._ the third novell. _heerein is declared, how dangerous the occasion is, ensuing by anger and despight, in such as entirely love, especially, being injuried and offended by them that they love._ when the king perceived, that madame _pampinea_ had ended her discourse; he sat sadly a prety while, without uttering one word, but afterward spake thus. little goodnesse appeared in the beginning of this novell, because it ministred occasion of mirth; yet the ending proved better, and i could wish, that worse inflictions had falne on the venerious friar. then turning towards madam _lauretta_, he said; lady, do you tell us a better tale, if possible it may be. she smiling, thus answered the king: sir, you are over-cruelly bent against poore lovers, in desiring, that their amourous processions should have harsh and sinister concludings. neverthelesse, in obedience to your severe command, among three persons amourously perplexed, i will relate an unhappy ending; whereas all may be saide to speede as unfortunately, being equally alike, in enjoying the issue of their desires, and thus i purpose for to proceede. every vice (choise ladies) as very well you know, redoundeth to the great disgrace and prejudice, of him or her by whom it is practised, and oftentimes to others. now, among those common hurtfull enemies, the sinne or vice which most carrieth us with full carrere, and draweth us into unavoidable perils and dangers; in mine opinion, seemeth to be that of choller or anger, which is nothing elsee, but a sudden and inconsiderate moving, provoked by some received injury, which having excluded all respect of reason, and dimde (with darke vapours) the bright discerning sight of the understanding, enflameth the minde with most violent furie. and albeit this inconvenience happeneth most to men, and more to some few, then others; yet notwithstanding, it hath been noted, that women have felt the selfe same infirmity, and in more extreme manner, because it much sooner is kindled in them, and burneth with the brighter flame, in regard they have the lesser consideration, and therefore not to be wondred at. for if we will advisedly observe, we shall plainely perceive, that fire (even of his owne nature) taketh hold on such things as are light and tender, much sooner then it can on hard and weighty substances; and some of us women (let men take no offence at my words) are farre more soft and delicate then they be, and therefore more fraile. in which regard, seeing we are naturally enclined hereto, and considering also, how much our affability and gentlenesse, doe shew themselves pleasing and full of content, to those men with whom we are to live; and likewise, how anger and fury are compacted of extraordinary perils; i purpose (because we may be the more valiant in our courage, to outstand the fierce assaults of wrath and rage) to shew you by mine ensuing novel, how the loves of three young gentlemen, and of as many gentlewomen, came to fatall and unfortunate successe, by the tempestuous anger of one among them, according as i have formerly related unto you. _marseilles_ (as you are not now to learne) is in _provence_, seated on the sea, and is also a very ancient and most noble city, which hath beene (heretofore) inhabited with farre richer and more wealthy merchants, then at this instant time it is. among whom there was one, named _narnaldo civada_, a man but of meane condition, yet cleare in faith and reputation, and in lands, goods, and ready monies, immeasurably rich. many children he had by his wife, among whom were three daughters, which exceeded his sonnes in yeeres. two of them being twinnes, and borne of one body, were counted to be fifteene yeares old; the third was foureteene, and nothing hindered marriage in their parents owne expectation, but the returne home of _narnaldo_, who was then abroade in _spaine_ with his merchandises. the eldest of these sisters was named _ninetta_, the second _magdalena_, and the third _bertella_. a gentleman (albeit but poore in fortunes) and called _restagnone_, was so extraordinarily enamoured of _ninetta_, as no man possibly could be more, and shee likewise as earnest in affection towards him; yet both carrying their loves proceeding with such secresie, as long time they enjoyed their hearts sweete contentment, yet undiscovered by any eye. it came to passe, that two other young gallants, the one named _folco_, and the other _hugnetto_, (who had attained to incredible wealth, by the decease of their father) were also as farre in love, the one with _magdalena_, and the other with _bertella_. when _restagnone_ had intelligence thereof, by the meanes of his faire friend _ninetta_; he purposed to releeve his poverty, by friendly furthering both their love, and his owne: and growing into familiarity with them, one while he would walke abroade with _folco_, and then againe with _hugnetto_, but oftner with them both together, to visite their mistresses, and continue worthy friendship. on a day, when hee saw the time sutable to his intent, and that hee had invited the two gentlemen home to his house, hee fell into this like conference with them. kind friends (quoth he) the honest familiarity which hath past betweene us, may render you some certaine assurance, of the constant love i beare to you both, being as willing to worke any meanes that may tend to your good, as i desire to compasse mine owne. and because the truth of mine affection cannot conceale it selfe to you, i meane to acquaint you with an intention, wherewith my braine hath a long while travelled, and now may soone be delivered of, if it may passe with your liking and approbation. let me then tell you, that except your speeches savour of untruth, and your actions carry a double understanding, in common behaviour both by night and day, you appeare to pine and consume away, in the cordiall love you beare to two of the sisters, as i suffer the same afflictions for the third, with reciprocall requitall of their dearest affection to us. now, to qualifie the heate of our tormenting flames, if you will condescend to such a course as i shall advise you, the remedy will yeeld them equall ease to ours, and we may safely enjoy the benefit of contentment. as wealth aboundeth with you both, so doth want most extremely tyrannize over me: but if one banke might be made of both your rich substances, i embraced therein as a third partaker, and some quarter of the world dissigned out by us, where to live at hearts ease upon your possessions; i durst engage my credite, that all the sisters, (not meanly stored with their fathers treasure) shall beare us company to what place soever we please. there each man freely enjoying his owne dearest love, we may live like three brethren, without any hinderance to our mutuall contentment; it remaineth now in you gentlemen, to accept this comfortable offer, or to refuse it. the two brothers, whose passions exceeded their best meanes for support, perceiving some hope how to enjoy their loves; desired no long time of deliberation, or greatly disputed with their thoughts what was best to be done: but readily replyed, that let happen any danger whatsoever, they would joyne with him in this determination, and he should partake with them in their wealthiest fortunes. after _restagnone_ had heard their answer, within some few dayes following, he went to conferre with _ninetta_, which was no easie matter for him to compasse. neverthelesse, opportunity proved so favourable to him, that meeting with her at a private place appointed, he discoursed at large, what had passed betweene him and the other two young gentlemen, maintaining the same with many good reasons, to have her like and allow of the enterprize. which although (for a while) he could very hardly doe; yet, in regard shee had more desire then power, without suspition to be daily in his company, she franckly thus answered. my hearts chosen friend, i cannot any way mislike your advise, and will take such order with my sisters, that they shall agree to our resolution: let it therefore be your charge, that you and the rest make every thing ready, to depart from hence so soone, as with best convenient meanes we may be enabled. _restagnone_ being returned to _folco_ and _hugnetto_, who thought every houre a yeere, to heare what would succeed upon the promise past betweene them; he told them in plaine termes, that their ladies were as free in consent as they, and nothing wanted now, but furnishment for their sudden departing. having concluded, that candye should be their harbour for entertainment, they made sale of some few inheritances, which lay the readiest for their purpose, as also the goods in their houses, and then, under colour of venting merchandises abroade; they bought a nimble pinnace, fortified with good strength and preparation, and waited but for a convenient wind. on the other side, _ninetta_, who was sufficiently acquainted with the forwardnesse of her sisters desires and her owne; had so substantially prevailed with them, that a good voyage now was the sole expectation. whereupon, the same night when they should set away, they opened a strong barred chest of their fathers, whence they tooke great store of gold and costly jewelse, wherewith escaping secretly out of the house; they came to the place where their lovers attended for them, and going all aboard the pinnace, the windes were so furtherous to them; that without touching any where, the night following they arrived at _geneway_. there being out of peril or pursuite, they all knit the knot of holy wedlocke, and then freely enjoyed their long wished desires, from whence setting sayle againe, and being well furnished with all things wanting; passing on from port to port, at the end of eight dayes they landed in _candie_, not meeting with any impeachment by the way. determining there to spend their dayes, first they provided themselves of faire and goodly lands in the countrey, and then of beautifull dwelling houses in the city, with all due furnishments belonging to them, and families well beseeming such worthy gentlemen, and all delights elsee for their daily recreations, inviting their neighbours, and they them againe in loving manner; so that no lovers could wish to live in more ample contentment. passing on their time in this height of felicity, and not crossed by any sinister accidents, it came to passe (as often wee may observe in the like occasions, that although delights doe most especially please us, yet they breed surfet, when they swell too over-great in abundance) that _restagnone_, who most deerely affected his faire _ninetta_, and had her now in his free possession, without any perill of loosing her: grew now also to bee wearie of her, and consequently, to faile in those familiar performances, which formerly had passed betweene them. for, being one day invited to a banket, hee saw there a beautifull gentle-woman of that countrey, whose perfections pleasing him beyond all comparison: hee laboured (by painfull pursuite) to win his purpose; and meeting with her in divers private places, grew prodigall in his expences upon her. this could not be so closely carried, but beeing seene and observed by _ninetta_, she became possessed with such extreame jelousie, that hee could not doe any thing whatsoever, but immediately he had knowledge of it: which fire, growing to a flame in her, her patience became extreamely provoked, urging rough and rude speeches from her to him, and daily tormenting him beyond power of sufferance. as the enjoying of anything in too much plenty, makes it appeare irkesome and loathing to us, and the deniall of our desires, do more and more whet on the appetite: even so did the angry spleene of _ninetta_ proceede on in violence, against this newe commenced love of _restagnone_. for in succession of time, whether hee enjoyed the embracements of his new mistresse, or no: yet _ninetta_ (by sinister reports, but much more through her owne jealous imaginations) held it for infallible, and to be most certaine. heereupon, she fell into an extreame melancholly, which melancholly begat implacable fury, and (consequently) such contemptible disdaine: as converted her former kindly love to _restagnone_, into most cruell and bloudie hatred; yea, and so strangely was reason or respect confounded in her, as no revenge elsee but speedy death, might satisfie the wrongs shee imagined to receive by _restagnone_ and his minion. upon enquiry, by what meanes shee might best compasse her bloody intention, she grew acquainted with a _græcian_ woman, and wonderfully expert in the compounding of poysons, whom shee so perswaded, by gifts and bounteous promises, that at the length shee prevailed with her. a deadly water was distilled by her, which (without any other counsell to the contrary) on a day when _restagnone_ had his blood some-what over-heated, and little dreamed on any such treason conspired against him by his wife, she caused him to drinke a great draught thereof, under pretence, that it was a most soveraigne and cordiall water: but such was the powerfull operation thereof, that the very next morning, _restagnone_ was found to be dead in his bed. when his death was understood by _folco, hugnetto_ and their wives, and not knowing how hee came to bee thus empoysoned (because their sister seemed to bemoane his sodaine death, with as apparant shewes of mourning as they could possibly expresse) they buried him very honourably, and so all suspition ceased. but as fortune is infinite in her fagaries, never acting disaster so closely, but as cunningly discovereth it againe: so it came to passe, that within a few dayes following, the _græcian_ woman, that had delivered the poyson to _ninetta_, for such another deede of damnation, was apprehended even in the action. and being put upon the tortures, among many other horrid villanies by her committed, she confessed the empoysoning of _restagnone_, and every particle thereto appertaining. whereupon, the duke of _candie_, without any noyse or publication, setting a strong guard (in the night time) about the house of _folco_, where _ninetta_ then was lodged; there sodainly they seized on her, & upon examination, in maintainance of her desperate revenge; voluntarily confessed the fact, and what elsee concerned the occasion of his death, by the wrongs which hee had offered her. _folco_ and _hugnetto_ understanding secretly, both from the duke, & other intimate friends, what was the reason of _ninettaes_ apprehension, which was not a little displeasing to them, laboured by all their best pains and endeavour, to worke such meanes with the duke, that her life might not perish by fire, although she had most justly deserved it; but all their attempts prooved to no effect, because the duke had concluded to execute justice. heere you are to observe, that _magdalena_ (beeing a very beautifull woman, yong, and in the choisest flower of her time:) had often before bin solicited by the duke, to entertaine his love and kindnesse, whereto by no meanes she would listen or give consent. and being now most earnestly importuned by her, for the safety of her sisters life, shee tooke hold on this her daily suite to him, and in private told her, that if she was so desirous of _ninettaes_ life: it lay in her power to obtaine it, by granting him the fruition of her love. she apparantly perceiving, that _ninetta_ was not likely to live, but by the prostitution of her chaste honour, which she preferred before the losse of her owne life, or her sisters; concluded, to let her dye, rather then run into any such disgrace. but having an excellent ingenious wit, quicke, and apprehensive in perillous occasions, shee intended now to make a trial of over-reaching the lascivious duke in his wanton purpose, and yet to be assured of her sisters life, without any blemish to her reputation. soliciting him still as she was wont to doe, this promise passed from her to him, that when _ninetta_ was delivered out of prison, and in safety at home in her house: hee should resort thither in some queint disguise, and enjoy his long expected desire; but untill then she would not yeeld. so violent was the duke in the prosecution of his purpose, that under colour of altering the manner of _ninettaes_ death, not suffering her to bee consumed by fire, but to be drowned, according to a custome observed there long time, and at the importunity of her sister _magdalena_, in the still silence of the night, _ninetta_ was conveyed into a sacke, and sent in that manner to the house of _folco_, the duke following soone after, to challenge her promise. _magdalena_, having acquainted her husband with her vertuous intention, for preserving her sisters life, and disappointing the duke in his wicked desire; was as contrary to her true meaning in this case, as _ninetta_ had formerly beene adverse to _restagnone_, onely being over-ruled likewise by jealousie, and perswaded in his rash opinion, that the duke had already dishonoured _magdalena_, otherwise, he would not have delivered _ninetta_ out of prison. mad fury gave further fire to this unmanly perswasion, and nothing will now quench this violent flame, but the life of poore _magdalena_, suddenly sacrificed in the rescue of her sisters, such a divell is anger, when the understandings bright eye is thereby abused. no credit might be given to her womanly protestations, nor any thing seeme to alter his bloody purpose; but, having slaine _magdalena_ with his poniard, (notwithstanding her teares and humble entreaties) hee ran in haste to _ninettaes_ chamber, shee not dreaming on any such desperate accident, and to her he used these dissembling speeches. sister (quoth he) my wife hath advised, that i should speedily convey you hence, as fearing the renewing of the dukes fury, and your falling againe into the hands of justice: i have a barke readily prepared for you, and your life being secured, it is all that she and i doe most desire. _ninetta_ being fearefull, and no way distrusting what he had saide; in thankfull allowance of her sisters care, and curteous tender of his so ready service; departed thence presently with him, not taking any farewell of her other sister and her husband. to the sea-shore they came, very weakely provided of monies to defray their charges, and getting aboard the barke, directed their course themselves knew not whether. the amourous duke in his disguise, having long daunced attendance at _folcoes_ doore, and no admittance of his entrance; angerly returned backe to his court, protesting severe revenge on _magdalena_, if she gave him not the better satisfaction, to cleare her from thus basely abusing him. on the morrow morning, when _magdalena_ was found murthered in her chamber, and tidings thereof carried to the duke; present search was made for the bloody offendor, but _folco_ being fled and gone with _ninetta_; some there were, who bearing deadly hatred to _hugnetto_, incensed the duke against him and his wife, as supposing them to be guilty of _magdalenaes_ death. he being thereto very easily perswaded, in regard of his immoderate love to the slaine gentlewoman; went himselfe in person (attended on by his guard) to _hugnettoes_ house, where both he and his wife were seized as prisoners. these newes were very strange to them, and their imprisonment as unwelcome; and although they were truly innocent, either in knowledge of the horrid fact, or the departure of _folco_ with _ninetta_: yet being unable to endure the tortures extremity, they made themselves culpable by confession, and that they had hand with _folco_ in the murder of _magdalena_. upon this their forced confession, and sentence of death pronounced on them by the duke himselfe; before the day appointed for their publike execution, by great summes of money, which they had closely hid in their house, to serve when any urgent extremitie should happen to them; they corrupted their keepers, and before any intelligence could be had of their flight, they escaped by sea to _rhodes_, where they lived afterward in great distresse and misery. the just vengeance of heaven followed after _folco_ and _ninetta_, he for murthering his honest wife, and she for poysoning her offending husband: for being beaten a long while on the seas, by tempestuous stormes and weather, and not admitted landing in any port or creeke; they were driven backe on the coast of _candie_ againe, where being apprehended, and brought to the city before the duke, they confessed their severall notorious offences, and ended their loathed lives in one fire together. thus the idle and loose love of _restagnone_, with the franticke rage and jealousie of _ninetta_ and _folco_, overturned all their long continued happinesse, and threw a disastrous ending on them all. gerbino, _contrary to the former plighted faith of his grand-father, king_ gulielmo, _fought with a ship at sea, belonging to the king of_ thunis, _to take away his daughter, who was then in the same ship. shee being slaine by them that had the possession of her, he likewise slew them; and afterward had his owne head smitten off._ the fourth novell. _in commendation of justice betweene princes; and declaring withal, that neither feare, dangers, nor death it selfe; can any way daunt a true and loyall lover._ madam _lauretta_ having concluded her novel, and the company complaining on lovers misfortunes, some blaming the angry and jealous fury of _ninetta_, and every one delivering their severall opinions; the king, as awaking out of a passionate perplexity, exalted his lookes, giving a signe to madam _elisa_, that shee should follow next in order, whereto she obeying, began in this manner. i have heard (gracious ladies, quoth she) of many people, who are verily perswaded, that loves arrowes, never wound any body, but onely by the eyes lookes and gazes, mocking and scorning such as maintaine that men may fall in love by hearing onely. wherein (beleeve me) they are greatly deceived, as will appeare by a novell which i must now relate unto you, and wherein you shall plainely perceive, that not onely fame or report is as prevailing as sight; but also hath conducted divers, to a wretched and miserable ending of their lives. _gulielmo_ the second, king of _sicilie_, according as the _sicilian_ chronicles record, had two children, the one a sonne, named _don rogero_, and the other a daughter, called madam _constance_. the saide _rogero_ died before his father, leaving a sonne behind him, named _gerbino_, who, with much care and cost, was brought up by his grand-father, proving to be a very goodly prince, and wondrously esteemed for his great valour and humanity. his fame could not containe it selfe, within the bounds or limits of _sicilie_ onely, but being published very prodigally, in many parts of the world beside, flourished with no meane commendations throughout all _barbarie_, which in those dayes was tributary to the king of _sicilie_. among other persons, deserving most to be respected, the renowned vertues, and affability of this gallant prince _gerbino_, was understood by the beautious daughter to the king of _thunis_, who by such as had seene her, was reputed to be one of the rarest creatures, the best conditioned, and of the truest noble spirit, that ever nature framed in her very choycest pride of art. of famous, vertuous, and worthy men, it was continually her cheefest delight to heare, and the admired actions of valiant _gerbino_, reported to her by many singular discoursers, such as could best describe him, with language answerable to his due deservings, won such honourable entertainment in her understanding soule, that they were most affectionately pleasing to her, and in capitulating (over and over againe) his manifold and heroycall perfections; meere speech made her extreamely amorous of him, nor willingly would she lend an eare to any other discourse, but that which tended to his honour and advancement. on the other side, the fame of her incomparable beauty, with addition of her other infinite singularities beside; as the world had given eare to in numberlesse places, so _sicilie_ came at length acquainted therewith, in such flowing manner, as was truly answerable to her merit. nor seemed this as a bare babling rumour, in the princely hearing of royall _gerbino_; but was embraced with such a reall apprehension, and the entire probation of a true understanding: that he was no lesse enflamed with noble affection towards her, then she expressed the like in vertuous opinion of him. wherefore, awaiting such convenient opportunity, when he might entreate license of his grandfather, for his owne going to _thunis_, under colour of some honourable occasion, for the earnest desire hee had to see her: he gave charge to some of his especiall friends (whose affaires required their presence in those parts) to let the princesse understand, in such secret manner as best they could devise, what noble affection he bare unto her, devoting himselfe onely to her service. one of his chosen friends thus put in trust, being a jeweller, a man of singular discretion, and often resorting to ladies for sight of his jewelles, winning like admittance to the princesse: related at large unto her, the honourable affection of _gerbino_, with full tender of his person to her service, and that she onely was to dispose of him. both the message and the messenger, were most graciously welcome to her, and flaming in the selfsame affection towards him; as a testimony thereof, one of the very choisest jewelse which she bought of him, shee sent by him to the prince _gerbino_, it being received by him with such joy and contentment, as nothing in the world could be more pleasing to him. so that afterward, by the trusty carriage of this jeweller, many letters and love-tokens passed betweene them, each being as highly pleased with this poore, yet happy kinde of entercourse, as if they had seene & conversed with one another. matters proceeding on in this manner, and continuing longer then their love-sicke passions easily could permit, yet neither being able to find out any other meanes of helpe; it fortuned, that the king of _thunis_ promised his daughter in marriage to the king of _granada_, whereat she grew exceeding sorrowfull, perceyving, that not onely she should be sent further off, by a large distance of way from her friend, but also bee deprived utterly, of all hope ever to enjoy him. and if she could have devised any meanes, either by secret flight from her father, or any way else to further her intention, she would have adventured it for the princes sake. _gerbino_ in like manner hearing of this purposed mariage, lived in a hell of torments, consulting oftentimes with his soule, how he might bee possessed of her by power, when she should be sent by sea to her husband, or private stealing her away from her fathers court before: with these and infinite other thoughts, was he incessantly afflicted, both day and night. by some unhappy accident or other, the king of _thunis_ heard of this their secret love, as also of _gerbinoes_ purposed policy to surprize her, and how likely he was to effect it, in regard of his manly valour, and store of stout friends to assist him. hereupon, when the time was come, that hee would convey his daughter thence to her marriage, and fearing to be prevented by _gerbino_: he sent to the king of _sicily_, to let him understand his determination, craving safe conduct from him, without impeachment of _gerbino_, or any one elsee, untill such time as his intent was accomplished. king _gulielmo_ being aged, and never acquainted with the affectionat proceedings of _gerbino_, nor any doubtfull reason to urge this securitie from him, in a case convenient to be granted: yeelded the sooner thereto right willingly, and as a signale of his honourable meaning, he sent him his royall glove, with a full confirmation for his safe conduct. no sooner were these princely assurances received, but a goodly ship was prepared in the port of _carthagena_, well furnished with all thinges thereto belonging, for the sending his daughter to the king of _granada_, waiting for nothing elsee but best favouring windes. the yong princesse, who understood and saw all this great preparation; secretly sent a servant of hers to _palermo_, giving him especiall charge, on her behalfe, to salute the prince _gerbino_, and to tell him withall, that (within few dayes) shee must be transported to _granada_. and now opportunity gave fayre and free meane, to let the world know, whether hee were a man of that magnanimous spirit, or no, as generall opinion had formerly conceyved of him, and whether he affected her so firmely, as by many close messages he had assured her. he who had the charge of this embassie, effectually performed it, and then returned backe to _thunis_. the prince _gerbino_, having heard this message from his divine mistresse, and knowing also, that the king his grandfather, had past his safe conduct to the king of _thunis_, for peaceable passage thorough his seas: was at his wits end, in this urgent necessitie, what might best bee done. notwithstanding, moved by the setled constancie of his plighted love, and the speeches delivered to him by the messenger from the princesse: to shew himselfe a man endued with courage, he departed thence unto _messina_, where he made readie two speedie gallies, and fitting them with men of valiant disposition, set away to _sardignia_, as making full account, that the ship which carried the princesse, must come along that coast. nor was his expectation therein deceived: for, within few dayes after, the ship (not over-swiftly winded) came sailing neere to the place where they attended for her arrivall; whereof _gerbino_ had no sooner gotten a sight, but to animate the resolutes which were in his company, thus he spake. gentlemen, if you be those men of valour, as heeretofore you have beene reputed, i am perswaded, that there are some among you, who either formerly have, or now instantly do feele, the all-commanding power of love, without which (as i thinke) there is not any mortall man, that can have any goodnesse or vertue dwelling in him. wherefore, if ever you have bene amorously affected, or presently have any apprehension thereof, you shall the more easily judge of what i now aime at. true it is, that i do love, and love hath guided me to be comforted, and manfully assisted by you, because in yonder ship, which you see commeth on so gently under saile (even as if she offered her selfe to be our prize) not onely is the jewell which i most esteeme, but also mighty and unvalewable treasure, to be wonne without any difficult labour, or hazard of a dangerous fight, you being men of such undauntable courage. in the honour of which victory, i covet not any part or parcell, but onely a ladie, for whose sake i have undertaken these armes, and freely give you all the rest contained in the shippe. let us set on them, gentlemen, and my dearest friends; couragiously let us assaile the ship, you see how the wind favours us, and (questionlesse) in so good an action, fortune will not faile us. _gerbino_ needed not to have spoken so much, in perswading them to seize so rich a booty; because the men of _messina_ were naturally addicted to spoile and rapine: and before the prince began his oration, they had concluded to make the ship their purchase. wherefore, giving a lowde shout, according to their countrey manner, and commaunding their trumpets to sound chearefully, they rowed on amain with their oares, and (in meere despight) set upon the ship. but before the gallies could come neere her, they that had the charge and managing of her, perceyving with what speede they made towards them, and no likely meanes of escaping from them, resolvedly they stood uppon their best defence, for now it was no time to be slothfull. the prince being come neere to the ship, commanded that the patrones should come to him, except they would adventure the fight. when the sarazines were thereof advertised, and understood also what he demanded, they returned answer: that their motion and proceeding in this manner, was both against law and plighted faith, which was promised by the king of _sicily_, for their safe passage thorow his sea, by no meanes to be molested or assailed. in testimony whereof, they shewed his glove, avouching moreover, that neyther by force (or otherwise) they would yeelde, or deliver him any thing which they had aboorde their ship. _gerbino_ espying his gracious mistresse on the ships decke, and she appearing to be farre more beautifull, then fame had made relation of her: being much more enflamed now, then formerly he had bin, replyed thus when they shewed the glove. wee have (quoth he) no faulcon heere now, to be humbled at the sight of your glove: and therefore, if you will not deliver the lady, prepare your selves for fight, for we must have her whether you will or no. hereupon, they began to let flie (on both sides) their darts and arrowes, with stones sent in violent sort from their slings, thus continuing the fight a long while, to very great harme on either side. at the length, _gerbino_ perceyving, that small benefite would redound to him, if he did not undertake some other kinde of course: he tooke a small pinnace, which purposely he brought with him from _sardignia_, and setting it on a flaming fire, conveyd it (by the gallies help) close to the ship. the sarazines much amazed thereat, and evidently perceiving, that eyther they must yeeld or dy; brought their kings daughter upon the prow of the ship, most greevously weeping and wringing her hands. then calling _gerbino_, to let him behold their resolution, there they slew hir before his face; and afterward, throwing her body into the sea, said: take her, there we give her to thee, according to our bounden duty, and as thy perjury hath justly deserved. this sight was not a little greevous to the prince _gerbino_, who madded now with this their monstrous cruelty, and not caring what became of his owne life, having lost her for whom hee onely desired to live: not dreading their darts, arrowes, slinged stones, or what violence else they could use against him; he leapt aboord their ship, in despight of all that durst resist him, behaving himself there like a hunger-starved lyon, when he enters among a heard of beastes, tearing their carkasses in pieces both with his teeth and pawes. such was the extreme fury of the poor prince, not sparing the life of any one, that durst appeare in his presence; so that what with the bloody slaughter, and violence of the fires encreasing in the ship; the mariners got such wealth as possibly they could save, and suffering the sea to swallow the rest, _gerbino_ returned unto his gallies againe, nothing proud of this so ill-gotten victory. afterward, having recovered the princesses dead body out of the sea, and enbalmed it with sighes and teares: hee returned backe into _sicilie_, where he caused it to be most honourably buried, in a little island, named _ustica_, face to face confronting _trapanum_. the king of _thunis_ hearing these disastrous newes, sent his ambassadors (habited in sad mourning) to the aged king of _sicily_, complaining of his faith broken with him, and how the accident had falne out. age being sodainly incited to anger, and the king extreamly offended at this injury, seeing no way whereby to deny him justice, it being urged so instantly by the ambassadours: caused _gerbino_ to be apprehended, and hee himselfe (in regard that none of his lords and barons would therein assist him, but laboured to divert him by their earnest importunity) pronounced the sentence of death on the prince, and commanded to have him beheaded in his presence; affecting rather, to dye without an heire, then to be thought a king void of justice. so these two unfortunate lovers, never enjoying the very least benefite of their long wished desires: ended both their lives in violent manner. _the three brethren to_ isabella, _slew a gentleman that secretly loved her. his ghost appeared to her in her sleepe, and shewed her in what place they had buried his body. she (in silent manner) brought away his head, and putting it into a pot of earth, such as flowers, basile, or other sweet hearbes are usually set in; she watered it (a long while) with her teares. whereof her brethren having intelligence; soone after she dyed, with meere conceite of sorrow._ the fift novell. _wherein is plainly proved, that love cannot be rooted uppe, by any humane power or providence; especially in such a soule, where it hath bene really apprehended._ the novell of madame _eliza_ being finished, and some-what commended by the king, in regard of the tragicall conclusion; _philomena_ was enjoyned to proceede next with her discourse. she beeing overcome with much compassion, for the hard fortunes of noble _gerbino_, and his beautifull princesse, after an extreame and vehement sighe, thus she spake. my tale (worthy ladies) extendeth not to persons of so high birth or quality, as they were of whom madame _eliza_ gave you relation: yet (peradventure) it may proove to be no lesse pitifull. and now i remember my selfe, _messina_ so lately spoken of, is the place where this accident also happened. in _messina_ there dwelt three yong men, brethren, and merchants by their common profession, who becoming very rich by the death of theyr father, lived in very good fame and repute. their father was of _san gemignano_, and they had a sister named _isabella_, young, beautifull, and well conditioned; who, upon some occasion, as yet remained unmaried. a proper youth, being a gentleman borne in _pisa_, and named _lorenzo_, as a trusty factor or servant, had the managing of the brethrens businesse and affaires. this _lorenzo_ being of comely personage, affable, and excellent in his behaviour, grew so gracious in the eyes of _isabella_, that shee affoorded him many very respective lookes, yea, kindnesses of no common quality. which _lorenzo_ taking notice of, and observing by degrees from time to time, gave over all other beauties in the citie, which might allure any affection from him, and only fixed his heart on her, so that their love grew to a mutuall embracing, both equally respecting one another, and entertaining kindnesses, as occasion gave leave. long time continued this amorous league of love, yet not so cunningly concealed, but at the length, the secret meeting of _lorenzo_ and _isabella_, to ease their poore soules of loves oppressions, was discovered by the eldest of the brethren, unknowne to them who were thus betrayed. he being a man of great discretion, although this sight was highly displeasing to him: yet notwithstanding, he kept it to himselfe till the next morning, labouring his braine what might best be done in so urgent a case. when day was come, he resorted to his other brethren, and told them what he had seene in the time past, betweene their sister and _lorenzo_. many deliberations passed on in this case; but after all, thus they concluded together, to let it proceede on with patient supportance, that no scandall might ensue to them, or their sister, no evill acte being (as yet) committed. and seeming, as if they knew not of their love, had a wary eye still upon her secret walkes, awaiting for some convenient time, when without their owne prejudice, or _isabellaes_ knowledge, they might safely breake off this their stolne love, which was altogether against their liking. so, shewing no worse countenance to _lorenzo_, then formerly they had done, but imploying and conversing with him in kinde manner; it fortuned, that riding (all three) to recreate themselves out of the cittie, they tooke _lorenzo_ in their company, and when they were come to a solitarie place, such as best suited with their vile purpose: they ran sodainly upon _lorenzo_, slew him, & afterward enterred his body, where hardly it could be discovered by any one. then they returned backe to _messina_, & gave it forth (as a credible report) that they had sent him abroad about their affaires, as formerly they were wont to do: which every one verily beleeved, because they knew no reason why they should conceite any otherwise. _isabella_, living in expectation of his returne, and perceiving his stay to her was so offensively long: made many demands to her brethren, into what parts they had sent him, that his tarrying was so quite from all wonted course. such was her importunate speeches to them, that they taking it very discontentedly, one of them returned her this frowning answer. what is your meaning sister, by so many questionings after _lorenzo_? what urgent affaires have you with him, that makes you so impatient upon his absence? if heereafter you make any more demands for him, we shall shape you such a reply, as will bee but little to your liking. at these harsh words, _isabella_ fell into abundance of teares, where-among she mingled many sighes and groanes, such as were able to overthrow a far stronger constitution: so that, being full of feare and dismay, yet no way distrusting her brethrens cruell deede; shee durst not question any more after him. in the silence of darke night, as she lay afflicted in her bed, oftentimes would she call for _lorenzo_, entreating his speedy returning to her: and then againe, as if he had bene present with her, shee checkt and reproved him for his so long absence. one night amongst the rest, she being growen almost hopelesse, of ever seeing him againe, having a long while wept and greevously lamented; her senses and faculties utterly spent and tired, that she could not utter any more complaints, she fell into a trance or sleepe; and dreamed, that the ghost of _lorenzo_ appeared unto her, in torne and unbefitting garments, his lookes pale, meager, and staring: and (as she thought) thus spake to her. my deare love _isabella_, thou doest nothing but torment thy selfe, with calling on me, accusing me for overlong tarrying from thee: i am come therefore to let thee know, that thou canst not enjoy my company any more, because the very same day when last thou sawest me, thy brethren most bloodily murthered me. and acquainting her with the place where they had buried his mangled body: hee strictly charged her, not to call him at any time afterward, and so vanished away. the yong damosell awaking, and giving some credite to her vision, sighed and wept exceedingly; and after she was risen in the morning, not daring to say any thing to her brethren, she resolutely determined, to go see the place formerly appointed her, onely to make triall, if that which she seemed to see in her sleepe, should carry any likely-hood of truth. having obtained favour of her brethren, to ride a dayes journey from the city, in company of her trusty nurse, who long time had attended on her in the house, and knew the secret passages of her love: they rode directly to the designed place, which being covered with some store of dried leaves, and more deeply sunke then any other part of the ground thereabout, they digged not farre, but they found the body of murthered _lorenzo_, as yet very little corrupted or impaired, and then perceived the truth of her vision. wisedome and government so much prevailed with her, as to instruct her soule, that her teares spent there, were meerely fruitlesse and in vaine, neither did the time require any long tarrying there. gladly would shee have carried the whole body with her, secretly to bestow honourable enterment on it, but it exceeded the compasse of her ability. wherefore, in regard she could not have all, yet she would be possessed of a part, & having brought a keene razor with her, by helpe of the nurse, shee divided the head from the body, and wrapped it up in a napkin, which the nurse conveyed into her lap, and then laide the body in the ground again. thus being undiscovered by any, they departed thence, and arrived at home in convenient time, where being alone by themselves in the chamber: she washed the head over and over with her teares, and bestowed infinite kisses thereon. not long after, the nurse having brought her a large earthen potte, such as wee use to set basile, marjerom, flowers, or other sweet hearbes in, and shrouding the head in a silken scarfe, put it into the pot, covering it with earth, and planting divers rootes of excellent basile therein, which she never watered, but either with her teares, rose water, or water distilled from the flowers of oranges. this pot she used continually to sitte by, either in her chamber, or any where elsee: for she caried it alwaies with her, sighing and breathing foorth sad complaints thereto, even as if they had beene uttered to her _lorenzo_, and day by day this was her continuall exercise, to the no meane admiration of her bretheren, and many other friends that beheld her. so long she held on in this mourning manner, that, what by the continuall watering of the basile, and putrifaction of the head, so buried in the pot of earth; it grew very flourishing, and most odorifferous to such as scented it, so that as no other basile could possibly yeeld so sweet a savour. the neighbours noting this behaviour in her, observing the long continuance thereof, how much her bright beauty was defaced, and the eyes sunke into her head by incessant weeping, made many kinde and friendly motions, to understand the reason of her so violent oppressions; but could not by any meanes prevaile with her, or win any discovery by her nurse, so faithfull was she in secrecie to her. her brethren also waxed wearie of this carriage in her; and having very often reproved her for it, without any other alteration in her: at length, they closely stole away the potte of basile from her, for which she made infinite wofull lamentations, earnestly entreating to have it restored againe, avouching that shee could not live without it. perceiving that she could not have the pot againe, she fell into an extreame sicknesse, occasioned onely by her ceaselesse weeping: and never urged she to have any thing, but the restoring of her basile pot. her brethren grew greatly amazed thereat, because shee never called for ought elsee beside; and thereupon were very desirous to ransacke the pot to the very bottome. having emptied out all the earth, they found the scarfe of silke, wherein the head of lorenzo was wrapped; which was (as yet) not so much consumed, but by the lockes of haire, they knew it to be _lorenzoes_ head, whereat they became confounded with amazement. fearing least their offence might come to open publication, they buried it very secretly; and, before any could take notice thereof, they departed from _messina_, and went to dwell in _naples. isabella_ crying & calling still for her pot of basile, being unable to give over mourning, dyed within a few dayes after. thus have you heard the hard fate of poore _lorenzo_ and his _isabella_. within no long while after, when this accident came to be publikely knowne, an excellent ditty was composed thereof, beginning thus: _cruell and unkinde was the christian, that robd me of my basiles blisse, &c._ _a beautifull yong virgin, named_ andreana, _became enamored of a yong gentleman, called_ gabriello. _in conference together, she declared a dreame of hers to him, and he another of his to her; whereupon_ gabriello _fell downe sodainly dead in her armes. shee, and her chamber-maide were apprehended, by the officers belonging to the seigneury, as they were carrying_ gabriello, _to lay him before his owne doore. the potestate offering violence to the virgin, and she resisting him vertuously: it came to the understanding of her father, who approved the innocence of his daughter, and compassed her deliverance. but she afterward, being weary of all worldly felicities, entred into religion, and became a nun._ the sixth novell. _describing the admirable accidents of fortune; and the mighty prevailing power of love._ the novell which madam _philomena_ had so graciously related, was highly pleasing unto the other ladies; because they had oftentimes heard the song, without knowing who made it, or uppon what occasion it was composed. but when the king saw that the tale was ended: hee commanded _pamphilus_, that hee should follow in his due course: whereupon he spake thus. the dreame already recounted in the last novell, doth minister matter to me, to make report of another tale, wherein mention is made of two severall dreames; which divined as well what was to ensue, as the other did what had hapned before. and no sooner were they finished in the relation, by both the parties which had formerly dreampt them, but the effects of both as sodainly followed. worthy ladies, i am sure it is not unknowne to you, that it is, & hath bene a generall passion, to all men and women living, to see divers and sundry things while they are sleeping. and although (to the sleeper) they seeme most certaine, so that when he awaketh, hee judgeth the trueth of some, the likelyhood of others, and some beyond all possibility of truth: yet notwithstanding, many dreames have bene observed to happen, and very strangely have come to passe. and this hath bene a grounded reason for some men, to give as great credit to such things as they see sleeping, as they do to others usually waking. so that, according unto their dreames, and as they make construction of them, that are sadly distasted, or merrily pleased, even as (by them) they either feare or hope. on the contrary, there are some, who will not credit any dreame whatsoever, untill they be falne into the very same danger which formerly they saw, and most evidently in their sleepe. i meane not to commend either the one or other, because they do not alwayes fall out to be true; neither are they at all times lyars. now, that they prove not all to be true, we can best testifie to our selves. and that they are not alwayes lyars, hath already sufficiently bene manifested, by the discourse of madame _philomena_, and as you shall perceive by mine owne, which next commeth in order to salute you. wherefore, i am of this opinion, that in matters of good life, and performing honest actions; no dreame is to be feared presaging the contrary, neither are good works any way to be hindred by them. likewise, in matters of bad and wicked quality, although our dreames may appeare favourable to us, and our visions flatter us with prosperous successe: yet let us give no credence unto the best, nor addicte our minds to them of contrary nature. and now we will proceed to our novell. in the citie of _brescia_, there lived sometime a gentleman, named _messer negro da ponte cararo_, who (among many other children) had a daughter called _andreana_, yong and beautifull, but as yet unmarried. it fortuned, that shee fell in love with a neighbour, named _gabriello_, a comely yong gentleman, of affable complexion, and graciously conditioned. which love was (with like kindnesse) welcommed and entertained by him, and by the furtherance of her chamber-maide, it was so cunningly carried, that in the garden belonging to _andreanaes_ father, she had many meetings with her _gabriello_. and solemne vowes being mutually passed betweene them, that nothing but death could alter their affection: by such ceremonious words as are used in marriage, they maried themselves secretly together, and continued their stolne chaste pleasures, with equall contentment to them both. it came to passe, that _andreana_ sleeping in her bed, dreamed, that she met with _gabriello_ in the garden, where they both embracing lovingly together, she seemed to see a thing blacke and terrible, which sodainely issued forth of his body, but the shape thereof she could not comprehend. it rudely seized upon _gabriello_, & in despight of her utmost strength (with incredible force) snatched him out of her armes, and sinking with him into the earth, they never after did see one another; whereuppon, overcome with extremity of greefe and sorrow, presently shee awaked, being then not a little joyfull, that she found no such matter as shee feared, yet continued very doubtfull of her dreame. in regard whereof, _gabriello_ being desirous to visite her the night following: she laboured very diligently to hinder his comming to her; yet knowing his loyall affection toward her, and fearing least he should grow suspitious of some other matter: she welcommed him into the garden, where gathering both white and damaske roses (according to the nature of the season) at length, they sate downe by a goodly fountaine, which stoode in the middst of the garden. after some small familiar discourse passing betweene them, _gabriello_ demanded of her upon what occasion shee denied his comming thither the night before, and by such a sodaine unexpected admonition? _andreana_ told him, that it was in regard of a troublesome dreame, wherewith hir soule was perplexed the precedent night, and doubt what might ensue thereon. _gabriello_ hearing this, began to smile, affirming to her, that it was an especiall note of folly, to give any credit to idle dreames: because (oftentimes) they are caused by excesse of feeding, and continually are observed to be meere lies. for (quoth hee) if i had any superstitious beleefe of dreames, i should not then have come hither nowe: yet not so much as being dismayed by your dreame, but for another of mine owne, which i am the more willing to acquaint you withall. me thought, i was in a goodly delightfull forrest, in the noble exercise of sportfull hunting, and became there possessed of a yong hinde, the verie loveliest and most pleasing beast that was ever seene. it seemed to be as white as snow, and grew (in a short while) so familiar with mee, that by no meanes it would forsake me. i could not but accept this rare kindnesse in the beast, and fearing least (by some ill hap) i might loose it, i put a coller of gold about the necke thereof, and fastned it into a chain of gold also, which then i held strictly in my hand. the hind afterward couched downe by mee, laying his head mildely in my lap; and on a sudden, a blacke grey-hound bitch came rushing on us (but whence, or how i could not imagine) seeming halfe hunger-starved, and very ugly to look upon. at me she made her full carriere, without any power in me of resistance: and putting her mouth into the lefte side of my bosome, griped it so mainly with her teeth, that (me thought) i felt my heart quite bitten through, and she tugged on still, to take it wholly away from me; by which imagined paine and anguish i felt, instantly i awaked: laying then my hand upon my side, to know whether any such harme had befaln me, or no, and finding none at all, i smiled at mine owne folly, in making such a frivolous and idle search. what can be said then in these or the like cases? divers times i have had as ill seeming dreames, yea, and much more to be feared: yet never any thing hurtfull to me followed thereon; and therefore i have alwaies made the lesse account of them. the yong maiden, who was still dismayed by her owne dreame, became much more afflicted in her minde, when shee had heard this other reported by _gabriello_: but yet to give him no occasion of distast, she bare it out in the best manner she could devise to doe. and albeit they spent the time in much pleasing discourse, maintained with infinite sweete kisses on either side: yet was she still suspitious, but knew not whereof; fixing her eies oftentimes upon his face, and throwing strange lookes to all parts of the garden, to catch hold on any such blacke ugly sight, whereof he had formerly made description to her. as thus she continued in these afflicting feares, it fortuned, that _gabriello_ sodainly breathing forth a very vehement sighe, and throwing his armes fast about her, said: o helpe me deare love, or elsee i dye; and, in speaking the words, fell downe uppon the ground. which the yong damosell perceiving, and drawing him into her lappe, weeping saide: alas sweete friend, what paine dost thou feele? _gabriello_ answered not one word, but being in an exceeding sweate, without any ability of drawing breath, very soone after gave up the ghost. how greevous this strange accident was to poore _andreana_, who loved him as deerely as her owne life: you that have felt loves tormenting afflictions, can more easily conceive, then i relate. wringing her hands, & weeping incessantly, calling him, rubbing his temples, and using all likely meanes to reduce life: she found all her labour to be spent in vain, because he was starke dead indeed, and every part of his body as cold as ice: whereupon, she was in such wofull extremity, that she knew not what to do or say. all about the garden she went weeping, in infinite feares and distraction of soule, calling for her chamber-maid, the only secret friend to their stolne meetings, and told her the occasion of this sudden sorrow. after they had sighed and mourned awhile, over the dead body of _gabriello, andreana_ in this manner spake to her maid. seeing fortune hath thus bereft me of my love, mine owne life must needs be hatefull to me: but before i offer any violence to my selfe, let us devise some convenient meanes, as may both preserve mine honour from any touch or scandall, and conceale the secret love passing betweene us: but yet in such honest sort, that this body (whose blessed soule hath too soone forsaken it) may be honourably enterred. whereto her mayde thus answered: mistresse, never talke of doing any violence to your self, because by such a blacke and dismall deed, as you have lost his kind company here in this life, so shall you never more see him in the other world: for immediately you sinke downe to hell, which foule place cannot bee a receptacle for his faire soule, that was endued with so many singular vertues. wherefore, i holde it farre better for you, to comfort your selfe by all good meanes, and with the power of fervent prayer, to fight against all desperate intruding passions, as a truly vertuous minde ought to doe. now, as concerning his enterrement, the meanes is readily prepared for you heere in this garden, where never he hath bene seene by any, or his resorting hither knowne, but onely to our selves. if you will not consent to have it so, let you and i convey his bodye hence, and leave it in such apt place, where it may be found to morrow morning: and being then carried to his owne house, his friends and kindred will give it honest buriall. _andreana_, although her soule was extraordinarily sorrowfull, & teares flowed abundantly from her eyes; yet she listned attentively to hir maids counsell; allowing her first advice against desperation, to be truly good; but to the rest thus she replied. god forbid (quoth she) that i shold suffer so deare a loving friend, as he hath alwayes shewed himselfe to mee; nay, which is much more, my husband; by sacred and solemn vowes passed betweene us, to be put into the ground basely, and like a dog, or elsee to be left in the open streete. he hath had the sacrifice of my virgin teares, and if i can prevaile, he shall have some of his kindred, as i have instantly devised, what (in this hard case) is best to be done. forthwith she sent the maid to her chamber, for divers elles of white damaske lying in her chest, which when she had brought, they spread it abroad on the grasse, even in the manner of a winding sheete, and therein wrapped the bodie of _gabriello_, with a faire wrought pillow lying under his head, having first (with their teares) closed his mouth and eyes, and placed a chaplet of flowers on his head, covering the whole shrowd over in the same manner, which being done, thus she spake to her maide. the doore of his owne house is not farre hence, and thither (between us two) he may be easily carried, even in this manner as we have adorned him; where leaving him in his owne porch, we may returne back before it be day; and although it will be a sad sight to his friends; yet, because he dyed in mine armes, and we being so well discharged of the bodie, it will be a little comfort to me. when she had ended these words, which were not uttered without infinite teares, the maid entreated her to make hast, because the night passed swiftly on. at last, she remembred the ring on her finger, wherewith _gabriello_ had solemnly espoused her, and opening the shroud againe, she put it on his finger, saying, my deare and loving husband, if thy soule can see my teares, or any understanding do remaine in thy body, being thus untimely taken from me: receive the latest guifte thou gavest me, as a pledge of our solemne and spotlesse marriage. so, making up the shroud againe as it should be, and conveighing it closely out of the garden, they went on along with it, towardes his dwelling house. as thus they passed along, it fortuned, that they were met and taken by the guard or watch belonging to the potestate, who had bin so late abroad, about very earnest and important businesse. _andreana_, desiring more the dead mans company, then theirs whom she had thus met withall, boldly spake thus to them. i know who and what you are, and can tel my selfe, that to offer flight will nothing availe me: wherefore, i am ready to go along with you before the seigneurie, and there will tel the truth concerning this accident. but let not any man among you, be so bold as to lay hand on me, or to touch me, because i yeeld so obediently to you: neither to take any thing from this body, except he intend that i shal accuse him. in which respect, not any one daring to displease her, shee went with the dead bodye to the seigneurie, there to answere all objections. when notice heereof was given to the potestate, he arose; and shee being brought foorth into the hall before him, he questioned with her, how and by what meanes this accident happened. beside, he sent for divers physitians, to be informed by them, whether the gentleman were poysoned, or otherwise murthered: but al of them affirmed the contrary, avouching rather, that some impostumation had engendred neere his heart, which sodainly breaking, occasioned his as sodaine death. the potestate hearing this, and perceiving that _andreana_ was little or nothing at all faulty in the matter: her beauty and good carriage, kindled a villanous and lustfull desire in him towards her, provoking him to the immodest motion, that upon granting his request, he would release her. but when he saw, that all his perswasions were to no purpose, hee sought to compasse his will by violence; which, like a vertuous and valiant _virago_, shee worthily withstood, defending her honour nobly, and reprooving him with many injurious speeches, such as a lustfull letcher justlie deserved. on the morrow morning, these newes being brought to her father, _messer negro da ponte cararo_; greeving thereat exceedingly, and accompanied with many of his friends, he went to the palace. being there arrived, and informed of the matter by the potestate: hee demaunded (in teares) of his daughter, how, and by what meanes shee was brought thither? the potestate would needs accuse her first, of outrage and wrong offered to him by her, rather then to tarry her accusing of him: yet, commending the yong maiden, and her constancie, proceeded to say, that onely to prove her, he had made such a motion to her, but finding her so firmly vertuous, his love and liking was now so addicted to her, that if hir father were so pleased, to forget the remembrance of her former secret husband, he willingly would accept her in marriage. while thus they continued talking, _andreana_ comming before her father, the teares trickling mainly downe her cheekes, and falling at his feete, she began in this manner. deare father, i shall not neede to make an historicall relation, either of my youthfull boldnesse or misfortunes, because you have both seene and knowne them: rather most humblie, i crave your pardon, for another error by me committed, in that, both without your leave and liking, i accepted the man as my troth-plighted husband, whom (above all other in the world) i most intirely affected. if my offence heerein do challenge the forfeite of my life, then (good father) i free you from any such pardon: because my onely desire is to die your daughter, and in your gracious favour; with which words, in signe of her humility, she kissed his feete. _messer negro da ponte_, being a man well stept into yeares, and of a milde and gentle nature, observing what his daughter had saide: could not refraine from teares, and in his weeping, lovingly tooke her from the ground, speaking thus to her. daughter, i could have wished, that thou hadst taken such an husband, as (in my judgement) had bene best fitting for thee, and yet if thou didst make election of one, answerable to thine owne good opinion & liking: i have no just reason to be therewith offended. my greatest cause of complaint, is, thy too severe concealing it from me, and the slender trust thou didst repose in me, because thou hast lost him, before i knew him. neverthelesse, seeing these occasions are thus come to passe, and accidents alreadie ended, cannot by any meanes be re-called: it is my will, that as i would gladly have contented thee, by making him my sonne in law, if he had lived; so i will expresse the like love to him now he is dead. and so turning himself to his kindred and friends, lovingly requested of them, that they would grace _gabriello_ with most honourable obsequies. by this time, the kindred and friends to the dead man (uppon noise of his death bruited abroad) were likewise come to the pallace, yea, most of the men and women dwelling in the city, the bodie of _gabriello_ beeing laide in the midst of the court, upon the white damaske shrowde given by _andreana_, with infinite roses and other sweet flowers lying thereon: and such was the peoples love to him, that never was any mans death, more to be bemoaned and lamented. being delivered out of the court, it was carried to buriall, not like a burgesse or ordinary citizen, but with such pompe as beseemed a lord baron, and on the shoulders of very noble gentlemen, with very especiall honour and reverence. within some few dayes after, the potestate pursuing his former motion of marriage, and the father moving it to his daughter; she wold not by any meanes listen thereto. and he being desirous to give her contentment, delivered her and her chamber-maid into a religious abbey, very famous for devotion and sanctity, where afterwardes they ended their lives. _faire_ simonida _affecting_ pasquino, _and walking with him in a pleasant garden, it fortuned, that_ pasquino _rubbed his teeth with a leafe of sage, and immediately fell downe dead._ simonida _being brought before the bench of justice, and charged with the death of_ pasquino: _she rubbed her teeth likewise with one of the leaves of the same sage, as declaring what shee saw him do: and thereon she dyed also in the same manner._ the seaventh novell. _whereby is given to understand, that love & death do use their power equally alike, as well upon poore and meane persons, as on them that are rich and noble._ _pamphilus_ having ended his tale, the king declaring an outward shew of compassion, in regard of _andreanaes_ disastrous fortune: fixed his eye on madam _emillia_, and gave her such an apparant signe, as expressed his pleasure, for her next succeeding in discourse; which being sufficient for her understanding, thus she began: faire assembly, the novel so lately delivered by _pamphilus_, maketh me willing to report another to you, varying from it, in any kinde of resemblance; onely this excepted: that as _andreana_, lost her lover in a garden, even so did shee of whome i am now to speake. and being brought before the seate of justice, according as _andreana_ was, freed her selfe from the power of the law; yet neither by force, or her owne vertue, but by her sodaine and inopinate death. and although the nature of love is such (according as wee have oftentimes heeretofore maintained) to make his abiding in the houses of the noblest persons; yet men and women of poore and farre inferiour quality, do not alwayes sit out of his reach, though enclosed in their meanest cottages; declaring himselfe sometimes as powerfull a commaunder in those humble places, as he doth in the richest and most imperious palaces. as will plainly appeare unto you, either in all, or a great part of my novell, whereto our citie pleadeth some title; though, by the diversity of our discourses, talking of so many severall accidents; we have wandred into many other parts of the world, to make all answerable to our owne liking. it is not any long time since, when there lived in our city of _florence_, a young and beautifull damosell, yet according to the nature of hir condition; because she was the daughter of a poore father, and called by the name of _simonida_. now, albeit shee was not supplied by any better meanes, then to maintaine her selfe by her owne painfull travell, & earne her bread before shee could eate it, by carding and spinning to such as employed her; yet was she not of so base or dejected a spirit, but had both courage and sufficient vertue, to understand the secret solicitings of love, and to distinguish the parts of well deserving, both by private behaviour and outward ceremony. as naturall instinct was her first tutor thereto, so wanted she not a second maine and urging motion; a chip hewed out of the like timber, one no better in birth then her selfe, a proper young springall, named _pasquino_, whose generous behaviour, and gracefull actions (in bringing her daily wooll to spin, by reason his master was a clothier) prevailed upon her liking and affection. nor was he negligent in the observation of her amorous regards, but the tinder tooke, and his soule flamed with the selfe-same fire; making him as desirous of her loving acceptance, as possibly she could bee of his: so that the commanding power of love, could not easily be distinguished in which of them it had the greater predominance. for, everie day as he brought her fresh supply of woolles, and found her seriously busied at hir wheele: her soule would vent forth many deepe sighes, and those sighes fetch floods of teares from her eyes, thorough the singular good opinion she had conceyved of him, and earnest desire to enjoy him. _pasquino_ on the other side, as leysure gave him leave for the least conversing with her: his disease was every way answerable to her, for teares stood in his eyes, sighes flew abroad, to ease the poore hearts afflicting oppressions, which though he was unable to conceale; yet would hee seeme to clowd them cleanly, by entreating her that his masters worke might be neatly performed, and with such speed as time would permit her, intermixing infinite praises of her artificiall spinning; and affirming withall, that the quilles of yearne received from her, were the choisest beauty of the whole peece; so that when other worke-women played, _simonida_ was sure to want no employment. heereupon, the one soliciting, and the other taking delight in beeing solicited; it came to passe, that often accesse bred the bolder courage, & over-much bashfulnesse became abandoned, yet no immodestie passing betweene them: but affection grew the better setled in them both, by interchangeable vowes of constant perseverance, so that death onely, but no disaster elsee had power to divide them. their mutuall delight continuing on in this manner, with more forcible encreasing of their loves equall flame; it fortuned, that _pasquino_ sitting by _simonida_, tolde her of a goodly garden, whereto hee was desirous to bring her, to the end, that they might the more safely converse together, without the suspition of envious eyes. _simonida_ gave answer of her well-liking the motion, and acquainting her father therewith, he gave her leave, on the sunday following after dinner, to go serch the pardon of s. _gallo_, and afterwards to visit the garden. a modest yong maiden named _lagina_, following the same profession, and being an intimate familiar friend, _simonida_ tooke along in her company, and came to the garden appointed by _pasquino_; where shee found him readily expecting her comming, and another friend also with him, called _puccino_ (albeit more usually tearmed _strambo_) a secret well-willer to _lagina_, whose love became the more furthered by this friendly meeting. each lover delighting in his hearts chosen mistresse, caused them to walke alone by themselves, as the spaciousnesse of the garden gave them ample liberty: _puccino_ with his _lagina_ in one part, & _pasquino_ with his _simonida_ in another. the walke which they had made choise of, was by a long and goodly bed of sage, turning and returning by the same bed as their conference ministred occasion, and as they pleased to recreate themselves; affecting rather to continue still there, then in any part of the garden. one while they would sit downe by the sage bed, and afterward rise to walke againe, as ease or wearinesse seemed to invite them. at length, _pasquino_ chanced to crop a leafe of the sage, wherewith he both rubbed his teeth and gummes, and champing it betweene them also, saying; that there was no better thing in the world to cleanse the teeth withall, after feeding. not long had he thus champed the sage in his teeth, returning to his former kinde of discoursing, but his countenance began to change very pale, his sight failed, and speech forsooke him; so that (in briefe) he fell downe dead. which when _simonida_ beheld, wringing her hands, she cryed out for helpe to _strambo_ and _lagina_, who immediately came running to her. they finding _pasquino_ not onely to be dead, but his bodie swolne; and strangely over-spred with foule black spots, both on his face, handes, and all parts elsee beside: _strambo_ cried out, saying; ah wicked maide, what hast thou poisoned him? these words and their shrill out-cries also, were heard by neighbours dwelling neere to the garden, who comming in sodainly uppon them, and seeing _pasquino_ lying dead, and hugely swoln, _strambo_ likewise complaining, and accusing _simonida_ to have poysoned him; shee making no answer, but standing in a gastly amazement, all her senses meerely confounded, at such a strange and uncouth accident, in loosing him whome she so dearely loved: knew not how to excuse her selfe, and therefore every one verily beleeved, that _strambo_ had not unjustly accused her. poore woful maide, thus was shee instantly apprehended, and drowned in her teares, they led her along to the potestates palace, where her accusation was justified by _strambo, lagina,_ and two men more; the one named _atticciato_, and the other _malagevole_, fellowes and companions with _pasquino_, who came into the garden also upon the out-cry. the judge, without any delay at all, gave eare to the busines, and examined the case very strictly: but could by no meanes comprehend, that any malice should appeare in her towards him, nor that she was guiltie of the mans death. wherefore, in the presence of _simonida_, hee desired to see the dead body, and the place where he fell downe dead, because there he intended to have her relate, how she saw the accident to happen, that her owne speeches might the sooner condemne her, whereas the case yet remained doubtfull, and farre beyond his comprehension. so, without any further publication, and to avoid the following of the turbulent multitude: they departed from the bench of justice, and came to the place, where _pasquinoes_ body lay swolne like a tunne. demanding there questions, concerning his behaviour, when they walked there in conference together, and, not a little admiring the manner of his death, while hee stood advisedly considering thereon. she going to the bed of sage, reporting the whole precedent history, even from the original to the ending: the better to make the case understood, without the least colour of ill carriage towardes _pasquino_; according as she had seene him do, even so did she plucke another leafe of the sage, rubbing her teeth therewith, and champing it as he formerly did. _strambo_, and the other intimate friends of _pasquino_, having noted in what manner she used the sage, and this appearing as her utmost refuge, either to acquit or condemne her: in presence of the judge they smiled thereat, mocking and deriding whatsoever shee saide, or did, and desiring (the more earnestly) the sentence of death against her, that her body might be consumed with fire, as a just punishment for her abhominable transgression. poore _simonida_, sighing and sorrowing for her deere loves losse, and (perhappes) not meanly terrified, with the strict infliction of torment so severely urged and followed by _strambo_ and the rest: standing dumb still, without answering so much as one word; by tasting of the same sage, fell downe dead by the bed, even by the like accident as _pasquino_ formerly did, to the admirable astonishment of all there present. oh poore infortunate lovers, whose starres were so inauspicious to you, as to finish both your mortall lives, and fervent love, in lesse limitation then a dayes space. how to censure of your deaths, and happines to ensue thereon, by an accident so straunge and inevitable: it is not within the compasse of my power, but to hope the best, and so i leave you. but yet concerning _simonida_ her selfe, in the common opinion of us that remaine living: her true vertue and innocency (though fortune was other wise most cruell to her) would not suffer her to sinke under the testimony of _strambo, lagina, atticciato_ and _malagevole_, being but carders of wool, or perhaps of meaner condition; a happier course was ordained for her, to passe clearly from their infamous imputation, and follow her _pasquino_, in the verie same manner of death, and with such a speedie expedition. the judge standing amazed, and all there present in his companie, were silent for a long while together: but, uppon better re-collection of his spirits, thus he spake. this inconvenience which thus hath hapned, and confounded our senses with no common admiration; in mine opinion concerneth the bed of sage, avouching it either to bee venomous, or dangerously infected; which (neverthelesse) is seldom found in sage. but to the end, that it may not be offensive to any more heereafter, i will have it wholly digd up by the rootes, and then to bee burnt in the open market place. hereupon, the gardiner was presently sent for, and before the judge would depart thence, he saw the bed of sage digged up by the roots, and found the true occasion, whereby these two poore lovers lost their lives. for, just in the middest of the bed, and at the maine roote, which directed all the sage in growth; lay an huge mighty toad, even weltring (as it were) in a hole full of poyson; by meanes whereof, in conjecture of the judge, and all the rest, the whole bed of sage became envenomed, occasioning every leafe thereof to be deadly in taste. none being so hardie, as to approach neere the toade, they made a pile of wood directly over it, and setting it on a flaming fire, threw all the sage thereinto, and so they were consumed together. so ended all further suite in lawe, concerning the deaths of _pasquino_ and _simonida_: whose bodies being carried to the church of saint _paul_, by their sad and sorrowfull accusers, _strambo, lagina, atticciato_ and _malagevole_, were buried together in one goodlie monument, for a future memory of their hard fortune. jeronimo _affecting a yong maiden, named_ silvestra: _was constrained (by the earnest importunity of his mother) to take a journey to_ paris. _at his return home from thence againe, hee found his love_ silvestra _married. by secret meanes, he got entrance into her house, and dyed upon the bed lying by her. afterward, his body being carried to church, to receive buriall, she likewise died there instantly upon his coarse._ the eight novell. _wherein is againe declared, the great indiscretion and folly of them, that think to constraine love, according to their will, after it is constantly setled before: with other instructions, concerning the unspeakeable power of love._ madam _emillia_ had no sooner concluded her novell, but madame _neiphila_ (by the kings command) began to speake in this manner. it seemeth to mee (gracious ladies) that there are some such people to be found, who imagine themselves to know more, then all other elsee in the world beside, and yet indeede doe know nothing at all: presuming (thorough this arrogant opinion of theirs) to imploy and oppose their senselesse understanding, against infallible grounded reason, yea, and to attempt courses, not only contrary to the counsell and judgment of men, but also to crosse the nature of divine ordination. out of which fancy & ambitious presumption, many mighty harmes have already had beginning, and more are like to ensue uppon such boldnesse, because it is the ground of all evils. now, in regard that among all other naturall things, no one is lesse subject to take counsell, or can bee wrought to contrariety, then love, whose nature is such, as rather to run upon his owne rash consumption, then to be ruled by admonitions of the very wisest: my memory hath inspired itself, with matter incident to this purpose, effectually to approve, what i have already said. for i am now to speake of a woman, who would appeare to have more wit, then either she had indeed, or appertained to her by any title. the matter also, wherein she would needs shew hir studious judgement and capacity, was of much more consequence then she could deserve to meddle withall. yet such was the issue of her fond presuming; that (in one instant) she expelled both love, and the soule of her owne sonne out of his body, where (doubtlesse) it was planted by divine favour and appointment. in our owne city (according to true & ancient testimony) there dwelt sometime a very worthy and wealthy merchant, named _leonardo sighiero_, who by his wife had one onely sonne, called _jeronimo_, and within a short while after his birth, _leonardo_ being very sicke, and having setled al his affaires in good order; departed out of this wretched life to a better. the tutors and governours of the childe, thought it fittest to let him live with his mother, where he had his whole education, though schooled among many other worthy neighbours children, according as in most cities they use to do. yong _jeronimo_ growing on in yeares, and frequenting dayly the company of his schoole-fellowes and others: hee would often sport (as the rest did) with the neighbours children, and much prety pastime they found together. in the harmlesse recreations of youth, graver judgements have often observed, that some especiall matter received then such original, as greater effect hath followed thereon. and many times, parents and kindred have bene the occasion (although perhaps beyond their expectation) of very strange and extraordinary accidents, by names of familiarity passing betweene boyes and girles, as king and queene, sweet heart and sweet heart, friend and friend, husband and wife, and divers other such like kind tearmes, prooving afterwards to be true indeede. it fell out so with our yong _jeronimo_; for, among a number of pretty damoselse, daughters to men of especiall respect, and others of farre inferiour qualitie: a taylors daughter, excelling the rest in favour and feature (albeit her father was but poore) _jeronimo_ most delighted to sport withall; and no other titles passed betweene them, even in the hearing of their parents and friendes, but wife and husband: such was the beginning of their young affection, presaging (no doubt) effectually to follow. nor grew this familiarity (as yet) any way distasted, till by their dayly conversing together, and enterchange of infinite pretty speeches: _jeronimo_ felt a strange alteration in his soule, with such enforcing and powerfull afflictions; as he was never well but in her company, nor she enjoyed any rest if _jeronimo_ were absent. at the length, this being noted by his mother, she beganne to rebuke him, yea, many times gave him both threatnings and blowes, which proving to no purpose, nor hindering his accesse to her; she complained to his tutors, and like one that in regard of her riches, thought to plant an orange upon a blacke thorne, spake as followeth. this sonne of mine _jeronimo_, being as yet but fourteene years of age, is so deeply enamored of a yong girle, named _silvestra_, daughter unto a poore tailor, our neere dwelling neighbour: that if we do not send him out of her company, one day (perhaps) he may make her his wife, and yet without any knowledge of ours, which questionlesse would be my death. otherwise, he may pine and consume himselfe away, if he see us procure her marriage to some other. wherefore, i hold it good, that to avoid so great an inconvenience, we shold send _jeronimo_ some far distance hence, to remaine where some of our factors are employed: because, when he shall be out of her sight, and their often meetings utterly disappointed; his affection to her will the sooner ceasse, by frustrating his hope for ever enjoying her, and so we shall have the better meanes, to match him with one of greater quality. the tutors did like well of her advice, not doubting but it would take answerable effect: and therefore, calling _jeronimo_ into a private parlour, one of them began in this manner. _jeronimo_, you are now growne to an indifferent stature, and (almost) able to take government of your selfe. it cannot then seeme any way inconvenient, to acquaint you with your deceased fathers affaires, and by what good courses he came to such wealth. you are his onely sonne and heire, to whom hee hath bequeathed his rich possessions (your mothers moity evermore remembred) and travaile would now seeme fitting for you, as well to gaine experience in traffick and merchandize, as also to let you see the worlds occurrences. your mother therefore (and we) have thought it expedient, that you should journey from hence to _paris_, there to continue for some such fitting time, as may grant you full and free opportunity, to survey what stocke of wealth is there employed for you, and to make you understand, how your factors are furtherous to your affayres. beside, this is the way to make you a man of more solid apprehension, & perfect instruction in civill courses of life; rather then by continuing here to see none but lords, barons, and gentlemen, whereof wee have too great a number. when you are sufficiently qualified there, and have learned what belongeth to a worthy marchant, such as was _leonardo sighiero_ your famous father; you may returne home againe at your owne pleasure. the youth gave them attentive hearing, and (in few words) returned them answer: that he would not give way to any such travaile, because hee knew how to dispose of himselfe in _florence_, as well as in any other place he should be sent too. which when his tutors heard, they reproved him with many severe speeches: and seeing they could win no other answer from him, they made returne thereof to his mother. shee storming extreamly thereat, yet not so much for denying the journey to _paris_, as in regard of his violent affection to the maide; gave him very bitter and harsh language. all which availing nothing, she began to speake in a more milde and gentle straine, entreating him with flattering and affable words, to be governed in this case by his tutors good advise. and so farre (in the end) she prevailed with him, that he yeelded to live at _paris_ for the space of a yeare; but further time he would not graunt, and so all was ended. _jeronimo_ being gone to remain at _paris_, his love daily increasing more and more, by reason of his absence from _silvestra_, under faire and friendly promises, of this moneth and the next moneth sending for him home; there they detained him two whole yeares together. whereuppon, his love was growne to such an extremity, that he neither would, or could abide any longer there, but home hee returned, before hee was expected. his love _silvestra_, by the cunning compacting of his mother and tutors, he found married to a tent-makers sonne; whereat hee vexed and greeved beyond all measure. neverthelesse, seeing the case was now no way to bee holpen; hee strove to beare it with so much patience, as so great a wrong, and his hearts tormenting greefe, would give him leave to doe. having found out the place where she dwelt, hee began (as it is the custome of yong lovers) to use divers daily walkes by her door: as thinking in his minde, that her remembrance of him was constantly continued, as his was most intirely fixed on her. but the case was verie strangely altred, because she was now growne no more mindfull of him, then if she had never seene him before. or if she did any way remember him, it appeared to be so little, that manifest signes declared the contrary. which _jeronimo_ very quickely perceived, albeit not without many melanchollie perturbations. notwithstanding, he laboured by all possible meanes, to recover her former kindnesse againe: but finding all his paines frivouslie employed; he resolved to dye, and yet to compasse some speech with her before. by meanes of a neere dwelling neighbour (that was his verie deare & intimate friend) he came acquainted with every part of the house, & prevailed so far, that one evening, when she and her husband supt at a neighbours house; he compassed accesse into the same bed chamber, where _silvestra_ used most to lodge. finding the curtaines ready drawne, he hid himselfe behinde them on the further side of the bed, and so tarried there untill _silvestra_ and her husband were returned home, and laide downe in bedde to take their rest. the husbands sences were soone overcome with sleepe, by reason of his painefull toyling all the day, and bodies that are exercised with much labour, are the more desirous to have ease. she staying up last, to put out the light, and hearing her husband sleepe so soundly, that his snoring gave good evidence thereof: layed her selfe down the more respectively, as being very loath any way to disease him, but sweetly to let him enjoy his rest. _silvestra_ lay on the same side of the bed, where _jeronimo_ had hid himselfe behinde the curtaines; who stepping softly to her in the darke, and laying his hand gently on her brest, saide: deare love, forbeare a little while to sleepe, for heere is thy loyall friend _jeronimo_. the yong woman starting with amazement, would have cried out, but that hee entreated her to the contrary; protesting, that he came for no ill intent to her, but onely to take his latest leave of her. alas _jeronimo_ (quoth she) those idle dayes are past and gone, when it was no way unseemly for our youth, to entertaine equality of those desires, which then well agreed with our young blood. since when, you have lived in forraine countries, which appeared to me to alter your former disposition: for, in the space of two whole yeares, either you grew forgetfull of me (as change of ayre, may change affection) or (at the best) made such account of mee, as i never heard the least salutation from you. now you know me to be a married wife, in regard whereof, my thoughts have embraced that chaste and honourable resolution, not to minde any man but my husband; and therefore, as you are come hither without my love or license, so in like manner i do desire you to be gone. let this priviledge of my husbandes sound sleeping, be no colour to your longer continuing heere, or encourage you to finde any further favour at mine hand: for if mine husband shold awake, beside the danger that thereon may follow to you, i cannot but loose the sweet happinesse of peacefull life, which hitherto we have both mutually embraced. the yong man, hearing these wordes, and remembring what loving kindnesse he had formerly found, what secret love letters hee had sent from _paris_, with other private intelligences and tokens, which never came to her receite and knowledge, so cunningly his mother and tutors had carried the matter: immediately he felt his heart strings to break; and lying downe upon the beds side by her, uttered these his very last words. _silvestra_ farewell, thou hast kilde the kindest heart that ever loved a woman: and speaking no more, gave up the ghost. she hearing these words delivered with an entire sighe, and deepe-fetcht groane: did not imagine the strange consequence following thereon; yet was mooved to much compassion, in regard of her former affection to him. silent shee lay an indifferent while, as being unable to returne him any answer; and looking when he would be gone, according as before she had earnestly entreated him. but when she perceyved him to lye so still, as neither word or motion came from him, she saide: kinde _jeronimo_, why doest thou not depart and get thee gone? so putting forth her hand, it hapned to light upon his face, which she felt to be as cold as yce: whereat marvelling not a little, as also at his continued silence: shee jogged him, and felt his hands in like manner, which were stiffely extended forth, and all his body cold, as not having any life remaining in him, which greatly amazing her, and confounding her with sorrow beyond all measure, shee was in such perplexity, that the could not devise what to do or say. in the end, she resolved to try how her husband would take it, that so strange an accident should thus happen in his house, and putting the case as if it did not concerne them, but any other of the neighbours; awaking him first, demaunded of him what was best to bee done, if a man should steale into a neighbours house, unknowne to him, or any of his family; & in his bed chamber to be found dead. he presently replyed (as not thinking the case concerned himselfe) that, the onely helpe in such an unexpected extremity, was, to take the dead body, and convey it to his owne house, if he had any; whereby no scandall or reproach would followe to them, in whose house he had so unfortunately dyed. heereupon, shee immediately arose, and lighting a candle, shewed him the dead bodie of _jeronimo_, with protestation of every particular, both of her innocencie, either of knowledge of his comming thither, or any other blame that could concerne her. which hee both constantly knowing and beleeving, made no more ceremonie, but putting on his garments, tooke the dead bodie upon his shoulders, and carried it to the mothers doore, where he left it, and afterward returned to his owne house againe. when day light was come, and the dead body found lying in the porch, it moved very much greefe and amazement, considering, he had bin seene the day before, in perfect health to outward appearance. nor neede we to urge any question of his mothers sorrow upon this straunge accident, who, causing his body to bee carefully searched, without any blow, bruise, wound, or hurt uppon it, the physitians could not give any other opinion, but that some inward conceyte of greefe had caused his death, as it did indeed, and no way otherwise. to the cheefe church was the dead body carried, to be generally seene of all the people, his mother and friends weeping heavily by it, as many more did the like beside, because he was beloved of every one. in which time of universall mourning, the honest man (in whose house he dyed) spake thus to his wife: disguise thyselfe in some decent manner, and go to the church, where (as i heare) they have laide the body of _jeronimo_. crowde in amongest the women, as i will doe the like amongst the men, to heare what opinion passeth of his death, and whether wee shall bee scandalized thereby, or no. _silvestra_, who was now become full of pitty too late, quickely condiscended, as desiring to see him dead, whom sometime she dearly affected in life. and being come to the church, it is a matter to bee admired, if advisedly we consider on the powerfull working of love; for the heart of this woman, which the prosperous fortune of _jeronimo_ could not pierce, now in his wofull death did split in sunder; and the ancient sparks of love so long concealed in the embers, brake foorth into a furious flame; and being violently surprized with extraordinary compassion, no sooner did she come neere to the dead body, where many stoode weeping round about it; but strangely shrieking out aloud, she fell downe upon it: & even as extremity of greefe finished his life, so did it hers in the same manner. for she moved neither hand not foot, because her vitall powers had quite forsaken her. the women labouring to comfort her by al the best means they could devise; did not take any knowledge of her, by reason of her disguised garments: but finding her dead indeede, and knowing her also to be _silvestra_, being overcome with unspeakable compassion, & danted with no meane admiration, they stood strangely gazing each upon other. wonderfull crowds of people were then in the church; and this accident being now noysed among the men, at length it came to her husbands understanding, whose greefe was so great, as it exceeded all capacitie of expression. afterward, he declared what had hapned in his house the precedent night, according as his wife had truly related to him, with all the speeches, which past between _silvestra_ and _jeronimo_; by which discourse, they generally conceived, the certaine occasion of both their sodaine deaths, which moved them to great compassion. then taking the yong womans body, and ordering it as a coarse ought to bee: they layed it on the same biere by the yong man, and when they had sufficiently sorrowed for their disastrous fortunes, they gave them honourable buriall both in one grave. so, this poore couple, whome love (in life) could not joyne together, death did unite in an inseparable conjunction. _messer_ guiglielmo _of_ rossiglione _having slaine messer_ guiglielmo guardastagno, _whom hee imagined to love his wife, gave her his heart to eate. which she knowing afterward, threw her selfe out of an high window to the ground; and being dead, was then buried with her friend._ the ninth novell. _whereby appeareth, what ill successe attendeth on them, that love contrarie to reason: in offering injurie both to friendship and marriage together._ when the novell of madam _neiphila_ was ended, which occasioned much compassion in the whole assembly; the king who wold not infringe the priviledge graunted to _dioneus_, no more remaining to speake but they two, began thus. i call to minde (gentle ladies) a novell, which (seeing we are so farre entred into the lamentable accidents of successelesse love) will urge you unto as much commisseration, as that so lately reported to you. and so much the rather; because the persons of whom we are to speake, were of respective quality; which approveth the accident to bee more cruell, then those whereof wee have formerly discoursed. according as the people of _provence_ do report, there dwelt sometime in that jurisdiction, two noble knights, each well possessed of castles & followers; the one beeing named _messer guiglielmo de rossiglione_, and the other _messer guiglielmo guardastagno_. now, in regard that they were both valiant gentlemen, and singularly expert in actions of armes; they loved together the more mutually, and held it as a kinde of custom, to be seene in all tiltes and tournaments, or any other exercises of armes, going commonly alike in their wearing garments. and although their castles stood about five miles distant each from other, yet were they dayly conversant together, as very loving and intimate friends. the one of them, i meane _messer guiglielmo de rossiglione_, had to wife a very gallant beautifull lady, of whom _messer guardastagno_ (forgetting the lawes of respect and loyall friendshippe) became over-fondly enamoured, expressing the same by such outward meanes, that the lady her selfe tooke knowledge thereof, and not with any dislike, as it seemed, but rather lovingly entertained; yet she grew not so forgetfull of her honour and estimation, as the other did of faith to his friend. with such indiscretion was this idle love carried, that whether it sorted to effect, or no, i know not: but the husband perceived some such manner of behaviour, as hee could not easily digest, nor thought it fitting to endure. whereuppon, the league of friendly amity so long continued, began to faile in very strange fashion, and became converted into deadly hatred: which yet hee very cunningly concealed, bearing an outwarde shew of constant friendshippe still, but (in his heart) hee had vowed the death of _guardastagno_. nothing wanted, but by what meanes it might best be effected, which fell out to bee in this manner. a publicke just or tourney, was proclaimed by sound of trumpet throughout all france, wherewith immediately, _messer guiglielmo rossiglione_ acquainted _messer guardastagno_, entreating him that they might further conferre thereon together, and for that purpose to come and visit him, if he intended to have any hand in the businesse. _guardastagno_ being exceeding gladde of this accident, which gave him liberty to see his mistresse; sent answer backe by the messenger, that on the morrow at night, he would come and sup with _rossiglione_; who upon this reply, projected to himselfe in what manner to kill him. on the morrow, after dinner, arming himselfe, and two more of his servants with him, such as he had solemnly sworne to secrecy, hee mounted on horseback, and rode on about a mile from his owne castle, where he lay closely ambushed in a wood, through which _guardastagno_ must needs passe. after he had stayed there some two houres space and more, he espyed him come riding with two of his attendants, all of them being unarmed, as no way distrusting any such intended treason. so soone as he was come to the place, where he had resolved to do the deed; hee rushed forth of the ambush, and having a sharpe lance readily charged in his rest, ran mainly at him, saying: false villain, thou art dead. _guardastagno_, having nothing wherewith to defend himselfe, nor his servants able to give him any succour; being pierced quite through the body with the lance, downe hee fell dead to the ground, and his men (fearing the like misfortune to befall them) gallopped mainely backe againe to their lords castle, not knowing them who had thus murthered their master, by reason of their armed disguises, which in those martiall times were usually worne. _messer guiglielmo rossiglione_, alighting from his horse, and having a keene knife ready drawne in his hand; opened therewith the brest of dead _guardastagno_, and taking foorth his heart with his owne hands, wrapped it in the banderole belonging to his lance, commanding one of his men to the charge thereof, and never to disclose the deed. so, mounting on horse-backe againe, and darke night drawing on apace, he returned home to his castle. the lady, who had heard before of _guardastagnoes_ intent, to suppe there that night, and (perhaps) being earnestly desirous to see him; mervailing at his so long tarrying, saide to her husband. beleeve me sir (quoth she) me thinkes it is somewhat strange, that _messer guiglielmo guardastagno_ delayes his comming so long, he never used to do so til now. i received tidings from him wife (said he) that he cannot be heere till to morrow. whereat the lady appearing to bee displeased, concealed it to her selfe, and used no more words. _rossiglione_ leaving his lady, went into the kitchin, where calling for the cooke, he delivered him the heart, saying: take this heart of a wilde boare, which it was my good happe to kill this day, and dresse it in the daintiest manner thou canst devise to doe; which being so done, when i am set at the table, send it to me in a silver dish, with sauce beseeming so dainty a morsell. the cooke tooke the heart, beleeving it to be no otherwise, then as his lord had saide: and using his utmost skill in dressing it, did divide it into artificiall small slices, and made it most pleasing to be tasted. when supper time was come, _rossiglione_ sate downe at the table with his lady: but hee had little or no appetite at all to eate, the wicked deed which he had done so perplexed his soule, and made him to sit very strangely musing. at length, the cook brought in the dainty dish, which he himselfe setting before his wife, began to finde fault with his own lack of stomack, yet provoked her with many faire speeches, to tast the cooks cunning in so rare a dish. the lady having a good appetite indeede, when she had first tasted it, fed afterward so heartily thereon, that shee left very little, or none at all remaining. when he perceyved that all was eaten, he said unto her: tel me madam, how you do like this delicate kinde of meat? in good faith sir (quoth she) in all my life i was never better pleased. now trust mee madam, answered the knight, i doe verily beleeve you, nor do i greatly wonder thereat, if you like that dead, which you loved so dearly being alive. when she heard these words, a long while she sate silent, but afterward saide. i pray you tell mee sir, what meate was this which you have made me to eate? muse no longer (said he) for therein i will quickly resolve thee. thou hast eaten the heart of _messer guiglielmo guardastagno_, whose love was so deare and precious to thee, thou false, perfidious, and disloyall lady: i pluckt it out of his vile body with mine owne hands, and made my cooke to dresse it for thy diet. poor lady, how strangely was her soule afflicted, hearing these harsh and unpleasing speeches? teares flowed aboundantly from her faire eies, and like tempestuous windes embowelled in the earth, so did vehement sighes breake mainly from her heart, and after a tedious time of silence, she spake in this manner. my lord and husband, you have done a most disloyall and damnable deede, misguided by your owne wicked jealous opinion, and not by any just cause given you, to murther so worthie and noble a gentleman. i protest unto you uppon my soule, which i wish to bee confounded in eternall perdition, if ever i were unchaste to your bedde, or allowed him any other favour, but what might well become so honourable a friend. and seeing my bodie hath bene made the receptacle for so precious a kinde of foode, as the heart of so valiant and courteous a knight, such as was the noble _guardastagno_; never shall any other foode heereafter, have entertainment there, or my selfe live the wife to so bloody a husband. so starting uppe from the table, and stepping unto a great gazing windowe, the casement whereof standing wide open behinde her: violently shee leaped out thereat, which beeing an huge heighth in distance from the ground, the fall did not onely kill her, but also shivered her bodie into many peeces. which _rossiglione_ perceyving, hee stoode like a bodie without a soule, confounded with the killing of so deare a friend, losse of a chaste and honourable wife, and all through his owne over-credulous conceit. uppon further conference with his private thoughtes, and remorsefull acknowledgement of his heinous offence, which repentance (too late) gave him eyes now to see, though rashnesse before would not permit him to consider; these two extreamities inlarged his dulled understanding. first, he grew fearfull of the friends and followers to murdered _guardastagno_, as also the whole countrey of _provence_, in regarde of the peoples generall love unto him; which being two maine and important motives, both to the detestation of so horrid an acte, and immediate severe revenge to succeed thereon: hee made such provision as best hee could, and as so sodaine a warning would give leave, hee fled away secretly in the night season. these unpleasing newes were soone spread abroad the next morning, not only of the unfortunate accidents, but also of _rossigliones_ flight; in regard whereof, the dead bodyes being found, and brought together, as well by the people belonging to _guardastagno_, as them that attended on the lady: they were layed in the chappell of _rossigliones_ castell; where, after so much lamentation for so great a misfortune to befall them, they were honourably enterred in one faire tombe, with excellent verses engraven thereon, expressing both their noble degree, and by what unhappy meanes, they chanced to have buriall there. _a physitians wife laide a lover of her maids (supposing him to bee dead) in a chest, by reason that he had drunke water, which usually was given to procure a sleepy entrancing. two lombard usurers, stealing the chest, in hope of a rich booty, carried it into their owne house, where afterward the man awaking, was apprehended for a theefe. the chamber-maide to the physitians wife, going before the bench of justice, accuseth her selfe for putting the imagined dead body into the chest, by which meanes he escapeth hanging. and the theeves which stole away the chest, were condemned to pay a great summe of money._ the tenth novell. _wherein is declared, that sometime by adventurous accident, rather then anie reasonable comprehension, a man may escape out of manifold perilles, but especially in occurrences of love._ after that the king had concluded his novell, there remained none now but _dioneus_ to tell the last; which himselfe confessing, and the king commaunding him to proceede, he beganne in this manner. so many miseries of unfortunate love, as all of you have alreadie related, hath not onely swolne your eyes with weeping, but also made sicke our hearts with sighing: yea (gracious ladies) i my selfe finde my spirits not meanly afflicted thereby. wherefore the whole day hath bene very irkesome to me, and i am not a little glad, that it is so neere ending. now, for the better shutting it up altogether, i would be very loath to make an addition, of any more such sad and mournfull matter, good for nothing but onely to feede melancholly humour, and from which (i hope) my faire starres will defend me. tragical discourse, thou art no fit companion for me, i will therefore report a novell which may minister a more joviall kinde of argument, unto those tales that must bee told to morrow, and with the expiration of our present kings reigne, to rid us of all heart-greeving heereafter. know then (most gracious assembly) that it is not many yeares since, when there lived in _salerne_, a verie famous physitian, named signieur _mazzeo della montagna_, who being already well entred into years, would (neverthelesse) marrie with a beautifull young mayden of the cittie, bestowing rich garments, gaudie attyres, ringes, and jewelles on her, such as few women elsee could any way equall, because hee loved her most deerely. yet being an aged man, and never remembering, how vaine and idle a thing it is, for age to make such an unfitting election, injurious to both; and therefore endangering that domesticke agreement, which ought to bee the sole and maine comfort of marriage: it maketh mee therefore to misdoubt, that as in our former tale of signiour _ricciardo de cinzica_, some dayes of the calender did heere seeme as distastefull, as those that occasioned the other womans discontentment. in such unequall choyses, parents commonly are more blame-woorthie, then any imputation, to bee layde on the young women, who gladdely would enjoy such as in heart they have elected: but that their parents, looking thorough the glasses of greedie lucre, doe overthrow both their owne hopes, and the faire fortunes of their children together. yet to speake uprightly of this young married wife, she declared her selfe to be of a wise and chearefull spirit, not discoraged with her inequalitie of marriage: but bearing all with a contented browe, for feare of urging the very least mislike in her husband. and hee, on the other side, when occasions did not call him to visite his pacients, or to be present at the colledge among his fellow-doctours, would alwayes bee chearing and comforting his wife, as one that could hardly affoord to bee out of her company. there is one especiall fatall misfortune, which commonly awaiteth on olde mens marriages; when freezing december will match with flouring may, and greene desires appeare in age, beyond all possibility of performance. nor are there wanting good store of wanton gallants, who hating to see beauty in this manner betrayed, and to the embraces of a loathed bed, will make their folly seene in publike appearance, and by their dayly proffers of amorous services (seeming compassionate of the womans disaster) are usually the cause of jealous suspitions, & very heinous houshold discontentments. among divers other, that faine would bee nibling at this bayte of beautie, there was one, named _ruggiero de jeroly_, of honourable parentage, but yet of such a deboshed and disordered life, as neither kindred or friends, were willing to take any knowledge of him, but utterly gave him over to his dissolute courses: so that, thoroughout all _salerne_, his conditions caused his generall contempt, and hee accounted no better, but even as a theeving and lewde companion. the doctours wife, had a chamber-maide attending on her; who, notwithstanding all the ugly deformities in _ruggiero_, regarding more his person then his imperfections (because hee was a compleate and well-featured youth) bestowed her affection most entirely on him, and oftentimes did supplie his wants, with her owne best meanes. _ruggiero_ having this benefite of the maides kinde love to him, made it an hopefull mounting ladder, whereby to derive some good liking from the mistresse, presuming rather on his outward comely parts, then anie other honest quality that might commend him. the mistresse knowing what choyse her maide had made, and unable by any perswasions to remoove her, tooke knowledge of _ruggieroes_ privat resorting to hir house, and in meere love to her maide (who had very many especiall deservings in her) oftentimes she would (in kinde manner) rebuke him, and advise him to a more setled course of life; which counsell, that it might take the better effect; she graced with liberall gifts: one while with gold, others with silver, and often with garments, for his comelier accesse thether: which bounty, he (like a lewde mistaker) interpreted as assurances of her affection to him, and that he was more graceful in her eye, then any man elsee could be. in the continuance of these proceedings, it came to passe, that master doctor _mazzeo_ (being not onely a most expert physitian, but likewise as skilfull in chirurgerie beside) hadde a pacient in cure, who by great misfortune, had one of his legges broken all in pieces; which some weaker judgement having formerly dealt withall, the bones and sinewes were become so fowly putrified, as he tolde the parties friends, that the legge must bee quite cut off, or elsee the pacient must needes dye: yet he intended so to order the matter, that the perrill should proceede no further, to prejudice any other part of the bodie. the case beeing thus resolved on with the pacient and his friends, the day and time was appointed when the deede should be done: and the doctor conceyving, that except the patient were sleepily entranced, hee could not by anie meanes endure the paine, but must needes hinder what he meant to do: by distillation hee made such an artificiall water, as (after the pacient hath receyved it) it will procure a kinde of dead sleepe, and endure so long a space, as necessity requireth the use thereof, in full performance of the worke. after he had made this sleepy water, he put it into a glasse, wherewith it was filled (almost) up to the brimme; and till the time came when hee should use it; hee set it in his owne chamber-windowe, never acquainting any one, to what purpose he had provided the water, nor what was his reason of setting it there; when it drew towards the evening, and he was returned home from his pacients, a messenger brought him letters from _malfy_, concerning a great conflict hapning there between two noble families, wherein divers were very dangerously wounded on either side, and without his speedy repairing thither, it would prove to the losse of many lives. heereupon, the cure of the mans leg must needs bee prolonged, untill he was returned backe againe, in regard that manie of the wounded persons were his worthy friends, and liberall bountie was there to be expected, which made him presently go aboord a small barke, and forthwith set away towards _malfy_. this absence of master doctor _mazzeo_, gave opportunity to adventurous _ruggiero_, to visite his house (he being gone) in hope to get more crownes, and courtesie from the mistresse, under formall colour of courting the maide. and being closely admitted into the house, when divers neighbours were in conference with her mistresse, and helde her with such pleasing discourse, as required longer time then was expected: the maide, had no other roome to conceale _ruggiero_ in, but onely the bed chamber of her master, where she lockt him in; because none of the houshold people should descry him, and stayed attending on her mistris, till all the guests tooke their leave, and were gone. _ruggiero_ thus remayning alone in the chamber, for the space of three long houres and more, was visited neither by maide nor mistris, but awaited when he should bee set at liberty. now, whether feeding on salt meats before his coming thither, or customary use of drinking, which maketh men unable any long while to abstain, as being never satisfied with excesse; which of these two extreams they were, i know not: but drink needs hee must. and, having no other meanes for quenching his thirst, espied the glasse of water standing in the window, and thinking it to be some soveraigne kinde of water, reserved by the doctor for his owne drinking, to make him lusty in his old years, he tooke the glasse; and finding the water pleasing to his pallate, dranke it off every drop; then sitting downe on a coffer by the beds side, soone after hee fell into a sound sleepe, according to the powerfull working of the water. no sooner were all the neighbours gone, and the maide at libertie from her mistresse, but unlocking the doore, into the chamber she went; and finding _ruggiero_ sitting fast asleepe, she began to hunch and punche him, entreating him (softly) to awake: but all was to no purpose, for hee neither mooved, or answered one word, whereat her patience being some what provoked, she punched him more rudely, and angerly said: awake for shame thou drowsie dullard, and if thou be so desirous of sleeping, get thee home to thine owne lodging, because thou art not allowed to sleep heere. _ruggiero_ being thus rudely punched, fell from off the coffer flat on the ground, appearing no other in all respects, then as if hee were a dead body. whereat the maide being fearfully amazed, plucking him by the nose and yong beard, and what elsee she could devise to do, yet all her labour proving still in vaine: she was almost beside her wits, stamping and raving all about the roome, as if sence and reason had forsaken her; so violent was her extreame distraction. upon the hearing of this noise, her mistris came sodainely into the chamber, where being affrighted at so strange an accident, and suspecting that _ruggiero_ was dead indeed: she pinched him strongly, and burnt his fingers with a candle, yet all was as fruitlesse as before. then sitting downe, she began to consider advisedly with her selfe, how much her honour and reputation would be endangered heereby, both with her husband, and in vulgar opinion when this should come to publique notice. for (quoth she to her maide) it is not thy fond love to this unruly fellow that can sway the censure of the monster multitude, in beleeving his accesse hither onely to thee: but my good name, and honest repute, as yet untoucht with the very least taxation, will be rackt on the tenter of infamous judgement, and (though never so cleare) branded with generall condemnation. it is wisedome therefore, that we should make no noise but (in silence) consider with our selves, how to cleare the house of this dead body, by some such helpfull and witty device, as when it shall bee found in the morning, his being heere may passe without suspition, and the worlds rash opinion no way touch us. weeping and lamenting is now laid aside, and all hope in them of his lives restoring: onely to rid his body out of the house, that now requires their care and cunning, whereupon the maide thus beganne. mistresse (quoth she) this evening, although it was very late, at our next neighbours doore (who you know is a joyner by his trade) i saw a great chest stand; and, as it seemeth, for a publike sale, because two or three nightes together, it hath not bene thence remooved: and if the owner have not lockt it, all invention elsee cannot furnish us with the like help. for therein will we lay his body, whereon i will bestow two or three wounds with my knife, and leaving him so, our house can be no more suspected concerning his being heere, then any other in the streete beside; nay rather farre lesse, in regard of your husbands credit and authority. moreover, heereof i am certaine, that he being of such bad and disordered qualities: it will the more likely be imagined, that he was slaine by some of his own loose companions, being with them about some pilfering busines, and afterward hid his body in the chest, it standing so fitly for the purpose, and darke night also favouring the deed. the maids counsell past under the seale of allowance, only her mistris thought it not convenient, that (having affected him so deerely) shee should mangle his body with any wounds; but rather to let it be gathered by more likely-hood, that villaines had strangled him, and then conveied his body into the chest. away she sends the maide, to see whether the chest stood there still, or no; as indeede it did, and unlockt, whereof they were not a little joyfull. by the helpe of her mistresse, the maide tooke _ruggiero_ upon her shoulders, and bringing him to the doore, with diligent respect that no one could discover them; in the chest they laide him, and so there left him, closing downe the lidde according as they found it. in the same street, and not farre from the joyner, dwelt two yong men who were lombards, living uppon the interest of their moneyes, coveting to get much, and spend little. they having observed where the chest stood, and wanting a necessary mooveable to houshold, yet loath to lay out mony for buying it: complotted together this very night, to steale it thence, and carry it home to their house, as accordingly they did; finding it somewhat heavy, and therefore imagining, that matter of woorth was contained therein. in the chamber where their wives lay, they left it; and so without any further search till the next morning, they laid them down to rest likewise. _ruggiero_, who had now slept a long while, the drinke being digested, & the vertue thereof fully consummated; began to awake before day. and although his naturall sleep was broken, and his sences had recoverd their former power, yet notwithstanding, there remained such an astonishment in his braine, as not onely did afflict him all the day following, but also divers dayes and nights afterward. having his eies wide open, & yet not discerning any thing, he stretched forth his armes every where about him, and finding himselfe to be enclosed in the chest, he grew more broad awake, and said to himselfe. what is this? where am i? do i wake or sleepe? full well i remember, that not long since i was in my sweet-hearts chamber, and now (me thinkes) i am mewed up in a chest. what shold i thinke heereof? is master doctor returned home, or hath some other inconvenience hapned, whereby finding me asleepe, she was enforced to hide me thus? surely it is so, and otherwise it cannot bee: wherefore, it is best for mee to lye still, and listen when i can heare any talking in the chamber. continuing thus a longer while then otherwise hee would have done, because his lying in the bare chest was somewhat uneasie and painfull to him; turning divers times on the one side, and then as often again on the other, coveting still for ease, yet could not find any: at length, he thrust his backe so strongly against the chests side, that (it standing on an un-even ground) it began to totter, and after fell downe. in which fall, it made so loud a noise, as the women (lying in the beds standing by) awaked, and were so overcome with feare, that they had not the power to speake one word. _ruggiero_ also being affrighted with the chests fall, and perceiving how by that meanes it was become open: he thought it better, least some other sinister fortune should befall him, to be at open liberty, then inclosed up so strictly. and because he knew not where he was, as also hoping to meet with his mistresse; he went all about groping in the dark, to finde either some staires or doore, whereby to get forth. when the women (being then awake) heard his trampling, as also his justling against the doores and windowes; they demaunded, who was there? _ruggiero_, not knowing their voyces, made them no answer, wherefore they called to their husbands, who lay verie soundly sleeping by them, by reason of their so late walking abroad, and therefore heard not this noise in the house. this made the women much more timorous, and therefore rising out of their beddes, they opened the casements towards the streete, crying out aloude, theeves, theeves. the neighbours arose upon this outcry, running up and downe from place to place, some engirting the house, and others entering into it: by means of which troublesome noise, the two lombards awaked, and seizing there uppon poore _ruggiero_, (who was well-neere affrighted out of his wittes, at so strange an accident, and his owne ignorance, how he happened thither, and how to escape from them) he stood gazing on them without any answer. by this time, the sergeants and other officers of the city, ordinarily attending on the magistrate, beeing raised by the tumult of this uproare, were come into the house, and had poore _ruggiero_ committed unto their charge: who bringing him before the governor, was forthwith called in question, and known to be of a most wicked life, a shame to al his friends and kindred. he could say little for himselfe, never denying his taking in the house, and therefore desiring to finish all his fortunes together, desperately confessed, that he came with a fellonious intent to rob them, and the governor gave him sentence to be hanged. soone were the newes spread throughout _salerne_, that _ruggiero_ was apprehended, about robbing the house of the two usuring lombardes: which when mistresse doctor and her chamber-maide heard, they were confounded with most straunge admiration, and scarsely credited what they themselves had done the night before, but rather imagined all matters past, to be no more then meerely a dreame, concerning _ruggieroes_ dying in the house, and their putting him into the chest, so that by no likely or possible meanes, hee could bee the man in this perillous extreamitie. in a short while after, master doctor _mazzeo_ was returned from _malfy_, to proceede in his cure of the poore mans legge; and calling for his glasse of water, which he left standing in his owne chamber window, it was found quite empty, and not a drop in it: whereat hee raged so extreamly, as never had the like impatience beene noted in him. his wife, and her maide, who had another kinde of businesse in their braine, about a dead man so strangely come to life againe, knewe not well what to say; but at the last, his wife thus replyed somewhat angerly. sir (quoth she) what a coyle is heere about a paltry glasse of water, which perhaps hath bene spilt, yet neyther of us faulty therein? is there no more such water to be had in the world? alas deere wife (saide hee) you might repute it to be a common kinde of water, but indeede it was not so; for i did purposely compound it, onely to procure a dead-seeming sleepe: and so related the whole matter at large, of the pacients legge, and his waters losse. when she had heard these words of her husband, presently she conceived, that the water was drunke off by _ruggiero_, which had so sleepily entranced his sences, as they verily thought him to bee dead, wherefore she saide. beleeve me sir, you never acquainted us with any such matter, which would have procured more carefull respect of it: but seeing it is gone, your skill extendeth to make more, for now there is no other remedy. while thus master doctor and his wife were conferring together, the maide went speedily into the citie, to understand truly, whither the condemned man was _ruggiero_, and what would now become of him. beeing returned home againe, and alone with her mistresse in the chamber, thus she spake. now trust me mistresse, not one in the citie speaketh well of _ruggiero_, who is the man condemned to dye; and, for ought i can perceive, he hath neither kinsman nor friend that will doe any thing for him; but he is left with the provost, and must be executed to morrow morning. moreover mistresse, by such instructions as i have received, i can well-neere informe you, by what meanes hee came to the two lombards house, if all be true that i have heard. you know the joyner before whose doore the chest stoode, wherein we did put _ruggiero_; there is now a contention betweene him and another man, to whom (it seemeth) the chest doth belong; in regard whereof, they are readie to quarrell extremly each with other. for the one owning the chest, and trusting the joyner to sell it for him, would have him to pay him for the chest. the joyner denieth any sale thereof, avouching, that the last night it was stolne from his doore. which the other man contrarying, maintaineth that he solde the chest to the two lombard usurers, as himself is able to affirme, because he found it in the house, when he (being present at the apprehension of _ruggiero_) sawe it there in the same house. heereupon, the joyner gave him the lye, because he never sold it to any man; but if it were there, they had robd him of it, as hee would make it manifest to their faces. then falling into calmer speeches they went together to the lombardes house, even as i returned home. wherefore mistresse, as you may easily perceive, _ruggiero_ was (questionlesse) carried thither in the chest, and so there found; but how he revived againe, i cannot comprehend. the mistresse understanding now apparantly, the full effect of the whole businesse, and in what manner it had bene carried, revealed to the maide her husbands speeches, concerning the glasse of sleepie water, which was the onely engine of all this trouble, clearly acquitting _ruggiero_ of the robbery, howsoever (in desperate fury, and to make an end of a life so contemptible) he had wrongfully accused himselfe. and notwithstanding this his hard fortune, which hath made him much more infamous then before, in all the dissolute behaviour of his life: yet it coulde not quaile her affection towards him; but being loath he should dye for some other mans offence, and hoping his future reformation; she fell on her knees before her mistresse, and (drowned in her teares) most earnestly entreated her, to advise her with some such happy course, as might bee the safety of poore _ruggieroes_ life. mistresse doctor, affecting her maide dearely, and plainly perceiving, that no disastrous fortune whatsoever, could alter her love to condemned _ruggiero_; hoping the best heereafter, as the maide her selfe did, and willing to save life rather then suffer it to be lost without just cause, she directed her in such discreet manner, as you will better conceyve by the successe. according as she was instructed by hir mistris, shee fell at the feete of master doctor, desiring him to pardon a great error, whereby shee had over-much offended him. as how? said master doctor. in this manner (quoth the maid) and thus proceeded. you are not ignorant sir, what a leud liver _ruggiero de jeroly_ is, and notwithstanding all his imperfections, how dearely i love him, as hee protesteth the like to me, and thus hath our love continued a yeare, and more. you beeing gone to _malfy_, and your absence granting me apt opportunity, for conference with so kinde a friend; i made the bolder, and gave him entrance into your house, yea even into mine owne chamber, yet free from any abuse, neyther did hee (bad though he be) offer any. thirsty he was before his coming thether, either by salt meats, or distempered diet, and i being unable to fetch him wine or water, by reason my mistresse sate in the hall, seriouslie talking with her sisters; remembred, that i saw a viall of water standing in your chamber windowe, which hee drinking quite off, i set it emptie in the place againe. i have heard your discontentment for the said water, and confesse my fault to you therein: but who liveth so justly, without offending at one time or other? and i am heartily sorry for my transgression; yet not so much for the water, as the hard fortune that hath followd thereon; because thereby _ruggiero_ is in danger to lose his life, and all my hopes are utterly lost. let me entreat you therefore (gentle master) first to pardon me, and then to grant me permission, to succour my poore condemned friend, by all the best meanes i can devise. when the doctor had heard all her discourse, angry though he were, yet thus he answered with a smile. much better had it bin, if thy follies punishment had falne on thy selfe, that it might have paide thee with deserved repentance, upon thy mistresses finding thee sleeping. but go and get his deliverance if thou canst, with this caution, that if ever heereafter he be seene in my house, the peril thereof shall light on thy selfe. receyving this answer, for her first entrance into the attempt, and as her mistris had advised her, in all hast shee went to the prison, where shee prevailed so well with the jaylor, that hee granted her private conference with _ruggiero_. she having instructed him what he should say to the provost, if he had any purpose to escape with life; went thither before him to the provost, who admitting her into his presence, and knowing that shee was master doctors maid, a man especially respected of all the citie, he was the more willing to heare her message, he imagining that shee was sent by her master. sir (quoth shee) you have apprehended _ruggiero de jeroly_, as a theefe, and judgement of death is (as i heare) pronounced against him: but hee is wrongfully accused, and is clearly innocent of such a heinous detection. so entering into the history, she declared every circumstance, from the originall to the end: relating truly, that being her lover, shee brought him into her masters house, where he dranke the compounded sleepy water, and reputed for dead, she laide him in the chest. afterward, she rehearsed the speeches betweene the joyner, and him that laide claime to the chest, giving him to understand thereby, how _ruggiero_ was taken in the lombards house. the provost presently gathering, that the truth in this case was easy to be knowne; sent first for master doctor _mazzeo_, to know, whether hee compounded any such water, or no: which he affirmed to bee true, and upon what occasion he prepared it. then the joyner, the owner of the chest, and the two lombards, being severally questioned withall: it appeared evidently, that the lombards did steale the chest in the night season, and carried it home to their owne house. in the end, _ruggiero_ being brought from the prison, and demanded, where hee was lodged the night before, made answer, that he knew not where. only he well remembred, that bearing affection to the chamber-maide of master doctor _mazzeo della montagna_, she brought him into a chamber, where a violl of water stoode in the window, and he being extreamly thirsty, dranke it off all. but what became of him afterward (till being awake, hee found himselfe enclosed in a chest, and in the house of the two lombards) he could not say any thing. when the provost had heard all their answers, which he caused them to repeate over divers times, in regard they were very pleasing to him: he cleared _ruggiero_ from the crime imposed on him, and condemned the lombards in three hundred ducates, to bee given to _ruggiero_ in way of an amends, and to enable his marriage with the doctors mayde, whose constancie was much commended, and wrought such a miracle on penitent _ruggiero_; that, after his marriage, which was graced with great and honourable pompe, he regained the intimate love of all his kindred, and lived in most noble condition, even as if he had never beene the disordered man. if the former novelse had made all the ladies sad and sighe, this last of _dioneus_ as much delighted them, as restoring them to their former jocond humour, and banishing tragicall discourse for ever. the king perceyving that the sun was neere setting, and his government as neere ending, with many kinde and courteous speeches, excused himselfe to the ladies, for being the motive of such an argument, as expressed the infelicity of poore lovers. and having finished his excuse, up he arose, taking the crowne of lawrell from off his owne head, the ladies awaiting on whose head he pleased next to set it, which proved to be the gracious lady _fiammetta_, and thus hee spake. heere i place this crowne on her head, that knoweth better then any other, how to comfort this fayre assembly to morrow, for the sorrow which they have this day endured. madame _fiammetta_, whose lockes of haire were curled, long, and like golden wiers, hanging somewhat downe over her white & delicate shoulders, her visage round, wherein the damaske rose and lilly contended for priority, the eyes in her head, resembling those of the faulcon messenger, and a dainty mouth; her lippes looking like two little rubyes with a commendable smile thus she replyed. _philostratus_, gladly i do accept your gift; and to the end that ye may the better remember your selfe, concerning what you have done hitherto: i will and commaund, that generall preparation bee made against to morrow, for faire and happy fortunes hapning to lovers, after former cruell and unkinde accidents. which proposition was very pleasing to them all. then calling for the master of the housholde, and taking order with him, what was most needfull to be done; shee gave leave unto the whole company (who were all risen) to go recreate themselves until supper time. some of them walked about the garden, the beauty whereof banished the least thought of wearinesse. others walked by the river to the mill, which was not farre off, and the rest fel to exercises, fitting their own fancies, untill they heard the summons for supper. hard by the goodly fountaine (according to their wonted manner) they supped altogether, and were served to their no mean contentment: but being risen from the table, they fell to their delight of singing and dancing. while _philomena_ led the dance, the queene spake in this manner. _philostratus_, i intend not to varie from those courses heeretofore observed by my predecessors, but even as they have already done, so it is my authority, to command a song. and because i am well assured, that you are not unfurnished of songs answerable to the quality of the passed novelse: my desire is, in regard we would not be troubled heereafter, with any more discourses of unfortunate love, that you shall sing a song agreeing with your owne disposition. _philostratus_ made answer, that he was readie to accomplish her command, and without all further ceremony, thus he began. _the song._ chorus. _my teares do plainly prove, how justly that poore heart hath cause to greeve, which (under trust) findes treason in his love. when first i saw her, that now makes me sigh, distrust did never enter in my thoughts. so many vertues clearly shin'd in her, that i esteem'd all martyrdome was light which love could lay on me. nor did i greeve, although i found my liberty was lost. but now mine error i do plainly see: not without sorrow, thus betray'd to bee. my teares do, &c. for, being left by basest treachery of her in whom i most reposed trust: i then could see apparant flatterie in all the fairest shewes that she did make. but when i strove to get forth of the snare, i found myselfe the further plunged in. for i beheld another in my place, and i cast off, with manifest disgrace. my teares do, &c. then felt my heart such helse of heavy woes, not utterable. i curst the day and houre when first i saw her lovely countenance, enricht with beautie, farre beyond all other, which set my soule on fire, enflamde each part, making a martyrdome of my poore hart. my faith and hope being basely thus betrayde; i durst not moove, to speake i was affrayde. my teares do, &c. thou canst (thou powerfull god of love) perceive, my ceasselesse sorrow, voide of any comfort, i make my moane to thee, and do not fable, desiring, that to end my misery, death may come speedily, and with his dart with one fierce stroke, quite passing through my hart: to cut off future fell contending strife, an happy end be made of love and life. my teares do, &c. no other meanes of comfort doth remaine, to ease me of such sharpe afflictions, but only death. grant then that i may die, to finish greefe and life in one blest houre. for, being bereft of any future joyes, come, take me quickly from so false a friend. yet in my death, let thy great power approve, that i died true, and constant in my love. my teares, &c. happy shall i account this sighing song, if some (beside my selfe) doe learne to sing it, and so consider of my miseries, as may incite them to lament my wrongs. and to be warned by my wretched fate; least (like my selfe) themselves do sigh too late. learne lovers learne, what tis to be unjust, and be betrayed where you repose best trust._ finis the words contained in this song, did manifestly declare, what torturing afflictions poore _philostratus_ felt, and more (perhaps) had beene perceived by the lookes of the lady whom he spake of, being then present in the dance; if the sodaine ensuing darknesse had not hid the crimson blush, which mounted up into her face. but the song being ended, & divers other beside, lasting till the houre of rest drew on; by command of the queene, they all repaired to their chambers. _the end of the fourth day._ the fift day. _whereon, all the discourses do passe under the governement of the most noble lady_ fiammetta: _concerning such persons, as have bene successefull in their love, after many hard and perillous misfortunes._ the induction. now began the sunne to dart foorth his golden beames, when madam _fiammetta_ (incited by the sweete singing birdes, which since the breake of day, sat merrily chanting on the trees) arose from her bed: as all the other ladies likewise did, and the three young gentlemen descending downe into the fields, where they walked in a gentle pace on the greene grasse, until the sunne were risen a little higher. on many pleasant matters they conferred together, as they walked in severall companies, til at the length the queene, finding the heate to enlarge it selfe strongly, returned backe to the castle; where when they were all arrived, shee commanded, that after this mornings walking, their stomackes should bee refreshed with wholsome wines, as also divers sorts of banquetting stuffe. afterward, they all repaired into the garden, not departing thence, untill the houre of dinner was come: at which time, the master of the houshold, having prepared every thing in decent readinesse, after a solemn song was sung, by order from the queene, they were seated at the table. when they had dined, to their owne liking and contentment, they began (in continuation of their former order) to exercise divers dances, and afterward voyces to their instruments, with many pretty madrigals and roundelayes. uppon the finishing of these delights, the queene gave them leave to take their rest, when such as were so minded, went to sleep, others solaced themselves in the garden. but after midday was overpast, they met (according to their wonted manner) and as the queene had commanded, at the faire fountaine; where she being placed in her seate royall, and casting her eye upon _pamphilus_, shee bad him begin the dayes discourses, of happy successe in love, after disastrous and troublesome accidents; who yeelding thereto with humble reverence, thus began. many novelse (gracious ladies) do offer themselves to my memory, wherewith to beginne so pleasant a day, as it is her highnesse desire that this should be, among which plenty, i esteeme one above all the rest: because you may comprehend thereby, not onely the fortunate conclusion, wherewith we intend to begin our day; but also, how mighty the forces of love are, deserving to bee both admired and reverenced. albeit there are many, who scarsely knowing what they say, do condemne them with infinite grosse imputations: which i purpose to disprove, & (i hope) to your no little pleasing. chynon, _by falling in love, became wise, and by force of armes, winning his faire lady_ iphigenia _on the seas, was afterward imprisoned at_ rhodes. _being delivered by one named_ lysimachus, _with him he recovered his_ iphigenia _againe, and faire_ cassandra, _even in the middest of their mariage. they fled with them into_ candye, _where after they had married them, they were called home to their owne dwelling._ the first novell. _wherein is approved, that love (oftentimes) maketh a man both wise and valiant._ according to the ancient annales of the _cypriots_, there sometime lived in _cyprus_, a noble gentleman, who was commonly called _aristippus_, and exceeded all other of the countrey in the goods of fortune. divers children he had, but (amongst the rest) a sonne, in whose birth he was more infortunate then any of the rest; and continually greeved, in regard, that having all the compleate perfections of beauty, good forme, and manly parts, surpassing all other youths of his age or stature, yet hee wanted the reall ornament of the soule, reason and judgement; being (indeed) a meere ideot or foole, and no better hope to be expected of him. his true name, according as he receyved it by baptisme, was _galesus_, but because neyther by the laborious paines of his tutors, indulgence, and faire endeavour of his parents, or ingenuity of any other, he could bee brought to civility of life, understanding of letters, or common cariage of a reasonable creature: by his grosse and deformed kinde of speech, his qualities also savouring rather of brutish breeding, then any way derived from manly education; as an epithite of scorne and derision, generally, they gave him the name of _chynon_, which in their native countrey language, and divers other beside, signifieth a very sot or foole, and so was he termed by every one. this lost kinde of life in him, was no meane burthen of greefe unto his noble father, and all hope being already spent, of any future happy recovery, he gave command (because he would not alwayes have such a sorrow in his sight) that he should live at a farme of his owne in a country village, among his peazants and plough-swaines. which was not any way distastefull to _chynon_, but well agreed with his owne naturall disposition; for their rurall qualities, and grosse behaviour pleased him beyond the cities civility. _chynon_ living thus at his fathers countrey village, exercising nothing elsee but rurall demeanour, such as then delighted him above all other: it chanced upon a day about the houre of noone, as hee was walking over the fields, with a long staffe on his necke, which commonly he used to carry; he entred into a small thicket, reputed the goodliest in all those quarters, and by reason it was then the month of may, the trees had their leaves fairely shot forth. when he had walked thorow the thicket, it came to passe, that (even as if good fortune guided him) he came into a faire meadow, on everie side engirt with trees, and in one corner thereof stoode a goodly fountaine, whose current was both coole and cleare. harde by it, uppon the greene grasse, he espied a very beautifull yong damosell, seeming to bee fast asleepe, attired in such fine loose garments, as hidde verie little of her white body: onely from the girdle downward, shee ware a kirtle made close unto her, of interwoven delicate silke, and at her feete lay two other damoselse sleeping, and a servant in the same manner. no sooner hadde _chynon_ fixed his eie upon her, but he stood leaning uppon his staffe, and viewed her very advisedly, without speaking a word, and in no mean admiration, as if he had never seene the forme of a woman before. he began then to feele in his harsh rurall understanding (where into never till now, either by painfull instruction, or all other good meanes used to him, any honest civility had power of impression) a strange kinde of humour to awake, which informed his grosse and dull spirite, that this damosell was the very fairest, which ever any living man beheld. then he began to distinguish her parts, commending the tresses of hir haire, which he imagined to be of gold; her forehead, nose, mouth, neck, armes, but (above all) her brests, appearing (as yet) but onely to shewe themselves, like two little mountainets. so that, of a fielden clownish lout, he would needs now become a judge of beauty, coveting earnestly in his soule, to see her eyes, which were veiled over with sound sleepe, that kept them fast enclosed together, and onely to looke on them, hee wished a thousand times, that she would awake. for, in his judgement, she excelled all the women that ever he had seene, and doubted, whether she were some goddesse or no; so strangely was he metamorphosed from folly, to a sensible apprehension, more then common. and so far did this sodaine knowledge in him extend; that he could conceive of divine and celestiall things, and that they were more to be admired & reverenced, then those of humane or terrene consideration; wherefore the more gladly he contented himselfe, to tarry til she awaked of her owne accord. and although the time of stay seemed tedious to him, yet notwithstanding, he was overcome with such extraordinary contentment, as hee had no power to depart thence, but stood as if he had bin glued fast to the ground. after some indifferent respite of time, it chanced that the young damosel (who was named _iphigenia_) awaked before any of the other with her, and lifting up her head, with her eyes wide open, shee saw _chynon_ standing before her, leaning still on his staffe; whereat mervailing not a little, she saide unto him: _chynon_, whither wanderest thou, or what dost thou seeke for in this wood? _chynon_, who not onely by his countenance, but likewise his folly, nobility of birth, and wealthy possessions of his father, was generally knowne throughout the countrey, made no answere at all to the demand of _iphigenia_: but so soone as he beheld her eies open, he began to observe them with a constant regard, as being perswaded in his soule, that from them flowed such an unutterable singularity, as he had never felt til then. which the yong gentlewoman well noting, she began to wax fearfull, least these stedfast lookes of his, should incite his rusticity to some attempt, which might redound to her dishonour: wherefore awaking her women and servant, and they all being risen, she saide. farewell _chynon_, i leave thee to thine owne good fortune; whereto hee presently replyed, saying: i will go with you. now, although the gentlewoman refused his company, as dreading some acte of incivility from him: yet could she not devise any way to be rid of him, til he had brought her to her owne dwelling, where taking leave mannerly of her, hee went directly home to his fathers house, saying; nothing should compel him to live any longer in the muddy countrey. and albeit his father was much offended heereat, and all the rest of his kindred and friends: (yet not knowing how to helpe it) they suffered him to continue there still, expecting the cause of this his so sodaine alteration, from the course of life, which contented him so highly before. _chynon_ being now wounded to the heart (where never any civil instruction could before get entrance) with loves piercing dart, by the bright beauty of _iphigenia_, mooved much admiration (falling from one change to another) in his father, kindred, and all elsee that knew him. for first, he requested of his father, that he might be habited and respected like to his other brethren, whereto right gladly he condiscended. and frequenting the company of civill youths, observing also the cariage of gentlemen, especially such as were amorously enclined: he grew to a beginning in short time (to the wonder of every one) not onely to understande the first instruction of letters, but also became most skilfull, even amongest them that were best exercised in philosophie. and afterward, love to _iphigenia_ being the sole occasion of this happy alteration, not only did his harsh and clownish voyce convert it selfe more mildely, but also hee became a singular musitian, & could perfectly play on any instrument. beside, he tooke delight in the riding and managing of great horses, and finding himselfe of a strong and able body, he exercised all kinds of military disciplines, as wel by sea, as on the land. and, to be breefe, because i would not seeme tedious in the repetition of al his vertues, scarsly had he attained to the fourth yeare, after he was thus falne in love, but hee became generally knowne, to bee the most civil, wise, and worthy gentleman, as well for all vertues enriching the minde, as any whatsoever to beautifie the body, that very hardly he could be equalled throughout the whole kingdome of _cyprus_. what shall we say then, (vertuous ladies) concerning this _chynon_? surely nothing elsee, but that those high and divine vertues, infused into his gentle soule, were by envious fortune bound and shut uppe in some small angle of his intellect, which being shaken and set at liberty by love, (as having a farre more potent power then fortune, in quickning and reviving the dull drowsie spirits); declared his mighty and soveraigne authority, in setting free so many faire and precious vertues unjustly detayned, to let the worlds eye behold them truly, by manifest testimony, from whence he can deliver those spirits subjected to his power, & guide them (afterward) to the highest degrees of honour. and although _chynon_ by affecting _iphigenia_, failed in some particular things; yet notwithstanding, his father _aristippus_ duely considering, that love had made him a man, whereas (before) he was no better then a beast: not only endured all patiently, but also advised him therein, to take such courses as best liked himselfe. neverthelesse, _chynon_ (who refused to be called _galesus_, which was his naturall name indeede) remembring that _iphigenia_ tearmed him _chynon_, and coveting (under that title) to accomplish the issue of his honest amorous desire: made many motions to _ciphæus_ the father of _iphigenia_, that he would be pleased to let him enjoy her in marriage. but _ciphæus_ told him, that he had already passed his promise for her, to a gentleman of _rhodes_, named _pasimondo_, which promise he religiously intended to performe. the time being come, which was concluded on for _iphigeniaes_ marriage, in regard that the affianced husband had sent for her: _chynon_ thus communed with his owne thoughts. now is the time (quoth he) to let my divine mistresse see, how truly and honourably i doe affect her, because (by her) i am become a man. but if i could bee possessed of her, i should growe more glorious, then the common condition of a mortall man, and have her i will, or loose my life in the adventure. beeing thus resolved, he prevailed with divers young gentlemen his friends, making them of his faction, and secretly prepared a shippe, furnished with all things for a navall fight, setting sodainly forth to sea, and hulling abroad in those parts by which the vessell should passe, that must convey _iphigenia_ to _rhodes_ to her husband. after many honours done to them, who were to transport her thence unto _rhodes_, being imbarked, they set saile uppon their _bon viaggio_. _chynon_, who slept not in a businesse so earnestly importing him, set on them (the day following) with his ship, and standing aloft on the decke, cried out to them that had the charge of _iphigenia_, saying. strike your sayles, or elsee determine to be sunke in the sea. the enemies to _chynon_, being nothing danted with his words, prepared to stand upon their own defence; which made _chynon_, after the former speeches delivered, and no answer returned, to commaund the grapling irons to bee cast forth, which tooke such fast hold on the rhodians shippe, that (whether they would or no) both the vesselse joyned close together. and hee shewing himselfe fierce like a lyon, not tarrying to be seconded by any, stepped aboord the rhodians ship, as if he made no respect at all of them, and having his sword ready drawne in his hand (incited by the vertue of unfaigned love) layed about him on all sides very manfully. which when the men of _rhodes_ perceyved, calling downe their weapons, and all of them (as it were) with one voice, yeelded themselves his prisoners: whereupon he said. honest friends, neither desire of booty, or hatred to you, did occasion my departure from _cyprus_, thus to assaile you with drawne weapons: but that which heereto hath most mooved me, is a matter highly importing to me, and very easie for you to graunt, and so enjoy your present peace. i desire to have faire _iphigenia_ from you, whom i love above all other ladies living, because i could not obtain her of her father, to make her my lawfull wife in marriage. love is the ground of my instant conquest, and i must use you as my mortall enemies, if you stand uppon any further tearmes with me, and do not deliver her as mine owne: for your _pasimondo_, must not enjoy what is my right, first by vertue of my love, & now by conquest: deliver her therefore, and depart hence at your pleasure. the men of _rhodes_, being rather constrained thereto, then of any free disposition in themselves; with teares in their eyes, delivered _iphigenia_ to _chynon_; who beholding her in like manner to weepe, thus spake unto her. noble lady, do not any way discomfort your selfe, for i am your _chynon_, who have more right and true title to you, and much better doe deserve to enjoy you, by my long continued affection to you, then _pasimondo_ can any way pleade; because you belong to him but only by promise. so, bringing her aboord his owne ship, where the gentlemen his companions gave her kinde welcome, without touching any thing elsee belonging to the rhodians, he gave them free liberty to depart. _chynon_ being more joyfull, by the obtaining of his hearts desire, then any other conquest elsee in the world could make him, after hee had spent some time in comforting _iphigenia_, who as yet sate sadly sighing; he consulted with his companions, who joyned with him in opinion, that their safest course was, by no meanes to returne to _cyprus_; and therefore all (with one consent) resolved to set saile for _candye_, where every one made account, but especially _chynon_, in regard of ancient and newe combined kindred, as also very intimate friends, to finde very worthy entertainement, and so to continue there safely with _iphigenia_. but fortune, who was so favourable to _chynon_, in granting him so pleasing a conquest, to shew her inconstancy, as sodainly changed the inestimable joy of our jocond lover, into as heavy sorrow and disaster. for, foure houres were not fully compleated, since his departure from the rhodians, but darke night came upon them, and he sitting conversing with his fayre mistris, in the sweetest solace of his soule; the winds began to blow roughly, the seas swelled angerly, & a tempest arose impetuously, that no man could see what his duty was to do, in such a great unexpected distresse, nor how to warrant themselves from perishing. if this accident were displeasing to poore _chynon_, i thinke the question were in vaine demanded: for now it seemed to him, that the godds had granted his cheefe desire, to the end hee should dye with the greater anguish, in losing both his love and life together. his friends likewise, felte the selfesame affliction, but especially _iphigenia_, who wept and greeved beyond all measure, to see the ship beaten, with such stormy billowes, as threatned her sinking every minute. impatiently she cursed the love of _chynon_, greatly blaming his desperate boldnesse, and maintaining, that so violent a tempest could never happen, but onely by the gods displeasure, who would not permit him to have a wife against their will; and therefore thus punished his proud presumption, not only in his unavoidable death, but also that her life must perish for company. she continuing in these wofull lamentations, and the mariners labouring all in vaine, because the violence of the tempest encreased more and more, so that every moment they expected wracking: they were carried (contrary to their owne knowledge) very neere unto the isle of _rhodes_, which they being no way able to avoid, and utterly ignorant of the coast; for safety of their lives, they laboured to land there if possibly they might. wherein fortune was somewhat furtherous to them, driving them into a small gulfe of the sea, whereinto (but a little while before) the rhodians, from whom _chynon_ had taken iphigenia, were newly entred with their ship. nor had they any knowledge each of other, till the breake of day (which made the heavens to looke more clearly) gave them discoverie, of being within a flight shoote together. _chynon_ looking forth, and espying the same ship which he had left the day before, hee grew exceeding sorrowfull, as fearing that which after followed, and therefore hee willed the mariners, to get away from her by all their best endeavour, & let fortune afterward dispose of them as she pleased; for into a worse place they could not come, nor fall into the like danger. the mariners employed their very utmost paines, and all prooved but losse of time: for the winde was so stern, and the waves so turbulent, that still they drove them the contrary way: so that striving to get foorth of the gulfe, whether they would or no, they were driven on land, and instantly knowne to the rhodians, whereof they were not a little joyful. the men of _rhodes_ being landed, ran presently to a neere neighbouring village, where dwelt divers worthy gentlemen, to whom they reported the arrivall of _chynon_, what fortune befell them at sea, and that _iphigenia_ might now be recovered againe, with chastisement to _chynon_ for his bold insolence. they being very joyfull of these good newes, tooke so many men as they could of the same village, and ran immediately to the sea side, where _chynon_ being newly landed and his people, intending flight into a neere adjoining forrest, for defence of himselfe and _iphigenia_, they were all taken, led thence to the village, and afterwards to the chiefe city of _rhodes_. no sooner were they arrived, but _pasimondo_, the intended husband for _iphigenia_ (who had already heard the tydings) went and complayned to the senate, who appointed a gentleman of _rhodes_, named _lysimachus_, and being that yeare soveraigne magistrate over the rhodians, to go well provided for the apprehension of _chinon_ and all his company, committing them to prison, which accordingly was done. in this manner, the poore unfortunate lover _chynon_, lost his faire _iphigenia_, having won her in so short a while before, and scarsely requited with so much as a kisse. but as for _iphigenia_, she was royally welcommed by many lords and ladies of _rhodes_, who so kindely comforted her, that she soone forgotte all her greefe and trouble on the sea, remaining in company of those ladies and gentlewomen, untill the day determined for her mariage. at the earnest entreaty of divers rhodian gentlemen, who were in the ship with _iphigenia_, and had their lives courteously saved by _chynon_: both he and his friends had their lives likewise spared, although _pasimondo_ laboured importunately, to have them all put to death; onely they were condemned to perpetuall imprisonment, which (you must thinke) was most greevous to them, as being now hopelesse of any deliverance. but in the meane time, while _pasimondo_ was ordering his nuptiall preparation, fortune seeming to repent the wrongs shee had done to _chynon_, prepared a new accident, whereby to comfort him in this deep distresse, and in such manner as i will relate unto you. _pasimondo_ had a brother, yonger then he in yeares, but not a jot inferiour to him in vertue, whose name was _hormisda_, and long time the case had bene in question, for his taking to wife a faire yong gentlewoman of _rhodes_, called _cassandra_; whom _lysimachus_ the governour loved verie dearly, and hindred her marriage with _hormisda_, by divers strange accidents. now _pasimondo_ perceiving, that his owne nuptials required much cost and solemnity, hee thought it very convenient, that one day might serve for both the weddinges, which elsee would lanch into more lavish expences, and therefore concluded, that his brother _hormisda_ should marry _cassandra_, at the same time as he wedded _iphigenia_. heereuppon, he consulted with the gentlewomans parents, who liking the motion as well as he, the determination was set downe, and one day to effect the duties of both. when this came to the hearing of _lysimachus_, it was very greatly displeasing to him, because now he saw himselfe utterly deprived of al hope to attaine the issue of his desire, if _hormisda_ receyved _cassandra_ in marriage. yet being a very wise and worthy man, hee dissembled his distaste, and began to consider on some apt meanes, whereby to disappoint the marriage once more, which he found impossible to bee done, except it were by way of rape or stealth. and that did not appear to him any difficult matter, in regard of his office and authority: onely it wold seeme dishonest in him, by giving such an unfitting example. neverthelesse, after long deliberation, honour gave way to love, and resolutely he concluded to steale her away, whatsoever became of it. nothing wanted now, but a convenient company to assist him, & the order how to have it done. then he remembred _chynon_ and his friends, whom he detained as his prisoners, and perswaded himself, that he could not have a more faithfull friend in such a busines, then _chynon_ was. hereupon, the night following, he sent for him into his chamber, and being alone by themselves, thus he began. _chynon_ (quoth hee) as the gods are very bountifull, in bestowing their blessings on men, so doe they therein most wisely make proofe of their vertues, and such as they finde firme and constant, in all occurrences which may happen, them they make worthy (as valiant spirits) of the very best and highest merites. now, they being willing to have more certain experience of thy vertues, then those which heeretofore thou hast shewne, within the bounds and limits of thy fathers possessions, which i know to be superabounding: perhaps do intend to present thee other occasions, of more important weight and consequence. for first of all (as i have heard) by the piercing solicitudes of love, of a senselesse creature, they made thee to become a man endued with reason. afterward, by adverse fortune, and now againe by wearisome imprisonment, it seemeth that they are desirous to make triall, whether thy manly courage be changed, or no, from that which heretofore it was, when thou enjoyedst a matchlesse beautie, and lost her againe in so short a while. wherefore, if thy vertue be such as it hath bin, the gods can never give thee any blessing more worthy of acceptance, then she whom they are now minded to bestow on thee: in which respect, to the end that thou mayst re-assume thy wonted heroicke spirit, and become more couragious then ever heretofore, i will acquaint thee withall more at large. understand then noble _chynon_, that _pasimondo_, the onely glad man of thy misfortune, and diligent sutor after thy death, maketh all hast hee can possibly devise to do, to celebrate his marriage with thy faire mistris: because he would pleade possession of the prey, which fortune (when she smiled) did first bestow, and (afterward frowning) took from thee again. now, that it must needs be very irkesome to thee (at least if thy love bee such, as i am perswaded it is) i partly can collect from my selfe, being intended to be wronged by his brother _hormisda_, even in the selfsame manner, and on his marriage day, by taking faire _cassandra_ from me, the onely jewell of my love and life. for the prevention of two such notorious injuries, i see that fortune hath left us no other meanes, but only the vertue of our courages, and the helpe of our right hands, by preparing our selves to armes, opening a way to thee, by a second rape or stealth; and to me the first, for absolute possession of our divine mistresses. wherefore, if thou art desirous to recover thy losse, i will not onely pronounce liberty to thee (which i thinke thou dost little care for without her) but dare also assure thee to enjoy _iphigenia_, so thou wilt assist mee in mine enterprize, and follow me in my fortune, if the gods do let them fall into our power. you may well imagine, that _chynons_ dismayed soule was not a little cheared at these speeches; and therefore, without craving any long respit of time for answer, thus he replyed. lord _lysimachus_, in such a busines as this is, you cannot have a faster friend then my self, at least, if such good hap may betide me, as you have more then halfe promised: & therefore do no more but command what you would have to be effected by mee, and make no doubt of my courage in the execution: whereon _lysimachus_ made this answer. know then _chynon_ (quoth hee) that three dayes hence, these marriages are to bee celebrated in the houses of _pasimondo_ and _hormisda_, upon which day, thou, thy friends, and my self (with some others, in whom i repose especiall trust) by the friendly favour of night, will enter into their houses, while they are in the middest of theyr joviall feasting; and (seizing on the two brides) beare them thence to a shippe, which i will have lye in secret, waiting for our comming, and kil all such as shall presume to impeach us. this direction gave great contentment to _chynon_, who remained still in prison, without revealing a word to his owne friends, until the limited time was come. upon the wedding day, performed with great and magnificent triumph, there was not a corner in the brethrens houses, but it sung joy in the highest key. _lysimachus_, after he had ordered all things as they ought to be, and the houre for dispatch approached neere; he made a division in three parts, of _chynon_, his followers, and his owne friendes, being all well armed under their outward habites. having first used some encouraging speeches, for more resolute prosecution of the enterprize, he sent one troope secretly to the port, that they might not be hindred of going aboord the ship, when the urgent necessity should require it. passing with the other two traines of _pasimondo_, he left the one at the doore, that such as were in the house might not shut them up fast, and so impeach their passage forth. then with _chynon_, and the third band of confederates, he ascended the staires up into the hall, where he found the brides with store of ladies and gentlewomen, all sitting in comely order at supper. rushing in roughly among the attendants, downe they threw the tables, and each of them laying hold of his mistris, delivered them into the hands of their followers, commanding that they should be carried aboord the ship, for avoiding of further inconveniences. this hurrie and amazement beeing in the house, the brides weeping, the ladies lamenting, and all the servants confusedly wondering; _chynon_ and _lysimachus_ (with their friends) having their weapons drawn in their hands, made all opposers to give them way, and so gayned the stair head for their owne descending. there stoode _pasimondo_, with an huge long staffe in his hand, to hinder their passage downe the stayres; but _chynon_ saluted him so soundly on the head, that it being cleft in twaine, hee fell dead before his feete. his brother _hormisda_ came to his rescue, and sped in the selfe-same manner as he had done; so did divers other beside, whom the companions to _lysimachus_ and _chynon_, either slew out-right, or wounded. so they left the house, filled with bloode, teares, and out-cries, going on together, without any hinderance, and so brought both the brides aboord the shippe, which they rowed away instantly with theyr oares. for, now the shore was full of armed people, who came in rescue of the stolne ladies: but all in vaine, because they were lanched into the main, and sayled on merrily towardes _candye_. where beeing arrived, they were worthily entertained by honourable friendes and kinsmen, who pacified all unkindnesses betweene them and their mistresses: and, having accepted them in lawfull marriage, there they lived in no meane joy and contentment: albeit there was a long and troublesome difference (about these rapes) betweene _rhodes_ and _cyprus_. but yet in the end, by the meanes of noble friends and kindred on either side, labouring to have such discontentment appeased, endangering warre betweene the kingdomes: after a limited time of banishment, _chynon_ returned joyfully with his _iphigenia_ home to _cyprus_, and _lysimachus_ with his beloved _cassandra_ unto _rhodes_, each living in their severall countries, with much felicity. _faire_ constance _of_ liparis, _fell in love with_ martuccio gomito: _and hearing that he was dead, desperately she entred into a barke, which being transported by the windes to_ susa _in_ barbary, _from thence she went to_ thunis, _where she found him to be living. there she made her selfe knowne to him, and he being in great authority, as a privy counsellor to the king: he married the saide_ constance, _and returned richly home with her, to the island of_ liparis. the second novell. _wherein is declared the firme loyaltie of a true lover: and how fortune doth sometime humble men, to raise them afterward to a farre higher degree._ when the queene perceyved, that the novell recited by _pamphilus_ was concluded, which she graced with especial commendations: she commaunded madame _æmillia_, to take her turne as next in order; whereupon, thus she began. me thinkes it is a matter of equity, that every one should take delight in those things, whereby the recompence may be noted, answerable to their owne affection. and because i rather desire to walke along by the paths of pleasure, then dwell on any ceremonious or scrupulous affectation, i shall the more gladly obey our queen to day, then yesterday i did our melancholly king. understand then (noble ladies) that neere to _sicily_, there is a small island, commonly called _liparis_, wherein (not long since) lived a yong damosell, named _constance_, born of very sufficient parentage in the same island. there dwelt also a young man, called _martuccio gomito_, of comely feature, well conditioned, and not unexpert in many vertuous qualities; affecting _constance_ in hearty manner: and she so answerable to him in the same kinde, that to be in his company, was her onely felicity. _martuccio_ coveting to enjoy her in marriage, made his intent knowne to her father: who upbraiding him with poverty, tolde him plainly that hee should not have her. _martuccio_ greeving to see himselfe thus despised, because he was poore: made such good meanes, that he was provided of a small barke; and calling such friends (as he thought fit) to his association, made a solemne vow, that hee would never returne backe to _liparis_, untill he was rich, and in better condition. in the nature and course of a rover or pirate, so put he thence to sea, coasting all about _barbarie_, robbing and spoyling such as hee met with; who were of no greater strength then himselfe: wherein fortune was so favourable to him, that he became wealthy in a very short while. but as felicities are not alwayes permanent, so hee and his followers, not contenting themselves with sufficient riches: by greedy seeking to get more, happened to be taken by certaine ships of the sarazins, and so were robbed themselves of all that they had gotten, yet they resisted them stoutly a long while together, though it proved to the losse of many lives among them. when the sarazens had sunke his shippe in the sea, they tooke him with them to _thunis_, where he was imprisoned, and lived in extreamest misery. newes came to _liparis_, not onely by one, but many more beside, that all those which departed thence in the small barke with _martuccio_ were drowned in the sea, and not a man escaped. when _constance_ heard these unwelcome tydings (who was exceeding full of greefe, for his so desperate departure) she wept and lamented extraordinarily, desiring now rather to dye, then live any longer. yet shee had not the heart, to lay any violent hand on her selfe, but rather to end her dayes by some new kinde of necessity. and departing privately from her fathers house, shee went to the port or haven, where (by chance) she found a small fisher-boate, lying distant from the other vesselse, the owners whereof being all gone on shore, and it well furnished with masts, sailes, and oares, she entred into it; and putting forth the oares, beeing some-what skilfull in sayling, (as generally all the women of that island are) shee so well guyded the sailes, rudder, and oares, that she was quickly farre off from the land, and soly remained at the mercy of the windes. for thus she had resolved with her selfe, that the boat being uncharged, and without a guide, wold either be over-whelmed by the windes, or split in peeces against some rocke; by which meanes she could not escape although shee would, but (as it was her desire) must needs be drowned. in this determination, wrapping a mantle about her head, and lying downe weeping in the boats bottome, she hourely expected her finall expiration: but it fell out otherwise, and contrary to her desperate intention, because the winde turning to the north, and blowing very gently, without disturbing the seas a jot, they conducted the small boat in such sort, that after the night of her entering into it, and the morowes sailing untill the evening, it came within an hundred leagues of _thunis_, and to a strond neere a towne called _susa_. the young damosell knew not whether she were on the sea or land; as one, who not by any accident hapning, lifted up her head to look about her, neither intended ever to doe. now it came to passe, that as the boate was driven to the shore, a poore woman stood at the sea side, washing certaine fishermens nets; and seeing the boate comming towards her under saile, without any person appearing in it, she wondred thereat not a little. it being close at the shore, and she thinking the fishermen to be asleepe therein: stept boldly, and looked into the boate, where she saw not any body, but onely the poore distressed damosell, whose sorrowes having broght her now into a sound sleepe, the woman gave many cals before she could awake her, which at the length she did, and looked very strangely about her. the poore woman perceyving by her habite that she was a christian, demanded of her (in speaking latine) how it was possible for her, beeing all alone in the boate, to arrive there in this manner? when _constance_ heard her speake the latine tongue, she began to doubt, least some contrary winde had turned her backe to _liparis_ againe, and starting up sodainly, to looke with better advice about her, shee saw her selfe at land: and not knowing the countrey, demanded of the poore woman where she was? daughter (quoth she) you are heere hard by _susa_ in _barbarie_. which _constance_ hearing, and plainly perceyving, that death had denied to end her miseries, fearing least she should receive some dishonour, in such a barbarous unkinde country, and not knowing what shold now become of her, she sate downe by the boates side, wringing her hands, & weeping bitterly. the good woman did greatly compassionate her case, and prevailed so well by gentle speeches, that shee conducted her into her owne poore habitation; where at length she understoode, by what meanes shee hapned thither so strangely. and perceyving her to be fasting, shee set such homely bread as she had before her, a few small fishes, and a crewse of water, praying her for to accept of that poore entertainement, which meere necessity compelled her to do, and shewed her selfe very thankefull for it. _constance_ hearing that she spake the latine language so well; desired to know what she was. whereto the olde woman thus answered: gentlewoman (quoth she) i am of _trapanum_, named _carapresa_, and am a servant in this countrey to certaine christian fishermen. the yong maiden (albeit she was very full of sorrow) hearing her name to be _carapresa_, conceived it as a good augury to her selfe, & that she had heard the name before, although shee knew not what occasion should move her thus to do. now began her hopes to quicken againe, and yet shee could not tell upon what ground; nor was she so desirous of death as before, but made more precious estimation of her life, and without any further declaration of her selfe or countrey, she entreated the good woman (even for charities sake) to take pitty on her youth, and help her with such good advice, to prevent all injuries which might happen to her, in such a solitary wofull condition. _carapresa_ having heard her request, like a good woman as shee was, left _constance_ in her poore cottage, and went hastily to leave her nets in safety: which being done, she returned backe againe, and covering _constance_ with her mantle, led her on to _susa_ with her, where being arrived, the good woman began in this manner. _constance_, i will bring thee to the house of a very worthy sarazin lady, to whome i have done manie honest services, according as she pleased to command me. she is an ancient woman, full of charity, and to her i will commend thee as best i may, for i am well assured, that shee will gladly entertaine thee, and use thee as if thou wert her owne daughter. now, let it be thy part, during thy time of remaining with her, to employ thy utmost diligence in pleasing her, by deserving and gaining her grace, till heaven shall blesse thee with better fortune: and as she promised, so she performed. the sarazine lady, being well stept into yeares, upon the commendable speeches delivered by _carapresa_, did the more seriously fasten her eye on _constance_, and compassion provoking her to teares, she tooke her by the hand, and (in loving manner) kissed her fore-head. so she led her further into her house, where dwelt divers other women (but not one man) all exercising themselves in severall labours, as working in all sorts of silke, with imbroideries of gold and silver, and sundry other excellent arts beside, which in short time were verie familiar to _constance_, and so pleasing grew her behaviour to the old lady, and all the rest beside; that they loved and delighted in her wonderfully, and (by little and little) she attained to the speaking of their language, although it were verie harsh and difficult. _constance_ continuing thus in the old ladies service at _susa_, & thought to be dead or lost in her owne fathers house; it fortuned, that one reigning then as king of _thunis_, who named himselfe _mariabdela_: there was a young lord of great birth, and very powerfull, who lived as then in _granada_, and pleaded that the kingdome of _thunis_ belonged to him. in which respect, he mustred together a mighty army, and came to assault the king, as hoping to expell him. these newes comming to the eare of _martuccio gomito_, who spake the barbarian language perfectly; and hearing it reported, that the king of _thunis_ made no meane preparation for his owne defence: he conferred with one of his keepers, who had the custody of him, and the rest taken with him, saying: if (quoth hee) i could have meanes to speake with the king, and he were pleased to allow of my counsell, i can enstruct him in such a course, as shall assure him to win the honour of the field. the guard reported these speeches to his master, who presently acquainted the king therewith, and _martuccio_ being sent for; he was commanded to speake his minde: whereupon he began in this manner. my gracious lord, during the time that i have frequented your countrey, i have heedfully observed, that the militarie discipline used in your fights and battailes, dependeth more upon your archers, then any other men imployed in your warre. and therefore, if it could bee so ordered, that this kinde of artillery might fayle in your enemies campe, & yours be sufficiently furnished therewith, you neede make no doubt of winning the battaile: whereto the king thus replyed. doubtlesse, if such an acte were possible to be done, it would give great hope of successefull prevailing. sir, said _martuccio_, if you please it may bee done, and i can quickly resolve you how. let the strings of your archers bowes bee made more soft and gentle, then those which heretofore they have formerly used; and next, let the nockes of the arrowes be so provided, as not to receive any other, then those pliant gentle strings. but this must be done so secretly, that your enemies may have no knowledge thereof, least they should provide themselves in the same manner. now the reason (gracious lord) why thus i counsell you, is to this end. when the archers on the enemies side have shot their arrowes at your men, and yours in the like manner at them: it followeth, that (upon meere constraint) they must gather up your arrowes, to shoote them backe againe at you, for so long while as the battell endureth, as no doubt but your men will do the like to them. but your enemies will finde themselves much deceived, because they can make no use of your peoples arrowes, in regard that the nockes are too narrow to receive their boysterous strings. which will fall out contrary with your followers, for the pliant strings belonging to your bowes, are as apt for their enemies great nockt arrowes, as their owne, and so they shall have free use of both, reserving them in plentifull store, when your adversaries must stand unfurnished of any, but them that they cannot any way use. this counsell pleased the king very highly, and hee being a prince of great understanding, gave order to have it accordingly followed, and thereby valiantly vanquished his enemies. heereupon, _martuccio_ came to be great in his grace, as also consequently rich, and seated in no meane place of authority. now, as worthy and commendable actions are soone spread abroad, in honour of the man by whome they hapned: even so the fame of this rare got victory, was quickly noysed throughout the countrey, and came to the hearing of poore _constance_, that _martuccio gomito_ (whom she supposed so long since to be dead) was living, and in honourable condition. the love which formerly she bare unto him, being not altogether extinct in her heart; of a small sparke, brake foorth into a sodaine flame, and so encreased day by day, that her hope (being before almost quite dead) revived againe in chearfull manner. having imparted all her fortunes to the good olde lady with whome she dwelt; she told her beside, that she had an earnest desire to see _thunis_, to satisfie her eyes as well as her eares, concerning the rumor blazed abroad. the good olde lady commended her desire, and (even as if she had bene her mother) tooke her with her aboord a barke, and so sayled thence to _thunis_, where both she and _constance_ found honourable welcome, in the house of a kinsman to the sarazin lady. _carapresa_ also went along with them thither, and her they sent abroad into the citie, to understand the newes of _martuccio gomito_. after they knew for a certaintie that hee was living, and in great authority about the king, according as the former report went of him. then the good old lady, being desirous to let _martuccio_ know, that his faire friend _constance_ was come thither to see him; went her selfe to the place of his abiding, and spake unto him in this manner. noble _martuccio_, there is a servant of thine in my house, which came from _liparis_, and requireth to have a little private conference with thee: but because i durst not trust any other with the message, my selfe (at her entreaty) am come to acquaint thee therewith. _martuccio_ gave her kinde and hearty thankes, and then went along with her to the house. no sooner did _constance_ behold him, but shee was ready to dye with conceite of joy, and being unable to containe her passion: sodainely she threw her armes about his necke, and in meere compassion of her many misfortunes, as also the instant solace of her soule (not being able to utter one word) the teares trickled abundantly downe her cheekes. _martuccio_ also seeing his faire friend, was overcome with exceeding admiration, & stood awhile, as not knowing what to say; till venting forth a vehement sighe, thus he spake. my deerest love _constance_! art thou yet living? it is a tedious long while since i heard thou wast lost, and never any tydinges knowne of thee in thine owne fathers house. with which wordes, the teares standing his eyes, most lovingly he embraced her. _constance_ recounted to him all her fortunes, and what kindnesse she hadde receyved from the sarazine lady, since her first houre of comming to her. and after much other discourse passing betweene them, _martuccio_ departed from her, and returning to the king his master, tolde him all the historie of his fortunes, and those beside of his love _constance_, beeing purposely minded (with his gracious liking) to marry her according to the christian law. the king was much amazed at so many strange accidents, and sending for _constance_ to come before him; from her own mouth he heard the whole relation of her continued affection to _martuccio_, whereuppon hee saide. now trust me faire damosell, thou hast dearly deserved him to be thy husband. then sending for very costly jewelse, and rich presents, the one halfe of them he gave to her, and the other to _martuccio_, graunting them license withall, to marry according to their owne mindes. _martuccio_ did many honours, and gave great giftes to the aged sarazine lady, with whom _constance_ had lived so kindly respected: which although she had no neede of, neither ever expected any such rewarding; yet (conquered by their urgent importunity, especially _constance_, who could not be thankfull enough to her) she was enforced to receive them, and taking her leave of them weeping, sayled backe againe to _susa_. within a short while after, the king licensing their departure thence, they entred into a small barke, and _carapresa_ with them, sailing on with prosperous gales of winde, untill they arrived at _liparis_, where they were entertained with generall rejoycing. and because their marriage was not sufficiently performed at _thunis_, in regard of divers christian ceremonies there wanting, their nuptials were againe most honourably solemnized, and they lived (many yeares after) in health and much happinesse. pedro bocamazzo, _escaping away with a yong damosell which he loved, named_ angelina, _met with theeves in his journey. the damosell flying fearfully into a forrest, by chance arriveth at a castle._ pedro _being taken by the theeves, and happening afterward to escape from them; commeth (accidentally) to the same castle where_ angelina _was. and marrying her, they then returned home to rome._ the third novell. _wherein, the severall powers both of love and fortune, is more at large approved._ there was not any one in the whole company, but much commended the novell reported by madam _emillia_, and when the queene perceived it was ended, she turned towards madam _eliza_, commanding her to continue on their delightfull exercise: whereto shee declaring her willing obedience, began to speak thus. courteous ladies, i remember one unfortunate night, which happened to two lovers, that were not indued with the greatest discretion. but because they had very many faire and happy dayes afterwardes, i am the more willing for to let you heare it. in the citie of _rome_, which (in times past) was called the ladie and mistresse of the world, though now scarsely so good as the waiting maid: there dwelt sometime a yong gentleman, named _pedro bocamazzo_, descended from one of the most honourable families in _rome_, who was much enamoured of a beautifull gentlewoman, called _angelina_, daughter to one named _giglivozzo saullo_, whose fortunes were none of the fairest, yet he greatly esteemed among the romaines. the entercourse of love between these twaine, had so equally enstructed their hearts and souls, that it could hardly be judged which of them was the more fervent in affection. but he, not being inured to such oppressing passions, and therefore the lesse able to support them, except he were sure to compasse his desire, plainly made the motion, that he might enjoy her in honourable mariage. which his parents and friends hearing, they went to conferre with him, blaming him with over-much basenesse, so farre to disgrace himselfe and his stocke. beside, they advised the father to the maid, neither to credit what _pedro_ saide in this case, or to live in hope of any such match, because they all did wholly despise it. _pedro_ perceiving, that the way was shut up, whereby (and none other) he was to mount the ladder of his hopes; began to waxe weary of longer living: and if he could have won her fathers consent, he would have maried her in the despight of all his friends. neverthelesse, he had a conceit hammering in his head, which if the maid would bee as forward as himselfe, should bring the matter to full effect. letters and secret intelligences passing still betweene, at length he understood her ready resolution, to adventure with him thorough all fortunes whatsoever, concluding on their sodaine and secret flight from rome. for which _pedro_ did so well provide, that very early in a morning, and well mounted on horsebacke, they tooke the way leading unto _alagna_, where _pedro_ had some honest friends, in whom he reposed especiall trust. riding on thus thorow the countrey, having no leysure to accomplish their marriage, because they stoode in feare of pursuite: they were ridden above foure leagues from rome, still shortning the way with their amorous discoursing. it fortuned, that _pedro_ having no certaine knowledge of the way, but following a trackt guiding too farre on the left hand; rode quite out of course, and came at last within sight of a small castle, out of which (before they were aware) yssued twelve villaines, whom _angelina_ sooner espyed, then _pedro_ could do, which made her cry out to him, saying: help deere love to save us, or elsee we shall be assayled. _pedro_ then turning his horse so expeditiously as he could, and giving him the spurres as neede required; mainly he gallopped into a neere adjoining forrest, more minding the following of _angelina_, then any direction of his way, or then that endeavoured to be his hinderance. so that by often winding & turning about, as the passage appeared troublesome to him, when he thought him selfe free and furthest from them, he was round engirt, and seized on by them. when they had made him to dismount from his horse, questioning him of whence and what he was, and he resolving them therein, they fell into a secret consultation, saying thus among themselves. this man is a friend to our deadly enemies, how can wee then otherwise dispose of him, but bereave him of all he hath, and in despight of the _orsini_ (men in nature hatefull to us) hang him up heere on one of these trees? all of them agreeing in this dismall resolution, they commanded _pedro_ to put off his garments, which he yeelding to do (albeit unwillingly) it so fell out, that five and twenty other theeves, came sodainly rushing in upon them, crying, kill, kill, and spare not a man. they which before had surprized _pedro_, desiring nowe to shifte for their owne safetie; left him standing quaking in his shirt, and so ranne away mainely to defend themselves. which the new crewe perceyving, and that their number farre exceeded the other: they followed to robbe them of what they had gotten, accounting it as a present purchase for them. which when _pedro_ perceyved, and saw none tarrying to prey uppon him; hee put on his cloathes againe, and mounting on his owne horsse, gallopped that way, which _angelina_ before had taken: yet could hee not descry any tracke or path, or so much as the footing of a horse; but thought himselfe in sufficient securitie, beeing rid of them that first seized on him, and also of the rest, which followed in the pursuite of them. for the losse of his beloved _angelina_, he was the most wofull man in the world, wandering one while this way, and then againe another, calling for her all about the forrest, without any answere returning to him. and not daring to ride backe againe, on he travailed still, not knowing where to make his arrivall. and having formerly heard of savage ravenous beasts, which commonly live in such unfrequented forrests: he not onely was in feare of loosing his owne life, but also despayred much for his _angelina_, least some lyon or woolfe, had torne her body in peeces. thus rode on poore unfortunate _pedro_, untill the breake of day appeared, not finding any meanes to get forth of the forrest, still crying and calling for his fayre friend, riding many times backeward, when as hee thought hee rode forward, untill hee became so weake and faint, what with extreame feare, lowd calling, and continuing so long a while without any sustenance, that the whole day beeing thus spent in vaine, and darke night sodainly come uppon him, hee was not able to hold out any longer. now was hee in farre worse case then before, not knowing where, or how to dispose of himselfe, or what might best bee done in so great a necessity. from his horse hee alighted, and tying him by the bridle unto a great tree, uppe he climbed into the same tree, fearing to bee devoured (in the night time) by some wilde beast, choosing rather to let his horsse perish, then himselfe. within a while after, the moone beganne to rise, and the skies appeared bright and cleare: yet durst hee not nod, or take a nap, lest he should fall out of the tree; but sate still greeving, sighing, and mourning, despairing of ever seeing his _angelina_ any more, for he could not be comforted by the smallest hopefull perswasion, that any good fortune might befall her in such a desolate forrest, where nothing but dismall feares was to be expected, and no likelihood that she should escape with life. now, concerning poore affrighted _angelina_, who (as you heard before) knew not any place of refuge to flye unto: but even as it pleased hir horse to carry her: she entred so farre into the forest, that she could not devise where to seeke her owne safety. and therefore, even as it fared with her friend _pedro_, in the same manner did it fall out with her, wandering the whole night, and all the day following, one while taking one hopefull tracke, and then another, calling, weeping, wringing hir hands, and greevously complaining of her hard fortune. at the length, perceyving that _pedro_ came not to her at all, she found a little path (which shee lighted on by great good fortune) even when dark night was apace drawing, and followed it so long, til it brought her within the sight of a small poore cottage, whereto she rode on so fast as she could; and found therein a very old man, having a wife rather more aged then he, who seeing hir to be without company, the old man spake thus unto her. faire daughter (quoth he) whether wander you at such an unseasonable houre, and all alone in a place so desolate? the damosell weeping, replied; that shee had lost her company in the forest, and enquired how neere shee was to _alagna_. daughter (answered the old man) this is not the way to _alagna_, for it is above sixe leagues hence. then shee desired to knowe, how farre off shee was from such houses, where she might have any reasonable lodging? there are none so neere, said the old man, that day light will give you leave to reach. may it please you then good father (replied _angelina_) seeing i cannot travaile any whether elsee; for gods sake, to let me remaine heere with you this night. daughter answered the good old man, wee can gladly give you entertainement here, for this night, in such poore manner as you see: but let mee tell you withall, that up and downe these wooddes (as well by night as day) walke companies of all conditions, and rather enimies then friends, who doe us many greevious displeasures and harmes. now if by misfortune, you beeing heere, any such people should come, and seeing you so loovely faire, as indeed you are, offer you any shame or injurie: alas you see it lies not in our power to lend you any helpe or succour. i thought it good (therefore) to acquaint you heerewith; because if any such mischance do happen, you should not afterward complaine of us. the yong maiden, seeing the time to be so farre spent, albeit the olde mans words did much dismay her, yet she thus replyed. if it be the will of heaven, both you and i shall be defended from any misfortune: but if any such mischance do happen, i account the matter lesse deserving grief, if i fall into the mercy of men, then to be devoured by wild beasts in this forrest. so, being dismounted from her horse, and entred into the homely house; she supt poorely with the olde man and his wife, with such mean cates as their provision affoorded: and after supper, lay downe in hir garments on the same poore pallet, where the aged couple tooke their rest, and was very well contented therewith, albeit she could not refraine from sighing and weeping, to bee thus divided from her deare _pedro_, of whose life and welfare she greatly despaired. when it was almost day, she heard a great noise of people travailing by, whereupon sodainly she arose, and ranne into a garden plot, which was on the backside of the poore cottage, espying in one of the corners a great stacke of hay, wherein she hid her selfe, to the end, that travelling strangers might not readily finde her there in the house. scarsely was she fully hidden, but a great company of theeves and villaines, finding the doore open, rushed into the cottage, where looking round about them for some booty, they saw the damoselse horse stand ready sadled, which made them demand to whom it belonged. the good olde man, not seeing the maiden present there, but immagining that shee had made some shift for her selfe, answered thus. gentlemen, there is no body here but my wife and my selfe: as for this horse, which seemeth to bee escaped from the owner; hee came hither yesternight, and we gave him house-roome heere, rather then to be devoured by wolves abroad. then said the principall of the theevish crew; this horse shall be ours, in regard he hath no other master, and let the owner come claime him of us. when they had searched every corner of the poore cottage, & found no such prey as they looked for, some of them went into the backe side; where they had left their javelins and targets, wherewith they used commonly to travaile. it fortuned, that one of them, being more subtily suspitious then the rest, thrust his javeline into the stacke of hay, in the very same place where the damosell lay hidden, missing very little of killing her; for it entred so farre, that the iron head pierced quite thorough her garments, and touched her left bare brest: whereupon, shee was ready to cry out, as fearing that she was wounded: but considering the place where she was, she lay still, and spake not a word. this disordred company, after they had fed on some young kids, and other flesh which they brought with them thither, they went thence about their theeving exercise, taking the damoselse horse along with them. after they were gone a good distance off, the good old man beganne thus to question his wife. what is become (quoth hee) of our young gentlewoman, which came so late to us yesternight? i have not seen hir to day since our arising. the old woman made answer, that she knew not where she was, and sought all about to finde her. _angelinaes_ feares being well over-blowne, and hearing none of the former noise, which made her the better hope of their departure, came forth of the hay-stack; whereof the good old man was not a little joyfull, and because she had so well escaped from them: so seeing it was now broad day-light, he sayde unto her. now that the morning is so fairely begun, if you can be so well contented, we will bring you to a castle, which stands about two miles and an halfe hence, where you will be sure to remaine in safety. but you must needs travaile thither on foote, because the night-walkers that happened hither, have taken away your horse with them. _angelina_ making little or no account of such a losse, entreated them for charities sake, to conduct her to that castle, which accordingly they did, and arrived there betweene seven and eight of the clocke. the castle belonged to one of the _orsini_, being called, _liello di campo di fiore_, and by great good fortune, his wife was then there, she being a very vertuous and religious lady. no sooner did shee looke upon _angelina_, but shee knew her immediately, and entertaining her very willingly, requested, to know the reason of her thus arriving there: which shee at large related, and moved the lady (who likewise knew _pedro_ perfectly well) to much compassion, because he was a kinsman and deare friend to her husband; and understanding how the theeves had surprized him, shee feared, that he was slaine among them, whereupon shee spake thus to _angelina_. seeing you know not what is become of my kinsman _pedro_, you shall remaine here with me, untill such time, as (if we heare no other tidings of him) you may with safety be sent backe to _rome_. _pedro_ all this while sitting in the tree, so full of griefe, as no man could be more; about the houre of midnight (by the bright splendour of the moone) espied about some twenty wolves, who, so soone as they got a sight of the horse, ran and engirt him round about. the horse when he perceived them so neere him, drew his head so strongly back-ward, that breaking the reines of his bridle, he laboured to escape away from them. but being beset on every side, and utterly unable to helpe himselfe, he contended with his teeth & feete in his owne defence, till they haled him violently to the ground, and tearing his body in peeces, left not a jot of him but the bare bones, and afterward ran ranging thorow the forrest. at this sight, poore _pedro_ was mightily dismayed, fearing to speed no better then his horse had done, and therefore could not devise what was best to be done; for he saw no likelihood now, of getting out of the forrest with life. but day-light drawing on apace, and he almost dead with cold, having stood quaking so long in the tree; at length by continuall looking every where about him, to discerne the least glimpse of any comfort; he espied a great fire, which seemed to be about halfe a mile off from him. by this time it was broade day, when he descended downe out of the tree, (yet not without much feare) and tooke his way towards the fire, where being arrived, he found a company of shepheards banquetting about it, whom he curteously saluting, they tooke pity on his distresse, and welcommed him kindly. after he had tasted of such cheare as they had, and was indifferently refreshed by the good fire; hee discoursed his hard disasters to them, as also how he happened thither, desiring to know, if any village or castle were neere thereabout, where he might in better manner releeve himselfe. the shepheards told him, that about a mile and an halfe from thence, was the castle of _signior liello di campo di fiore_, and that his lady was now residing there; which was no meane comfort to poore _pedro_, requesting that one of them would accompany him thither, as two of them did in loving manner, to ridde him of all further feares. when he was arrived at the castle, and found there divers of his familiar acquaintance; he laboured to procure some meanes, that the damosell might be sought for in the forrest. then the lady calling for her, and bringing her to him; he ran and caught her in his armes, being ready to swoune with conceit of joy, for never could any man be more comforted, then he was at the sight of his _angelina_, and questionlesse, her joy was not a jot inferior to his, such a simpathy of firme love was sealed between them. the lady of the castle, after shee had given them very gracious entertainement, and understood the scope of their bold adventure; shee reproved them both somewhat sharpely, for presuming so farre without the consent of their parents. but perceiving (notwithstanding all her remonstrances) that they continued still constant in their resolution, without any inequality on either side; shee saide to her selfe. why should this matter be any way offensive to me? they love each other loyally; they are not inferiour to one another in birth, but in fortune; they are equally loved and allied to my husband, and their desire is both honest and honourable. moreover, what know i, if it be the will of heaven to have it so? theeves intended to hang him, in malice to his name and kinred, from which hard fate he hath happily escaped. her life was endangered by a sharpe pointed javeline, and yet her fairer starres would not suffer her so to perish: beside, they both have escaped the fury of ravenous wild beasts, and all these are apparant signes, that future comforts should recompence former passed misfortunes; farre be it therefore from me, to hinder the appointment of the heavens. then turning her selfe to them, thus shee proceeded. if your desire be to joyne in honourable marriage, i am well contented therewith, and your nuptials shall here be sollemnized at my husbands charges. afterward both he and i will endeavour, to make peace between you and your discontented parents. _pedro_ was not a little joyfull at her kind offer, and _angelina_ much more then he; so they were maried together in the castle, and worthily feasted by the lady, as forrest entertainment could permit, and there they enjoyed the first fruits of their love. within a short while after, the lady and they (well mounted on horse-backe, and attended with an honourable traine) returned to _rome_; where her lord _liello_ and shee prevailed so wel with _pedroes_ angry parents: that all variance ended in love and peace, and afterward they lived lovingly together, till old age made them as honourable, as their true and mutuall affection formerly had done. ricciardo manardy, _was found by_ messer lizio da valbonna, _as he sate fast asleepe at his daughters chamber window, having his hand fast in hers, and shee sleeping in the same manner. whereupon, they were joyned together in marriage, and their long loyall love mutually recompenced._ the fourth novell. _declaring the discreete providence of parents, in care of their childrens love and their owne credit, to cut off inconveniences, before they doe proceede too farre._ madam _eliza_ having ended her tale, and heard what commendations the whole company gave thereof; the queene commanded _philostratus_, to tell a novell agreeing with his owne minde, who smiling thereat, thus replyed. faire ladies, i have beene so often checkt & snapt, for my yester dayes matter and argument of discoursing, which was both tedious and offensive to you; that if i intended to make you any amends, i should now undertake to tell such a tale, as might put you into a mirthfull humour. which i am determined to doe, in relating a briefe and pleasant novell, not any way offensive (as i trust) but exemplary for some good notes of observation. not long since, there lived in _romania_, a knight, a very honest gentleman, and well qualified, whose name was _messer lizio da valbonna_, to whom it fortuned, that (at his entrance into age) by his lady and wife, called _jaquemina_, he had a daughter, the very choycest and goodliest gentlewoman in all those parts. now because such a happy blessing (in their olde yeeres) was not a little comfortable to them; they thought themselves the more bound in duty, to be circumspect of her education, by keeping her out of over-frequent companies, but onely such as agreed best with their gravity, & might give the least ill example to their daughter, who was named _catharina_; as making no doubt, but by this their provident and wary respect, to match her in mariage answerable to their liking. there was also a young gentleman, in the very flourishing estate of his youthfull time, descended from the family of the _manardy da brettinoro_, named _messer ricciardo_, who oftentimes frequented the house of _messer lizio_, and was a continuall welcome guest to his table, _messer lizio_ and his wife making the like account of him, even as if he had beene their owne sonne. this young gallant, perceiving the maiden to be very beautifull, of singular behaviour, and of such yeeres as was fit for mariage, became exceedingly enamoured of her, yet concealed his affection so closely as he could; which was not so covertly caried, but that she perceived it, and grew in as good liking of him. many times he had an earnest desire to have conference with her, which yet still he deferred, as fearing to displease her; till at the length he lighted on an apt opportunity, and boldly spake to her in this manner. faire _catharina_, i hope thou wilt not let me die for thy love? _signior ricciardo_ (replyed shee suddenly againe) i hope you will extend the like mercy to me, as you desire that i should shew to you. this answere was so pleasing to _messer ricciardo_, that presently he saide. alas deare love, i have dedicated all my fairest fortunes onely to thy service, so that it remaineth soly in thy power, to dispose of me as best shall please thee, and to appoint such times of private conversation, as may yeeld more comfort to my poore afflicted soule. _catherina_ standing musing awhile, at last returned him this answere. _signior ricciardo_, quoth shee, you see what a restraint is set on my liberty, how short i am kept from conversing with any one, that i hold this our enterparlance now almost miraculous. but if you could devise any convenient meanes, to admit us more familiar freedome, without any prejudice to mine honour, or the least distaste of my parents; doe but enstruct it, and i will adventure it. _ricciardo_ having considered on many wayes and meanes, thought one to be the fittest of all; and therefore thus replyed. _catharina_ (quoth he) the onely place for our more private talking together, i conceive to be the gallery over your fathers garden. if you can winne your mother to let you lodge there, i will make meanes to climbe over the wall, and at the goodly gazing window, we may discourse so long as we please. now trust me deare love (answered _catharina_) no place can be more convenient for our purpose, there shall we heare the sweete birds sing, especially the nightingale, which i have heard singing there all the night long; i will breake the matter to my mother, and how i speede, you shall heare further from me. so, with divers parting kisses, they brake off conference, till their next meeting. on the day following, which was towards the ending of the moneth of _may, catharina_ began to complaine to her mother, that the season was over-hot and tedious, to be still lodged in her mothers chamber, because it was an hinderance to her sleeping; and wanting rest, it would be an empairing of her health. why daughter (quoth the mother) the weather (as yet) is not so hot, but (in my minde) you may very well endure it. alas mother, said shee, aged people, as you and my father are, doe not feele the heates of youthfull bloud, by reason of your farre colder complexion, which is not to be measured by younger yeeres. i know that well daughter, replyed the mother; but is it in my power, to make the weather warme or coole, as thou perhaps wouldst have it? seasons are to be suffered, according to their severall qualities; and though the last night might seeme hot, this next ensuing may be cooler, and then thy rest will be the better. no mother, quoth _catherina_, that cannot be; for as summer proceedeth on, so the heate encreaseth, and no expectation can be of temperate weather, untill it groweth to winter againe. why daughter, saide the mother, what wouldest thou have me to doe? mother (quoth shee) if it might stand with my fathers good liking and yours, i would be lodged in the garden gallery, which is a great deale more coole, and temperate. there shall i heare the sweete nightingale sing, as every night shee useth to doe, and many other pretty birds beside, which i cannot doe, lodging in your chamber. the mother loving her daughter dearely, as being some-what over-fond of her, and very willing to give her contentment; promised to impart her minde to her father, not doubting but to compasse what shee requested. when shee had moved the matter to _messer lizio_, whose age made him somewhat froward and teasty; angerly he said to his wife. why how now woman? cannot our daughter sleepe, except shee heare the nightingale sing? let there be a bed made for her in the oven, and there let the crickets make her melody. when _catharina_ heard this answere from her father, and saw her desire to be disappointed; not onely could shee not take any rest the night following, but also complained more of the heate then before, not suffering her mother to take any rest, which made her goe angerly to her husband in the morning, saying. why husband, have we but one onely daughter, whom you pretend to love right dearely, and yet can you be so carelesse of her, as to denie her a request, which is no more then reason? what matter is it to you or me, to let her lodge in the garden gallery? is her young bloud to be compared with ours? can our weake and crazie bodies, feele the frolicke temper of hers? alas, shee is hardly (as yet) out of her childish yeeres, and children have many desires farre differing from ours: the singing of birds is rare musicke to them, and chiefly the nightingale; whose sweete notes will provoke them to rest, when neither art or physicke can doe it. is it even so wife? answered _messer lizio_. must your will and mine be governed by our daughter? well be it so then, let her bed be made in the garden gallerie, but i will have the keeping of the key, both to locke her in at night, and set her at libertie every morning. woman, woman, young wenches are wily, many wanton crochets are busie in their braines, and to us that are aged, they sing like lapwings, telling us one thing, and intending another; talking of nightingales, when their mindes run on cocke-sparrowes. seeing wife, shee must needes have her minde, let yet your care and mine extend so farre, to keepe her chastity uncorrupted, and our credulity from being abused. _catharina_ having thus prevailed with her mother, her bed made in the garden gallery, and secret intelligence given to _ricciardo_, for preparing his meanes of accesse to her window; old provident _lizio_ lockes the doore to bed-ward, and gives her liberty to come forth in the morning, for his owne lodging was neere to the same gallery. in the dead and silent time of night, when all (but lovers) take their rest; _ricciardo_ having provided a ladder of ropes, with grapling hookes to take hold above and below, according as he had occasion to use it. by helpe thereof, first he mounted over the garden wall, and then climbde up to the gallery window, before which (as is every where in _italie_) was a little round engirting tarras, onely for a man to stand upon, for making cleane the window, or otherwise repairing it. many nights (in this manner) enjoyed they their meetings, entermixing their amorous conference with infinite kisses and kinde embraces, as the window gave leave, he sitting in the tarras, and departing alwayes before breake of day, for feare of being discovered by any. but, as excesse of delight is the nurse to negligence, and begetteth such an over-presuming boldnesse, as afterward proveth to be sauced with repentance: so came it to passe with our over-fond lovers, in being taken tardy through their owne folly. after they had many times met in this manner, the nights (according to the season) growing shorter and shorter, which their stolne delight made them lesse respective of, then was requisite in an adventure so dangerous: it fortuned, that their amorous pleasure had so farre transported them, and dulled their sences in such sort, by these their continued nightly watchings; that they both fell fast asleepe, he having his hand closed in hers, and shee one arme folded about his body, and thus they slept till broade day light. old _messer lizio_, who continually was the morning cocke to the whole house, going foorth into his garden, saw how his daughter and _ricciardo_ were seated at the window. in he went againe, and going to his wives chamber, saide to her. rise quickly wife, and you shall see, what made our daughter so desirous to lodge in the garden gallery. i perceive that shee loved to heare the nightingale, for shee hath caught one, and holds him fast in her hand. is it possible, saide the mother, that our daughter should catch a live nightingale in the darke? you shall see that your selfe, answered _messer lizio_, if you will make haste, and goe with me. shee, putting on her garments in great haste, followed her husband, and being come to the gallery doore, he opened it very softly, and going to the window, shewed her how they both sate fast asleepe, and in such manner as hath been before declared: whereupon, shee perceiving how _ricciardo_ and _catharina_ had both deceived her, would have made an outcry, but that _messer lizio_ spake thus to her. wife, as you love me, speake not a word, neither make any noyse: for, seeing shee hath loved _ricciardo_ without our knowledge, and they have had their private meetings in this manner, yet free from any blamefull imputation; he shall enjoy her, and shee him. _ricciardo_ is a gentleman, well derived, and of rich possessions, it can be no disparagement to us, that _catharina_ match with him in mariage, which he neither shall, or dare denie to doe, in regard of our lawes severity; for climbing up to my window with his ladder of ropes, whereby his life is forfeited to the law, except our daughter please to spare it, as it remaineth in her power to doe, by accepting him as her husband, or yeelding his life up to the law, which surely shee will not suffer, their love agreeing together in such mutuall manner, and he adventuring so dangerously for her. madam _jaquemina_, perceiving that her husband spake very reasonably, and was no more offended at the matter; stept aside with him behinde the drawne curtaines, untill they should awake of themselves. at the last, _ricciardo_ awaked, and seeing it was so farre in the day, thought himselfe halfe dead, and calling to _catharina_, saide. alas deare love! what shall we doe? we have slept too long, and shall be taken here. at which words, _messer lizio_ stept forth from behind the curtaines, saying. nay, _signior ricciardo_, seeing you have found such an unbefitting way hither, we will provide you a better for your backe returning. when _ricciardo_ saw the father and mother both there present, he could not devise what to doe or say, his sences became so strangely confounded; yet knowing how hainously hee had offended, if the strictnesse of law should be challenged against him, falling on his knees, he saide. alas _messer lizio_, i humbly crave your mercy, confessing my selfe well worthy of death, that knowing the sharpe rigour of the law, i would presume so audaciously to breake it. but pardon me worthy sir, my loyall and unfeined love to your daughter _catharina_, hath beene the onely cause of my transgressing. _ricciardo_ (replyed _messer lizio_) the love i beare thee, and the honest confidence i doe repose in thee, step up (in some measure) to pleade thine excuse, especially in the regard of my daughter, whom i blame thee not for loving, but for this unlawfull way of presuming to her. neverthelesse, perceiving how the case now standeth, and considering withall, that youth and affection were the ground of thine offence: to free thee from death, and my selfe from dishonour, before thou departest hence, thou shalt espouse my daughter _catharina_, to make her thy lawfull wife in mariage, and wipe off all scandall to my house and me. all this while was poore _catharina_ on her knees likewise to her mother, who (notwithstanding this her bold adventure) made earnest suite to her husband to remit all, because _ricciardo_ right gladly condiscended, as it being the maine issue of his hope and desire; to accept his _catharina_ in mariage, whereto shee was as willing as he. _messer lizio_ presently called for the confessour of his house, and borrowing one of his wives rings, before they went out of the gallery; _ricciardo_ and _catharina_ were espoused together, to their no little joy and contentment. now had they more leasure for further conference, with the parents and kindred to _ricciardo_, who being no way discontented with this sudden match, but applauding it in the highest degree; they were publikely maried againe in the cathedrall church, and very honourable triumphes performed at the nuptials, living long after in happy prosperity. guidotto _of cremona, departing out of this mortall life, left a daughter of his, with_ jacomino _of pavia._ giovanni di severino, _and_ menghino da minghole, _fell both in love with the young maiden, and fought for her; who being afterward knowne, to be the sister to_ giovanni, _shee was given in mariage to_ menghino. the fifth novell. _wherein may be observed, what quarrelse and contentions are occasioned by love; with some particular discription, concerning the sincerity of a loyall friend._ all the ladies laughing heartily, at the novell of the nightingale, so pleasingly delivered by _philostratus_, when they saw the same to be fully ended, the queene thus spake. now trust me _philostratus_, though yester-day you did much oppresse mee with melancholy, yet you have made me such an amends to day, as wee have little reason to complaine any more of you. so converting her speech to madam _neiphila_, shee commanded her to succeede with her discourse, which willingly she yeelded to, beginning in this manner. seeing it pleased _philostratus_, to produce his novell out of _romania_: i meane to walke with him in the same jurisdiction, concerning what i am to say. there dwelt sometime in the city of _fano_, two lombards, the one being named _guidotto_ of _cremona_, and the other _jacomino_ of _pavia_, men of sufficient entrance into yeeres, having followed the warres (as souldiers) all their youthful time. _guidotto_ feeling sicknesse to over-master him, and having no sonne, kinsman, or friend, in whom he might repose more trust, then hee did in _jacomino_: having long conference with him about his worldly affaires, and setled his whole estate in good order; he left a daughter to his charge, about ten yeeres of age, with all such goods as he enjoyed, and then departed out of this life. it came to passe, that the city of _faenza_, long time being molested with tedious warres, and subjected to very servile condition; beganne now to recover her former strength, with free permission (for all such as pleased) to returne and possesse their former dwellings. whereupon, _jacomino_ (having sometime beene an inhabitant there) was desirous to live in _faenza_ againe, convaying thither all his goods, and taking with him also the young girle, which _guidotto_ had left him, whom hee loved, and respected as his owne childe. as shee grew in stature, so shee did in beauty and vertuous qualities, as none was more commended throughout the whole city, for faire, civill, and honest demeanour, which incited many amorously to affect her. but (above all the rest) two very honest young men, of good fame and repute, who were so equally in love addicted to her, that being jealous of each others fortune, in preventing of their severall hopefull expectation; a deadly hatred grew suddenly betweene them, the one being named, _giovanni de severino_, and the other _menghino da minghole_. either of these two young men, before the maide was fifteene yeeres old, laboured to be possessed of her in marriage, but her guardian would give no consent thereto: wherefore, perceiving their honest intended meaning to be frustrated, they now began to busie their braines, how to forestall one another by craft and circumvention. _jacomino_ had a maide-servant belonging to his house, somewhat aged, and a man-servant beside, named _grivello_, of mirthfull disposition, and very friendly, with whom _giovanni_ grew in great familiarity; and when he found time fit for the purpose, he discovered his love to him, requesting his furtherance and assistance, in compassing the height of his desire, with bountifull promises of rich rewarding; whereto _grivello_ returned this answere. i know not how to sted you in this case, but when my master shall sup foorth at some neighbours house, to admit your entrance where she is: because, if i offer to speake to her, shee never will stay to heare me. wherefore, if my service this way may doe you any good, i promise to performe it; doe you beside, as you shall find it most convenient for you. so the bargaine was agreed on betweene them, and nothing elsee now remained, but to what issue it should sort in the end. _menghino_, on the other side, having entred into the chamber-maides acquaintance, sped so well with her, that shee delivered so many messages from him, as had (already) halfe won the liking of the virgin; passing further promises to him beside, of bringing him to have conference with her, whensoever her master should be absent from home. thus _menghino_ being favoured (on the one side) by the olde chamber-maide, and _giovanni_ (on the other) by trusty _grivello_; their amorous warre was now on foote, and diligently followed by both their sollicitors. within a short while after, by the procurement of _grivello, jacomino_ was invited by a neighbour to supper, in company of divers his very familiar friends, whereof intelligence being given to _giovanni_; a conclusion passed betweene them, that (upon a certaine signale given) he should come, and finde the doore standing ready open, to give him all accesse unto the affected mayden. the appointed night being come, and neither of these hot lovers knowing the others intent, but their suspition being alike, and encreasing still more and more; they made choyce of certaine friends and associates, well armed and provided, for eithers safer entrance when neede should require. _menghino_ stayed with his troope, in a neere neighbouring house to the mayden, attending when the signall would be given: but _giovanni_ and his consorts, were ambushed somewhat further off from the house, and both saw when _jacomino_ went foorth to supper. now _grivello_ and the chamber-maide began to vary, which should send the other out of the way, till they had effected their severall intention; whereupon _grivello_ said to her. what maketh thee to walke thus about the house, and why doest thou not get thee to bed? and thou (quoth the maide) why doest thou not goe to attend on our master, and tarry for his returning home? i am sure thou hast supt long agoe, and i know no businesse here in the house for thee to doe. thus (by no meanes) the one could send away the other, but either remained as the others hinderance. but _grivello_ remembring himselfe, that the houre of his appointment with _giovanni_ was come, he saide to himselfe. what care i whether our olde maide be present, or no? if shee disclose any thing that i doe, i can be revenged on her when i list. so, having made the signall, he went to open the doore, even when _giovanni_ (and two of his confederates) rushed into the house, and finding the faire young maiden sitting in the hall, laide hands on her, to beare her away. the damosell began to resist them, crying out for helpe so loude as shee could, as the olde chamber-maide did the like: which _menghino_ hearing, he ranne thither presently with his friends, and seeing the young damosell brought well-neere out of the house; they drew their swords, crying out: traytors, you are but dead men, here is no violence to be offered, neither is this a booty for such base groomes. so they layed about them lustily, and would not permit them to passe any further. on the other side, upon this mutinous noyse and out-cry, the neighbours came foorth of their houses, with lights, staves, and clubbes, greatly reproving them for this out-rage, yet assisting _menghino_: by meanes whereof, after a long time of contention, _menghino_ recovered the mayden from _giovanni_, and placed her peaceably in _jacominoes_ house. no sooner was this hurly-burly somewhat calmed, but the serjeants to the captaine of the city, came thither, and apprehended divers of the mutiners: among whom were _menghino, giovanni,_ and _grivello_, committing them immediately to prison. but after every thing was pacified, and _jacomino_ returned home to his house from supper; he was not a little offended at so grosse an injury. when he was fully informed, how the matter happened, and apparantly perceived, that no blame at all could be imposed on the mayden: he grew the better contented, resolving with himselfe (because no more such inconveniences should happen) to have her married so soone as possibly he could. when morning was come, the kindred and friends on either side, understanding the truth of the error committed, and knowing beside, what punishment would be inflicted on the prisoners, if _jacomino_ pressed the matter no further, then as with reason and equity well he might; they repaired to him, and (in gentle speeches) entreated him, not to regard a wrong offered by unruly and youthfull people, meerely drawne into the action by perswasion of friends; submitting both themselves, and the offendors, to such satisfaction as he pleased to appoint them. _jacomino_, who had seene and observed many things in his time, and was a man of sound understanding, returned them this answere. gentlemen, if i were in mine owne countrey, as now i am in yours; i would as forwardly confesse my selfe your friend, as here i must needes fall short of any such service, but even as you shall please to command me. but plainely, and without all further ceremonious complement, i must agree to whatsoever you can request; as thinking you to be more injured by me, then any great wrong that i have sustained. concerning the young damosell remaining in my house, shee is not (as many have imagined) either of _cremona_, or _pavia_, but borne a _faentine_, here in this citie: albeit neither my selfe, shee, or he of whom i had her, did ever know it, or yet could learne whose daughter shee was. wherefore, the suite you make to me, should rather (in duty) be mine to you: for shee is a native of your owne, doe right to her, and then you can doe no wrong unto mee. when the gentlemen understood, that the mayden was borne in _faenza_, they marvelled thereat, and after they had thanked _jacomino_ for his curteous answer; they desired him to let them know, by what meanes the damosell came into his custody, and how he knew her to be borne in _faenza_: when he, perceiving them attentive to heare him, began in this manner. understand worthy gentlemen, that _guidotto_ of _cremona_, was my companion and deare friend, who growing neere to his death, tolde me, that when this city was surprized by the emperour _frederigo_, and all things committed to sacke and spoile; he and certaine of his confederates entred into a house, which they found to be well furnished with goods, but utterly forsaken of the dwellers, onely this poore mayden excepted, being then aged but two yeeres, or thereabout. as hee mounted up the steps, with intent to depart from the house; she called him father, which word moved him so compassionately: that he went backe againe, brought her away with him, and all things of worth which were in the house, going thence afterward to _fano_, and there deceasing, he left her and all his goods to my charge; conditionally, that i should see her maried when due time required, and bestow on her the wealth which he had left her. now, very true it is, although her yeeres are convenient for mariage, yet i could never find any one to bestow her on, at least that i thought fitting for her: howbeit, i will listen thereto much more respectively, before any other such accident shall happen. it came to passe, that in the reporting of this discourse, there was then a gentleman in the company, named _guillemino da medicina_, who at the surprizal of the city, was present with _guidotto_ of _cremona_, and knew well the house which he had ransacked, the owner whereof was also present with him, wherefore taking him aside, he saide to him. _bernardino_, hearest thou what _jacomino_ hath related? yes very wel, replyed _bernardino_, and remember withall, that in that dismall bloody combustion, i lost a little daughter, about the age as _jacomino_ speaketh. questionlesse then, replied _guillemino_, shee must needes be the same young mayden, for i was there at the same time, and in the house, whence _guidotto_ did bring both the girle and goods, and i doe perfectly remember, that it was thy house. i pray thee call to minde, if ever thou sawest any scarre or marke about her, which may revive thy former knowledge of her, for my minde perswades me, that the maide is thy daughter. _bernardino_ musing a while with himselfe, remembred, that under her left eare, shee had a scarre, in the forme of a little crosse, which happened by the byting of a wolfe, and but a small while before the spoyle was made. wherefore, without deferring it to any further time, he stept to _jacomino_ (who as yet staied there) and entreated him to fetch the mayden from his house, because shee might be knowne to some in the company: whereto right willingly he condiscended, and there presented the maide before them. so soone as _bernardino_ beheld her, he began to be much inwardly moved; for the perfect character of her mothers countenance, was really figured in her sweete face, onely that her beauty was somewhat more excelling. yet not herewith satisfied, he desired _jacomino_ to be so pleased, as to lift up a little the lockes of haire, depending over her left eare. _jacomino_ did it presently, albeit with a modest blushing in the maide, and _bernardino_ looking advisedly on it, knew it to be the selfe same crosse; which confirmed her constantly to be his daughter. overcome with excesse of joy, which made the teares to trickle downe his cheekes, he proffered to embrace and kisse the maide: but she resisting his kindnesse, because (as yet) shee knew no reason for it, he turned himselfe to _jacomino_, saying. my deare brother and friend, this maide is my daughter, and my house was the same which _guidotto_ spoyled, in the generall havocke of our city, and thence he carried this child of mine, forgotten (in the fury) by my wife her mother. but happy was the houre of his becomming her father, and carrying her away with him; for elsee she had perished in the fire, because the house was instantly burnt downe to the ground. the mayden hearing his words, observing him also to be a man of yeeres and gravity: shee beleeved what he saide, and humbly submitted her selfe to his kisses & embraces, even as instructed thereto by instinct of nature. _bernardino_ instantly sent for his wife, her owne mother, his daughters, sonnes, and kindred, who being acquainted with this admirable accident, gave her most gracious and kind welcome, he receiving her from _jacomino_ as his childe, and the legacies which _guidotto_ had left her. when the captaine of the city (being a very wise and worthy gentleman) heard these tydings, and knowing that _giovanni_, then his prisoner, was the son to _bernardino_, and naturall brother to the newly recovered maide; he bethought himselfe, how best he might qualifie the fault committed by him. and entring into the hall among them, handled the matter so discreetly, that a loving league of peace was confirmed betweene _giovanni_ and _menghino_, to whom (with free and full consent on all sides) the faire maide, named _agatha_, was given in marriage, with a more honourable enlargement of her dowry, and _grivello_, with the rest, delivered out of prison, which for their tumultuous riot they had justly deserved. _menghino_ and _agatha_ had their wedding worthily sollemnized, with all due honours belonging thereto; and long time after they lived in _faenza_, highly beloved, and graciously esteemed. guion di procida, _being found familiarly conversing with a young damosell, which he loved; and had been given (formerly) to_ frederigo, _king of sicilie: was bound to a stake; to be consumed with fire. from which danger (neverthelesse) he escaped, being knowne by_ don rogiero de oria, _lord admirall of sicilie, and afterward married the damosell._ the sixth novell. _wherein is manifested, that love can leade a man into numberlesse perils: out of which he escapeth with no meane difficulty._ the novell of madam _neiphila_ being ended, which proved very pleasing to the ladies: the queene commanded madam _pampinea_, that shee should prepare to take her turne next, whereto willingly obeying, thus shee began. many and mighty (gracious ladies) are the prevailing powers of love, conducting amorous soules into infinite travelse, with inconveniences no way avoidable, and not easily to be foreseene, or prevented. as partly already hath beene observed, by divers of our former novelse related, and some (no doubt) to ensue hereafter; for one of them (comming now to my memory) i shall acquaint you withall, in so good tearmes as i can. _ischia_ is an iland very neere to _naples_, wherein (not long since) lived a faire and lovely gentlewoman, named _restituta_, daughter to a gentleman of the same isle, whose name was _marino bolgaro_. a proper youth called _guion_, dwelling also in a neere neighbouring isle, called _procida_, did love her as dearely as his owne life, and she was as intimately affected towards him. now because the sight of her was his onely comfort, as occasion gave him leave; he resorted to _ischia_ very often in the day time, and as often also in the night season, when any barque passed from _procida_ to _ischia_; if to see nothing elsee, yet to behold the walles that enclosed his mistresse thus. while this love continued in equall fervency, it chanced upon a faire summers day, that _restituta_ walked alone upon the sea-shoare, going from rocke to rocke, having a naked knife in her hand, wherewith shee opened such oysters as shee found among the stones, seeking for small pearles enclosed in their shelles. her walke was very solitary and shady, with a faire spring or well adjoining to it, and thither (at that very instant time) certaine sicilian young gentlemen, which came from _naples_, had made their retreate. they perceiving the gentlewoman to be very beautifull (shee as yet not having any sight of them) and in such a silent place alone by her selfe: concluded together, to make a purchase of her, and carry her thence away with them; as indeed they did, notwithstanding all her out-cryes and exclaimes, bearing her perforce aboard their barque. setting sayle thence, they arrived in _calabria_, and then there grew a great contention betweene them, to which of them this booty of beauty should belong, because each of them pleaded a title to her. but when they could not grow to any agreement, but doubted greater disaster would ensue thereon, by breaking their former league of friendship: by an equall conformity in consent, they resolved, to bestow her as a rich present, on _frederigo_ king of _sicilie_, who was then young & joviall, and could not be pleased with a better gift; wherefore they were no sooner landed at _palermo_, but they did according as they had determined. the king did commend her beauty extraordinarily, and liked her farre beyond all his other loves: but, being at that time empaired in his health, and his body much distempered by ill dyet; he gave command, that untill he should be in more able disposition, shee must be kept in a goodly house of his owne, erected in a beautifull garden, called the _cube_, where shee was attended in most pompeous manner. now grew the noyse and rumor great in _ischia_, about this rape or stealing away of _restituta_; but the chiefest greevance of all, was, that it could not be knowne how, by whom, or by what meanes. but _guion di procida_, whom this injury concerned much more then any other; stood not in expectation of better tydings from _ischia_, but hearing what course the barke had taken, made ready another, to follow after with all possible speede. flying thus on the winged minds through the seas, even from _minerva_, unto the _scalea_ in _calabria_, searching for his lost love in every angle: at length it was tolde him at the _scalea_, that shee was carried away by certaine _sicillian_ marriners, to _palermo_, whither _guion_ set sayle immediately. after some diligent search made there, he understood, that she was delivered to the king, and he had given strict command, for keeping her in his place of pleasure; called the _cube_: which newes were not a little greevous to him, for now he was almost quite out of hope, not onely of ever enjoying her, but also of seeing her. neverthelesse, love would not let him utterly despaire, whereupon he sent away his barque, and perceiving himselfe to be unknowne of any; he continued for some time in _palermo_, walking many times by that goodly place of pleasure. it chanced on a day, that keeping his walke as he used to doe, fortune was so favourable to him, as to let him have a sight of her at her window; from whence also she had a full view of him, to their exceeding comfort and contentment. and _guion_ observing, that the _cube_ was seated in a place of small resort; approached so neere as possibly he durst, to have some conference with _restituta_. as love sets a keene edge on the dullest spirit, and (by a small advantage) makes a man the more adventurous: so this little time of unseene talke, inspired him with courage, and her with witty advice, by what meanes his accesse might be much neerer to her, and their communication concealed from any discovery, the scituation of the place, and benefit of time duly considered. night must be the cloud to their amorous conclusion, and therefore, so much thereof being spent, as was thought convenient, he returned thither againe, provided of such grappling-yrons, as is required when men will clamber, made fast unto his hands and knees; by their helpe he attained to the top of the wall, whence discending downe into the garden, there he found the maine yard of a ship, whereof before shee had given him instruction, and rearing it up against her chamber window, made that his meanes for ascending thereto, shee having left it open for his easier entrance. you cannot denie (faire ladies) but here was a very hopefull beginning, and likely to have as happy an ending, were it not true loves fatall misery, even in the very height of promised assurance, to be thwarted by unkind prevention, and in such manner as i will tell you. this night, intended for our lovers meeting, proved disastrous and dreadfull to them both: for the king, who at the first sight of _restituta_, was highly pleased with her excelling beauty; gave order to his eunuches and other women, that a costly bathe should be prepared for her, and therein to let her weare away that night, because the next day he intended to visit her. _restituta_ being royally conducted from her chamber to the bathe, attended on with torch-light, as if shee had been a queene: none remained there behind, but such women as waited on her, and the guards without, which watched the chamber. no sooner was poore _guion_ aloft at the window, calling softly to his mistresse, as if she had beene there; but he was over-heard by the women in the darke, and immediately apprehended by the guard, who forthwith brought him before the lord marshall, where being examined, and he avouching, that _restituta_ was his elected wife, and for her he had presumed in that manner; closely was he kept in prison till the next morning. when he came into the kings presence, and there boldly justified the goodnesse of his cause: _restituta_ likewise was sent for, who no sooner saw her deare love _guion_, but shee ran and caught him fast about the necke, kissing him in teares, and greeving not a little at his hard fortune. hereat the king grew exceedingly enraged, loathing and hating her now, much more then formerly he did affect her, and having himselfe seene, by what strange meanes he did climbe over the wall, and then mounted to her chamber window; he was extreamely impatient, and could not otherwise be perswaded, but that their meetings thus had beene very many. forthwith he sentenced them both with death, commanding, that they should be conveyed thence to _palermo_, and there (being stript starke naked) be bound to a stake backe to backe, and so to stand the full space of nine houres, to see if any could take knowledge, of whence, or what they were; then afterward, to be consumed with fire. the sentence of death, did not so much daunt or dismay the poore lovers, as the uncivill and unsightly manner, which (in feare of the kings wrathfull displeasure) no man durst presume to contradict. wherefore, as he had commanded, so were they carried thence to _palermo_, and bound naked to a stake in the open market place, and (before their eyes) the fire and wood brought, which was to consume them, according to the houre as the king had appointed. you need not make any question, what an huge concourse of people were soone assembled together, to behold such a sad and wofull spectacle, even the whole city of _palermo_, both men and women. the men were stricken with admiration, beholding the unequalled beauty of faire _restituta_, & the selfe same passion possessed the women, seeing _guion_ to be such a goodly and compleat young man: but the poore infortunate lovers themselves, they stood with their lookes dejected to the ground, being much pittied of all, but no way to be holpen or rescued by any, awaiting when the happy houre would come, to finish both their shame and lives together. during the time of this tragicall expectation, the fame of this publike execution being noysed abroade, calling all people farre and neere to behold it; it came to the eare of _don rogiero de oria_, a man of much admired valour, and then the lord high admirall of _sicily_, who came himselfe in person, to the place appointed for their death. first he observed the mayden, confessing her (in his soule) to be a beauty beyond all compare. then looking on the young man, thus he saide within himselfe: if the inward endowments of the mind, doe paralell the outward perfections of body; the world cannot yeeld a more compleate man. now, as good natures are quickly incited to compassion (especially in cases almost commanding it) and compassion knocking at the doore of the soule, doth quicken the memory with many passed recordations: so this noble admirall, advisedly beholding poore condemned _guion_, conceived, that he had somewhat seene him before this instant, and upon this perswasion (even as if divine vertue had tutured his tongue) he saide: is not thy name _guion di procida_? marke now, how quickly misery can receive comfort, upon so poore and silly a question; for _guion_ began to elevate his dejected countenance, and looking on the admirall, returned him this answere. sir, heretofore i have been the man which you spake of; but now, both that name and man must die with me. what misfortune (quoth the admirall) hath thus unkindly crost thee? love (answered _guion_) and the kings displeasure. then the admirall would needs know the whole history at large, which briefly was related to him, and having heard how all had happened; as he was turning his horse to ride away thence, _guion_ called to him, saying. good my lord, entreate one favour for me, if possible it may be. what is that? replyed the admirall. you see sir (quoth _guion_) that i am very shortly to breathe my last; all the grace which i doe most humbly entreate, is, that as i am here with this chaste virgin, (whom i honour and love beyond my life) and miserably bound backe to backe: our faces may be turned each to other, to the end, that when the fire shall finish my life, by looking on her, my soule may take her flight in full felicity. the admirall smyling, saide; i will doe for thee what i can, and (perhaps) thou mayest so long looke on her, as thou wilt be weary, and desire to looke off her. at his departure, he commanded them that had the charge of this execution, to proceede no further, untill they heard more from the king, to whom hee gallopped immediately, and although hee beheld him to be very angerly moved; yet he spared not to speake in this manner. sir, wherein have those poore young couple offended you, that are so shamefully to be burnt at _palermo_? the king told him: whereto the admirall (pursuing still his purpose) thus replyed. beleeve me sir, if true love be an offence, then theirs may be termed to be one; and albeit it did deserve death, yet farre be it from thee to inflict it on them: for as faults doe justly require punishment, so doe good turnes as equally merit grace and requitall. knowest thou what and who they are, whom thou hast so dishonourably condemned to the fire? not i, quoth the king. why then i will tell thee, answered the admirall, that thou mayest take the better knowledge of them, and forbeare hereafter, to be so over-violently transported with anger. the young gentleman, is the sonne to _landolfo di procida_, the onely brother to lord _john di procida_, by whose meanes thou becamest lord and king of this countrey. the faire young damosell, is the daughter to _marino bolgaro_, whose power extendeth so farre, as to preserve thy prerogative in _ischia_, which (but for him) had long since beene out-rooted there. beside, these two maine motives, to challenge justly grace and favour from thee; they are in the floure and pride of their youth, having long continued in loyall love together, and compelled by fervency of endeared affection, not any will to displease thy majesty: they have offended (if it may be termed an offence to love, and in such lovely young people as they are.) canst thou then find in thine heart to let them die, whom thou rather oughtest to honour, and recompence with no meane rewards? when the king had heard this, and beleeved for a certainty, that the admirall told him nothing but truth: he appointed not onely, that they should proceede no further, but also was exceeding sorrowfull for what he had done, sending presently to have them released from the stake, and honourably to be brought before him. being thus enstructed in their severall qualities, and standing in duty obliged, to recompence the wrong which he had done, with respective honours: he caused them to be cloathed in royall garments, and knowing them to be knit in unity of soule; the like he did by marrying them sollemnly together, and bestowing many rich gifts and presents on them, sent them honourably attented home to _ischia_; where they were with much joy and comfort received, and lived long after in great felicity. theodoro _falling in love with_ violenta, _the daughter to his master, named_ amarigo, _and shee conceiving with childe by him; was condemned to be hanged. as they were leading him to the gallowes, beating and misusing him all the way: he happened to be knowne by his owne father, whereupon hee was released, and afterward enjoyed_ violenta _in marriage._ the seventh novell. _wherein is declared, the sundry travelse and perillous accidents, occasioned by those two powerfull commanders, love and fortune, the insulting tyrants over humaine life._ greatly were the ladies minds perplexed, when they heard, that the two poore lovers were in danger to be burned: but hearing afterward of their happy deliverance, for which they were as joyfull againe; upon the concluding of the novell, the queene looked on madam _lauretta_, enjoyning her to tell the next tale, which willingly she undertooke to doe, and thus began. faire ladies, at such time as the good king _william_ reigned in _sicily_, there lived within the same dominions a young gentleman, named _signior amarigo_, abbot of _trapani_, who (among his other worldly blessings, commonly termed the goods of fortune) was not unfurnished of children; and therefore having neede of servants, he made his provision of them as best he might. at that time, certaine gallies of _geneway_ pyrates comming from the easterne parts, which coasting along _armenia_, had taken divers children; he bought some of them, thinking that they were turkes. they all resembling clownish peazants, yet there was one among them, who seemed to be of more tractable and gentle nature, yea, and of a more affable countenance then any of the rest, being named, _theodoro_: who growing on in yeeres, (albeit he lived in the condition of a servant) was educated among _amarigoes_ children, and as enstructed rather by nature, then accident, his conditions were very much commended, as also the feature of his body, which proved so highly pleasing to his master _amarigo_, that he made him a free man, and imagining him to be a turke, caused him to be baptized, and named _pedro_, creating him superintendent of all his affaires, and reposing his chiefest trust in him. as the other children of _signior amarigo_ grew in yeeres and stature, so did a daughter of his, named _violenta_, a very goodly and beautifull damosell, somewhat over-long kept from marriage by her fathers covetousnesse, and casting an eye of good liking on poore _pedro_. now, albeit shee loved him very dearely, and all his behaviour was most pleasing to her, yet maiden modesty forbad her to reveale it, till love (too long concealed) must needes disclose itselfe. which _pedro_ at the length tooke notice of, and grew so forward towards her in equality of affection, as the very sight of her was his onely happinesse. yet very fearefull he was, least it should be noted, either by any of the house, or the maiden her selfe: who yet well observed it, and to her no meane contentment, as it appeared no lesse (on the other side) to honest _pedro_. while thus they loved together meerely in dumbe shewes, not daring to speake to each other, (though nothing more desired) to find some ease in this their oppressing passions: fortune, even as if shee pittied their so long languishing, enstructed them how to find out a way, whereby they might both better releeve themselves. _signior amarigo_, about some two or three miles distance from _trapani_, had a countrey-house or farme, whereto his wife, with her daughter and some other women, used oftentimes to make their resort, as it were in sportfull recreation; _pedro_ alwayes being diligent to man them thither. one time among the rest, it came to passe, as often it falleth out in the summer season, that the faire skie became suddenly over-clouded, even as they were returning home towards _trapani_, threatning a storme of raine to overtake them, except they made the speedier haste. _pedro_, who was young, and likewise _violenta_, went farre more lightly then her mother and her company, as much perhaps provoked by love, as feare of the sudden raine falling, and paced on so fast before them, that they were wholly out of sight. after many flashes of lightning, and a few dreadfull clappes of thunder, there fell such a tempestuous shower of hayle, as compelled the mother and her traine to shelter themselves in a poore countrey-mans cottage. _pedro_ and _violenta_, having no other refuge, ranne likewise into a poore sheepe-coate, so over ruined, as it was in danger to fall on their heads; for no body dwelt in it, neither stood any other house neere it, and it was scarcely any shelter for them, howbeit, necessity enforceth to make shift with the meanest. the storme encreasing more & more, and they coveting to avoide it so well as they could; sighes and drie hemmes were often inter-vented, as dumbly (before) they were wont to doe, when willingly they could affoord another kind of speaking. at last _pedro_ tooke heart, and saide: i would this shower would never cease, that i might be alwayes where i am. the like could i wish, answered _violenta_, so we were in a better place of safety. these wishes drew on other gentle language, with modest kisses and embraces, the onely ease to poore lovers soules; so that the raine ceased not, till they had taken order for their oftner conversing, and absolute plighting of their faithes together. by this time the storme was fairely over-blowne, and they attending on the way, till the mother and the rest were come, with whom they returned to _trapani_, where by wise and provident meanes, they often conferred in private together, and enjoyed the benefit of their amorous desires; yet free from any ill surmise or suspition. but, as lovers felicities are sildome permanent, without one encountring crosse or other: so these stolne pleasures of _pedro_ and _violenta_, met with as sowre a sauce in the farewell. for, shee proved to be conceived with childe, then which could befall them no heavier affliction, and _pedro_ fearing to loose his life therefore, determined immediate flight, and revealed his purpose to _violenta_. which when she heard, she told him plainly, that if he fled, forth-with shee would kill her selfe. alas deare love (quoth _pedro_) with what reason can you wish my tarrying here? this conception of yours, doth discover our offence, which a fathers pity may easily pardon in you: but i being his servant and vassall, shall be punished both for your sinne and mine, because he will have no mercy on me. content thy selfe _pedro_, replyed _violenta_, i will take such order for mine owne offence, by the discreete counsell of my loving mother, that no blame shall any way be laide on thee, or so much as a surmise, except thou wilt fondly betray thy selfe. if you can doe so, answered _pedro_, and constantly maintaine your promise; i will not depart, but see that you prove to be so good as your word. _violenta_, who had concealed her amisse so long as shee could, and saw no other remedy, but now at last it must needes be discovered; went privately to her mother, and (in teares) revealed her infirmity, humbly craving her pardon, and furtherance in hiding it from her father. the mother being extraordinarily displeased, chiding her with many sharpe and angry speeches, would needes know with whom shee had thus offended. the daughter (to keepe _pedro_ from any detection) forged a tale of her owne braine, farre from any truth indeede, which her mother verily beleeving, and willing to preserve her daughter from shame, as also the fierce anger of her husband, he being a man of very implacable nature: conveyed her to the countrey-farme, whither _signior amarigo_ sildome or never resorted, intending (under the shadow of sicknesse) to let her lie in there, without the least suspition of any in _trapani_. sinne and shame can never be so closely carried, or clouded with the greatest cunning; but truth hath a loop-light whereby to discover it, even when it supposeth it selfe in the surest safety. for, on the very day of her deliverance, at such time as the mother, and some few friends (sworne to secrecy) were about the businesse: _signior amarigo_, having beene in company of other gentlemen, to flye his hawke at the river, upon a sudden, (but very unfortunately, albeit he was alone by himselfe) stept into his farme house, even to the next roome where the women were, and heard the new-borne babe to cry, whereat marvelling not a little, he called for his wife, to know what young childe cryed in his house. the mother, amazed at his so strange comming thither, which never before he had used to doe, and pittying the wofull distresse of her daughter, which now could be no longer covered, revealed what happened to _violenta_. but he, being nothing so rash in beliefe, as his wife was, made answere, that it was impossible for his daughter to be conceived with childe, because he never observed the least signe of love in her to any man whatsoever, and therefore he would be satisfied in the truth, as shee expected any favour from him, for elsee there was no other way but death. the mother laboured by all meanes shee could devise, to pacifie her husbands fury, which proved all in vaine; for being thus impatiently incensed, he drew foorth his sword, and stepping with it drawne into the chamber (where she had been delivered of a goodly sonne) he said unto her. either tell me who is the father of this bastard, or thou and it shall perish both together. poore _violenta_, lesse respecting her owne life, then she did the childes; forgot her sollemne promise made to _pedro_, and discovered all. which when _amarigo_ had heard, he grew so desperately enraged, that hardly he could forbeare from killing her. but after he had spoken what his fury enstructed him, hee mounted on horse-backe againe, ryding backe to _trapani_, where he disclosed the injury which _pedro_ had done him, to a noble gentleman, named _signior conrado_, who was captaine for the king over the city. before poore _pedro_ could have any intelligence, or so much as suspected any treachery against him; he was suddenly apprehended, and being called in question, stood not on any deniall, but confessed truly what he had done: whereupon, within some few dayes after, he was condemned by the captaine, to be whipt to the place of execution, and afterward to be hanged by the necke. _signior amarigo_, because he would cut off (at one and the same time) not onely the lives of the two poore lovers, but their childes also; as a franticke man, violently carried from all sense of compassion, even when _pedro_ was led and whipt to his death: he mingled strong poyson in a cup of wine, delivering it to a trusty servant of his owne, and a naked rapier withall, speaking to him in this manner. goe carry these two presents to my late daughter _violenta_, and tell her from me, that in this instant houre, two severall kinds of death are offered unto her, and one of them she must make choyce of, either to drinke the poyson, and so die, or to run her body on this rapiers point, which if she denie to doe, she shall be haled to the publike market place, and presently be burned in the sight of her lewd companion, according as shee hath worthily deserved. when thou hast delivered her this message, take her bastard brat, so lately since borne, and dash his braines out against the walles, and afterward throw him to my dogges to feede on. when the father had given this cruell sentence, both against his own daughter, and her young sonne, the servant, readier to doe evill, then any good, went to the place where his daughter was kept. poore condemned _pedro_, (as you have heard) was ledde whipt to the jybbet, and passing (as it pleased the captaines officers to guide him) by a faire inne: at the same time were lodged there three chiefe persons of _armenia_, whom the king of the countrey had sent to _rome_, as ambassadours to the popes holinesse, to negociate about an important businesse neerely concerning the king and state. reposing there for some few dayes, as being much wearied with their journey, and highly honoured by the gentlemen of _trapani_, especially _signior amarigo_; these ambassadours standing in their chamber window, heard the wofull lamentations of _pedro_ in his passage by. _pedro_ was naked from the middle upward, and his hands bound fast behind him, but being well observed by one of the ambassadours, a man aged, and of great authority, named _phineo_: he espied a great red spot uppon his breast, not painted, or procured by his punishment, but naturally imprinted in the flesh, which women (in these parts) terme the rose. uppon the sight hereof, he suddenly remembred a sonne of his owne, which was stolne from him about fifteene yeeres before, by pyrates on the sea-coast of _laiazzo_, never hearing any tydings of him afterward. upon further consideration, and compairing his sonnes age with the likelyhood of this poore wretched mans; thus he conferred with his owne thoughts. if my sonne (quoth he) be living, his age is equall to this mans time, and by the redde blemish on his brest, it plainely speakes him for to be my sonne. moreover, thus he conceived, that if it were he, he could not but remember his owne name, his fathers, and the armenian language; wherefore, when hee was just opposite before the window, hee called aloud to him, saying: _theodoro. pedro_ hearing the voyce, presently listed up his head, and _phineo_ speaking _armenian_, saide: of whence art thou, and what is thy fathers name? the sergeants (in reverence to the lord ambassadour) stayed a while, till _pedro_ had returned his answer, who saide. i am an _armenian_ borne, sonne to one _phineo_, and was brought hither i cannot tell by whom. _phineo_ hearing this, knew then assuredly, that this was the same sonne which he had lost; wherefore, the teares standing in his eyes with conceite of joy: downe he descended from the window, and the other ambassadours with him, running in among the sergeants to embrace his sonne, and casting his owne rich cloake about his whipt body, entreating them to forbeare and proceed no further, till they heard what command he should returne withall unto them; which very willingly they promised to doe. already, by the generall rumour dispersed abroade, _phineo_ had understood the occasion, why _pedro_ was thus punished, and sentenced to be hanged; wherefore, accompanied with his fellow ambassadours, and all their attending traine, he went to _signior conrado_, and spake thus to him. my lord, he whom you have sent to death as a slave, is a free gentleman borne, and my sonne, able to make her amends whom he hath dishonoured, by taking her in mariage as his lawfull wife. let me therefore entreate you, to make stay of the execution, untill it may be knowne, whether she will accept him as her husband, or no; least (if she be so pleased) you offend directly against your owne law. when _signior conrado_ heard, that _pedro_ was sonne to the lord ambassadour, he wondered thereat not a little, and being somewhat ashamed of his fortunes error, confessed, that the claime of _phineo_ was conformable to law, and ought not to be denied him; going presently to the councell chamber, sending for _signior amarigo_ immediately thither, and acquainting him fully with the case. _amarigo_, who beleeved that his daughter and her child were already dead, was the wofullest man in the world, for his so rash proceeding, knowing very well, that if shee were not dead, the scandall would easily be wipt away with credit. wherefore he sent in all poast haste, to the place where his daughter lay, that if his command were not already executed, by no meanes to have it done at all. he who went on this speedy errand, found there _signior amarigoes_ servant standing before _violenta_, with the cup of poyson in his one hand, and the drawne rapier in the other, reproaching herewith very foule and injurious speeches, because shee had delayed the time so long, and would not accept the one or other, striving (by violence) to make her take the one. but hearing his masters command to the contrary, he left her, and returned backe to him, certifying him how the case stood. most highly pleased was _amarigo_ with these glad newes, and going to the ambassadour _phineo_, in teares excused himselfe (so well as he could) for his severity, and craving pardon; assured him, that if _theodoro_ would accept his daughter in mariage, willingly he would bestow her on him. _phineo_ allowed his excuses to be tollerable, and saide beside; if my sonne will not mary your daughter, then let the sentence of death be executed on him. _amarigo_ and _phineo_ being thus accorded, they went to poore _theodoro_, fearefully looking every minute when he should die, yet joyfull that he had found his father, who presently moved the question to him. _theodoro_ hearing that _violenta_ should be his wife, if he would so accept her: was overcome with such exceeding joy, as if he had leapt out of hell into paradise; confessing, that no greater felicity could befall him, if _violenta_ her selfe were so well pleased as he. the like motion was made to her, to understand her disposition in this case, who hearing what good hap had befalne _theodoro_, and now in like manner must happen to her: whereas not long before, when two such violent deathes were prepared for her, and one of them she must needes embrace, shee accounted her misery beyond all other womens, but shee now thought her selfe above all in happinesse, if she might be wife to her beloved _theodoro_, submitting herselfe wholy to her fathers disposing. the mariage being agreed on betweene them, it was celebrated with great pompe and sollemnity, a generall feast being made for all the citizens, and the young maried couple nourished up their sweete son, which grew to be a very comely childe. after that the embassie was dispatched at _rome_, and _phineo_ (with the rest) was returned thither againe; _violenta_ did reverence him as her owne naturall father, and he was not a little proud of so lovely a daughter, beginning a fresh feasting againe, and continuing the same a whole moneth together. within some short while after, a galley being fairely furnished for the purpose, _phineo_, his sonne, daughter, and their young son went aboard, sayling away thence to _laiazzo_, where afterward they lived long in much tranquility. anastasio, _a gentleman of the family of the_ honesti, _by loving the daughter to_ signior paulo traversario, _lavishly wasted a great part of his substance, without receiving any love from her againe. by perswasion of some of his kindred and friends, he went to a countrey dwelling of his, called_ chiasso, _where he saw a knight desperately pursue a young damosell, whom he slew, and afterward gave her to be devoured by his hounds._ anastasio _invited his friends, and hers also whom he so dearely loved, to take part of a dinner with him, who likewise saw the same damosell so torne in peeces: which his unkind love perceiving, and fearing least the like ill fortune should happen to her; shee accepted_ anastasio _to be her husband._ the eighth novell. _declaring, that love not onely makes a man prodigall, but also an enemy to himselfe. moreover, adventure oftentimes bringeth such matters to passe, as wit and cunning in man can never comprehend._ so soone as madam _lauretta_ held her peace, madam _philomena_ (by the queenes command) began, and saide. lovely ladies, as pitty is most highly commended in our sexe, even so is cruelty in us as severely revenged (oftentimes) by divine ordination. which that you may the better know, and learne likewise to shun, as a deadly evill; i purpose to make apparant by a novell, no lesse full of compassion, then delectable. _ravenna_ being a very ancient city in _romania_, there dwelt sometime a great number of worthy gentlemen, among whom i am to speake of one more especially, named _anastasio_, descended from the family of the _honesti_, who by the death of his father, and an unkle of his, was left extraordinarily abounding in riches, and growing to yeeres fitting for mariage, (as young gallants are easily apt enough to doe) he became enamoured of a very beautifull gentlewoman, who was daughter to _signior paulo traversario_, one of the most ancient and noble families in all the countrey. nor made he any doubt, but by his meanes and industrious endeavour, to derive affection from her againe; for hee carried himselfe like a brave minded gentleman, liberall in his expences, honest and affable in all his actions, which commonly are the true notes of a good nature, and highly to be commended in any man. but, howsoever fortune became his enemy, these laudable parts of manhood did not any way friend him, but rather appeared hurtfull to him: so cruell, unkind, and almost meerely savage did she shew her selfe to him; perhaps in pride of her singular beauty, or presuming on her nobility by birth, both which are on her blemishes, then ornaments in a woman, especially when they be abused. the harsh and uncivill usage in her, grew very distastefull to _anastasio_, and so unsufferable, that after a long time of fruitlesse service, requited still with nothing but coy disdain; desperate resolutions entred into his brain, and often he was minded to kill himselfe. but better thoughts supplanting those furious passions, he abstained from any such violent act; & governed by more manly consideration, determined, that as she hated him, he would requite her with the like, if he could: wherein he became altogether deceived, because as his hopes grew to a dayly decaying, yet his love enlarged it selfe more and more. thus _anastasio_ persevering still in his bootelesse affection, and his expences not limited within any compasse; it appeared in the judgement of his kindred and friends, that he was falne into a mighty consumption, both of his body and meanes. in which respect, many times they advised him to leave the city of _ravenna_, and live in some other place for such a while; as might set a more moderate stint upon his spendings, and bridle the indiscreete course of his love, the onely fuell which fed this furious fire. _anastasio_ held out thus a long time, without lending an eare to such friendly counsell: but in the end, he was so neerely followed by them, as being no longer able to deny them, he promised to accomplish their request. whereupon, making such extraordinary preparation, as if he were to set thence for _france_ or _spaine_, or elsee into some further distant countrey: he mounted on horsebacke, and accompanied with some few of his familiar friends, departed from _ravenna_, and rode to a country dwelling house of his owne, about three or foure miles distant from the cittie, which was called _chiasso_, and there (upon a very goodly greene) erecting divers tents and pavillions, such as great persons make use of in the time of a progresse: he said to his friends, which came with him thither, that there hee determined to make his abiding, they all returning backe unto _ravenna_, and might come to visite him againe so often as they pleased. now, it came to passe, that about the beginning of may, it being then a very milde and serrene season, and he leading there a much more magnificent life, then ever he had done before, inviting divers to dine with him this day, and as many to morrow, and not to leave him till after supper: upon the sodaine, falling into remembrance of his cruell mistris, hee commanded all his servants to forbeare his company, and suffer him to walke alone by himselfe awhile, because he had occasion of private meditations, wherein he would not (by any meanes) be troubled. it was then about the ninth houre of the day, and he walking on solitary all alone, having gone some halfe miles distance from his tents, entred into a grove of pine-trees, never minding dinner time, or any thing elsee, but only the unkind requitall of his love. sodainly he heard the voice of a woman, seeming to make most mournfull complaints, which breaking of his silent considerations, made him to lift up his head, to know the reason of this noise. when he saw himselfe so farre entred into the grove, before he could imagine where he was; hee looked amazedly round about him, and out of a little thicket of bushes & briars, round engirt with spreading trees, hee espyed a young damosell come running towards him, naked from the middle upward, her haire dishevelled on her shoulders, and her faire skinne rent and torne with the briars and brambles, so that the blood ran trickling downe mainly; shee weeping, wringing her hands, and crying out for mercy so lowde as shee could. two fierce blood-hounds also followed swiftly after, and where their teeth tooke hold, did most cruelly bite her. last of all (mounted on a lusty blacke courser) came gallopping a knight, with a very sterne and angry countenance, holding a drawne short sword in his hand, giving her very vile and dreadfull speeches, and threatning everie minute to kill her. this strange and uncouth sight, bred in him no meane admiration, as also kinde compassion to the unfortunate woman; out of which compassion, sprung an earnest desire, to deliver her (if he could) from a death so full of anguish and horror: but seeing himselfe to be without armes, hee ran and pluckt up the plant of a tree, which handling as if it had beene a staffe, he opposed himselfe against the dogges and the knight, who seeing him comming, cryed out in this manner to him. _anastasio_, put not thy selfe in any opposition, but referre to my hounds and me, to punish this wicked woman as she hath justly deserved. and in speaking these words, the hounds tooke fast hold on her body, so staying her, untill the knight was come neerer to her, and alighted from his horse: when _anastasio_ (after some other angry speeches) spake thus unto him. i cannot tell what or who thou art, albeit thou takest such knowledge of me: yet i must say, that it is meere cowardize in a knight, being armed as thou art, to offer to kill a naked woman, and make thy dogges thus to seize on her, as if she were a savage beast; therefore beleeve me, i will defend her so farre as i am able. _anastasio_, answered the knight, i am of the same city as thou art, and do well remember, that thou wast a little ladde, when i (who was then named _guido anastasio_, and thine unckle) became as intirely in love with this woman, as now thou art of _paulo traversarioes_ daughter. but through her coy disdaine and cruelty, such was my heavy fate, that desperately i slew my selfe with this short sword which thou beholdest in mine hand: for which rash sinfull deede, i was and am condemned to eternall punishment. this wicked woman, rejoycing immeasurably in mine unhappie death, remained no long time alive after me, and for her mercilesse sinne of cruelty, and taking pleasure in my oppressing torments; dying unrepentant, and in pride of her scorne, she had the like sentence of condemnation pronounced on her, and sent to the same place where i was tormented. there the three impartiall judges, imposed this further infliction on us both; namely, that shee should flye in this manner before mee, and i (who loved her so deerely while i lived) must pursue her as my deadly enemy, not like a woman that had any taste of love in her. and so often as i can overtake her, i am to kill her with this sword, the same weapon wherewith i slew my selfe. then am i enjoyned, therewith to open her accursed body, and teare out her hard and frozen heart, with her other inwards, as now thou seest me doe, which i give unto my hounds to feede on. afterward, such is the appointment of the supreame powers, that she re-assumeth life againe, even as if she had not bene dead at all, and falling to the same kinde of flight, i with my houndes am still to follow her, without any respite or intermission. every friday, and just at this houre, our course is this way, where shee suffereth the just punishment inflicted on her. nor do we rest any of the other dayes, but are appointed unto other places, where she cruelly executed her malice against me, being now (of her dear affectionate friend) ordained to be her endlesse enemy, and to pursue her in this manner, for so many yeeres, as she exercised monthes of cruelty towards me. hinder me not then, in being the executioner of divine justice; for all thy interposition is but in vaine, in seeking to crosse the appointment of supreame powers. _anastasio_ having attentively heard all this discourse, his haire stoode upright like porcupines quils, and his soule was so shaken with the terror, that he stept back to suffer the knight to doe what he was enjoyned, looking yet with milde commiseration on the poore woman. who kneeling most humbly before the knight, & sternly seised on by the two blood hounds, he opened her brest with his weapon, drawing foorth her heart and bowelse, which instantly he threw to the dogges, and they devoured them very greedily. soone after, the damosell (as if none of this punishment had bene inflicted on her) started up sodainly, running amaine towards the sea shore, and the hounds swiftly following her, as the knight did the like, after he had taken his sword, and was mounted on horseback; so that _anastasio_ had soon lost all sight of them, and could not gesse what was become of them. after he had heard and observed all these things, he stoode awhile as confounded with feare and pitty, like a simple silly man, hoodwinkt with his owne passions, not knowing the subtle enemies cunning illusions, in offering false suggestions to the sight, to worke his owne ends thereby, & encrease the number of his deceived servants. forthwith hee perswaded himself, that he might make good use of this womans tormenting, so justly imposed on the knight to prosecute, if thus it should continue still every friday. wherefore, setting a good note or marke upon the place, hee returned backe to his owne people, and at such time as hee thought convenient, sent for divers of his kindred and friends from _ravenna_, who being present with him, thus hee spake to them. deare kinsmen and friends, ye have a long while importuned mee, to discontinue my over doating love to her, whom you all think, and i find to be my mortall enemy: as also, to give over my lavish expences, wherein i confesse my selfe too prodigal; both which requests of yours, i will condiscend to, provided, that you will performe one gracious favour for mee; namely, that on friday next, signior _paulo traversario_, his wife, daughter, with all other women linked in linage to them, and such beside onely as you shall please to appoynt, will vouchsafe to accept a dinner heere with mee; as for the reason thereto mooving mee, you shall then more at large be acquainted withall. this appeared no difficult matter for them to accomplish: wherefore, being returned to _ravenna_, and as they found the time answerable to their purpose, they invited such as _anastasio_ had appointed them. and although they found it somewhat an hard matter, to gain her company whom he so deerely affected; yet notwithstanding, the other women won her along with them. a most magnificent dinner had _anastasio_ provided, and the tables were covered under the pine-trees, where hee saw the cruell lady so pursued and slaine: directing the guests so in their seating, that the yong gentlewoman his unkinde mistresse, sate with her face opposite unto the place, where the dismall spectacle was to be seene. about the closing up of dinner, they beganne to heare the noise of the poore prosecuted woman, which drove them all to much admiration; desiring to know what it was, and no one resolving them, they arose from the tables, and looking directly as the noise came to them, they espied the wofull woman, the dogges eagerly pursuing her; and the armed knight on horseback, gallopping fiercely after them with his drawn weapon, and came very nere unto the company, who cryed out with lowd exclaimes against the dogs and the knight, stepping forth in assistance of the injuried woman. the knight spake unto them, as formerly hee had done to _anastasio_, (which made them draw backe, possessed with feare and admiration) acting the same cruelty as hee did the friday before, not differing in the least degree. most of the gentlewomen there present, being neere allyed to the unfortunate woman, and likewise to the knight, remembring well both his love and death, did shed teares as plentifully, as if it had bin to the very persons themselves, in visiall performance of the action indeede. which tragicall scene being passed over, and the woman and knight gone out of their sight: all that had seene this straunge accident, fell into diversity of confused opinions, yet not daring to disclose them, as doubting some further danger to ensue thereon. but beyond al the rest, none could compare in feare and astonishment with the cruell yong maide affected by _anastasio_, who both saw and observed all with a more inward apprehension, knowing very well, that the morall of this dismall spectacle, carried a much neerer application to her then any other in all the company. for now she could call to mind, how unkinde and cruell she had shewn her selfe to _anastasio_, even as the other gentlewoman formerly did to her lover, still flying from him in great contempt and scorne: for which, shee thought the blood-hounds also pursued her at the heeles already, and a sword of due vengeance to mangle her body. this feare grew so powerfull in her, that, to prevent the like heavy doome from falling on her; she studied (by all her best & commendable meanes, and therein bestowed all the night season) how to change her hatred into kinde love, which at the length shee fully obtayned, and then purposed to prosecute in this manner. secretly she sent a faithfull chamber-maide of her owne, to greete _anastasio_ on her behalfe; humbly entreating him to come see her: because now she was absolutely determined, to give him satisfaction in all which (with honour) he could request of her. whereto _anastasio_ answered, that he accepted her message thankfully, and desired no other favour at her hand, but that which stood with her owne offer, namely, to be his wife in honourable marriage. the maide knowing sufficiently, that hee could not be more desirous of the match, then her mistresse shewed her selfe to be, made answere in her name, that this motion would bee most welcome to her. heereupon, the gentlewoman her selfe, became the solicitour to her father and mother, telling them plainly, that she was willing to bee the wife of _anastasio_: which newes did so highly content them, that uppon the sunday next following, the mariage was very worthily sollemnized, and they lived and loved together very kindly. thus the divine bounty, out of the malignant enemies secret machinations, can cause good effects to arise and succeede. for, from this conceite of fearfull imagination in her, not onely happened this long desired conversion, of a maide so obstinately scornfull and proud: but likewise al the women of _ravenna_ (being admonished by her example) grew afterward more kinde and tractable to mens honest motions, then ever they shewed themselves before. and let me make some use hereof (faire ladies) to you, not to stand over-nicely conceited of your beauty and good parts, when men (growing enamored of you by them) solicite you with their best and humblest services. remember then this disdainfull gentlewoman, but more especially her, who being the death of so kinde a lover, was therefore condemned to perpetuall punishment, and hee made the minister thereof, whom she had cast off with coy disdaine, from which i wish your minds to be as free, as mine is ready to do you any acceptable service. frederigo, _of the_ alberighi _family, loved a gentlewoman, and was not requited with like love againe. by bountifull expences, and over liberall invitations, he wasted and consumed all his lands and goods, having nothing left him, but a hawke or faulcon. his unkinde mistresse happeneth to come visite him, and he not having any other foode for her dinner; made a daintie dish of his faulcone for her to feede on. being conquered by this his exceeding kinde courtesie, she changed her former hatred towardes him, accepting him as her husband in marriage, and made him a man of wealthy possessions._ the ninth novell. _wherein is figured to the life, the notable kindnesse and courtesie, of a true and constant lover: as also the magnanimous minde of a famous lady._ madame _philomena_ having finished her discourse, the queene perceiving, that her turne was the next, in regard of the priviledge granted to _dioneus_; with a smiling countenance thus she spake. now or never am i to maintaine the order which was instituted when we beganne this commendable exercise, whereto i yeeld with all humble obedience. and (worthy ladies) i am to acquaint you with a novell, in some sort answerable to the precedent, not onely to let you know, how powerfully your kindnesses do prevaile, in such as have a free and gentle soule: but also to advise you, in being bountifull, where vertue doth justly chalenge it. and evermore, let your favours shine on worthy deservers, without the direction of chaunce or fortune, who never bestoweth any gift by discretion; but rashly without consideration, even to the first she blindly meets withall. you are to understand then, that _coppo di borghese domenichi_, who was of our owne city, and perhaps (as yet) his name remaineth in great and reverend authority, now in these dayes of ours, as well deserving eternal memory; yet more for his vertues and commendable qualities, then any boast of nobility from his predecessors. this man, being well entred into yeares, and drawing towards the finishing of his dayes; it was his only delight and felicity, in conversation among his neighbours, to talke of matters concerning antiquity, and some other things within compasse of his owne knowledge: which he would deliver in such singular order, (having an absolute memory) and with the best language, as verie few or none could do the like. among the multiplicity of his queint discourses, i remember he told us, that sometime there lived in _florence_ a yong gentleman, named _frederigo_, sonne to signior _philippo alberigho_, who was held and reputed, both for armes, and all other actions beseeming a gentleman, hardly to have his equall through all _tuscany_. this _frederigo_ (as it is no rare matter in yong gentlemen) became enamored of a gentlewoman, named madam _giana_, who was esteemed (in her time) to be the fairest and most gracious lady in all _florence_. in which respect, and to reach the height of his desire, he made many sumptuous feasts and banquets, joustes, tiltes, tournaments, and all other noble actions of armes, beside, sending her infinite rich and costly presents, making spare of nothing, but lashing all out in lavish expence. notwithstanding, shee being no lesse honest then faire, made no reckoning of whatsoever he did for her sake, or the least respect of his owne person. so that _frederigo_, spending thus daily more, then his meanes and ability could maintaine, and no supplies any way redounding to him, or his faculties (as very easily they might) diminished in such sort, that he became so poore; as he had nothing left him, but a small poore farme to live upon, the silly revenewes whereof were so meane, as scarcely allowed him meat and drinke; yet had he a faire hawke or faulcon, hardly any where to be fellowed, so expeditious and sure she was of flight. his low ebbe and poverty, no way quailing his love to the lady, but rather setting a keener edge thereon; he saw the city life could no longer containe him, where most he coveted to abide: and therefore, betooke himselfe to his poore countrey farme, to let his faulcon get him his dinner and supper, patiently supporting his penurious estate, without suite or meanes making to one, for helpe or reliefe in any such necessity. while thus he continued in this extremity, it came to passe, that the husband to madam _giana_ fell sicke, and his debility of body being such, as little, or no hope of life remained: he made his last will and testament, ordaining thereby, that his sonne (already growne to indifferent stature) should be heire to all his lands and riches, wherein hee abounded very greatly. next unto him, if he chanced to die without a lawfull heire, hee substituted his wife, whom most dearely he affected, and so departed out of this life. madam _giana_ being thus left a widow; as commonly it is the custome of our city dames, during the summer season, shee went to a house of her owne in the countrey, which was somewhat neere to poore _frederigoes_ farme, and where he lived in such an honest kind of contented poverty. hereupon, the young gentleman her sonne, taking great delight in hounds and hawkes; grew into familiarity with poore _frederigo_, and having seene many faire flights of his faulcon, they pleased him so extraordinarily, that he earnestly desired to enjoy her as his owne; yet durst not move the motion for her, because he saw how choycely _frederigo_ esteemed her. within a short while after, the young gentleman, became very sicke, whereat his mother greeved exceedingly, (as having no more but he, and therefore loved him the more entirely) never parting from him either night or day, comforting him so kindly as shee could, and demanding, if he had a desire to any thing, willing him to reveale it, and assuring him withall, that (if it were within the compasse of possibility) he should have it. the youth hearing how many times shee had made him these offers, and with such vehement protestations of performance, at last thus spake. mother (quoth he) if you can doe so much for me, as that i may have _frederigoes_ faulcon, i am perswaded, that my sicknesse soone will cease. the lady hearing this, sate some short while musing to her selfe, and began to consider, what shee might best doe to compasse her sonnes desire: for well shee knew, how long a time _frederigo_ had most lovingly kept it, not suffering it ever to be out of his sight. moreover, shee remembred, how earnest in affection he had beene to her, never thinking himselfe happy, but onely when he was in her company; wherefore, shee entred into this private consultation with her owne thoughts. shall i send, or goe my selfe in person, to request the faulcon of him, it being the best that ever flew? it is his onely jewell of delight, and that taken from him, no longer can he wish to live in this world. how farre then voide of understanding shall i shew my selfe, to rob a gentleman of his sole felicity, having no other joy or comfort left him? these and the like considerations, wheeled about her troubled braine, onely in tender care and love to her sonne, perswading her selfe assuredly, that the faulcon were her own, if shee would but request it: yet not knowing whereon it were best to resolve, shee returned no answer to her sonne, but sate still in her silent meditations. at the length, love to the youth, so prevailed with her, that she concluded on his contentation, and (come of it what could) shee would not send for it; but goe her selfe in person to request it, and then returne home againe with it, whereupon thus she spake. sonne, comfort thy selfe, and let languishing thoughts no longer offend thee: for here i promise thee, that the first thing i doe to morrow morning, shall be my journey for the faulcon, and assure thy selfe, that i will bring it with me. whereat the youth was so joyed, that he imagined, his sicknesse began instantly a little to leave him, and promised him a speedy recovery. somewhat early the next morning, the lady, in care of her sicke sons health, was up and ready betimes, and taking another gentlewoman with her; onely as a mornings recreation, shee walked to _frederigoes_ poore countrey farme, knowing that it would not a little glad him to see her. at the time of her arrivall there, he was (by chance) in a silly garden, on the backe-side of his house, because (as yet) it was no convenient time for flight: but when he heard, that madam _giana_, was come thither, and desired to have some conference with him; as one almost confounded with admiration, in all haste he ran to her, and saluted her with most humble reverence. shee in all modest and gracious manner, requited him with the like salutations, thus speaking to him. _signior frederigo_, your owne best wishes befriend you, i am now come hither, to recompence some part of your passed travailes, which heretofore you pretended to suffer for my sake, when your love was more to me, then did well become you to offer, or my selfe to accept. and such is the nature of my recompence, that i make my selfe your guest, and meane this day to dine with you, as also this gentlewoman, making no doubt of our welcome: whereto, with lowly reverence, thus he replyed. madam, i doe not remember, that ever i sustained any losse or hinderance by you, but rather so much good, as if i was woorth any thing, it proceeded from your great deservings, and by the service in which i did stand engaged to you. but my present happinesse can no way bee equalled, derived from your super-abounding gracious favour, and more then common course of kindnesse, vouchsafing (of your owne liberal nature) to come and visit so poore a servant. oh that i had as much to spend againe, as heeretofore riotously i have run thorow: what a welcome wold your poore host bestow upon you, for gracing this homely house with your divine presence? with these wordes, hee conducted her into his house, and then into his simple garden, where having no convenient company for her, he saide. madam, the poverty of this place is such, that it affoordeth none fit for your conversation: this poore woman, wife to an honest husbandman will attend on you, while i (with some speede) shall make ready dinner. poore _frederigo_, although his necessity was extreame, and his greefe great, remembring his former inordinate expences, a moity whereof would now have stood him in some sted; yet hee had a heart as free and forward as ever, not a jotte dejected in his minde, though utterly overthrowne by fortune. alas! how was his good soule afflicted, that he had nothing wherewith to honour his lady? up and downe he runnes, one while this way, then againe another, exclaiming on his disastrous fate, like a man enraged, or bereft of senses: for he had not one peny of mony neither pawne or pledge, wherewith to procure any. the time hasted on, and he would gladly (though in meane measure) expresse his honourable respect of the lady. to begge of any, his nature denied it, and to borrow he could not, because his neighbours were all as needie as himselfe. at last, looking round about, and seeing his faulcon standing on her pearch, which he felt to be very plumpe and fat, being voide of all other helpes in his neede, and thinking her to be a fowle meete for so noble a lady to feede on: without any further demurring or delay, he pluckt off her necke, and caused the poore woman presently to pull her feathers: which being done, he put her on the spit, and in short time she was daintily roasted. himselfe covered the table, set bread and salt on, and laid the napkins, whereof he had but a few left him. going then with chearfull lookes into the garden, telling the lady that dinner was ready, and nothing now wanted, but her presence. shee, and the gentlewoman went in, and being seated at the table, not knowing what they fed on, the falcon was all their foode; and _frederigo_ not a little joyfull, that his credite was so well saved. when they were risen from the table, and had spent some small time in familiar conference: the lady thought it fitte, to acquaint him with the reason of her comming thither, and therefore (in very kinde manner) thus began. _frederigo_, if you do yet remember your former carriage towards me, as also my many modest and chaste denials, which (perhaps) you thought to favour of a harsh, cruell, and un-womanly nature: i make no doubt, but you will wonder at my present presumption, when you understande the occasion, which expressely mooved me to come hither. but if you were possessed of children, or ever had any, whereby you might comprehend what love (in nature) is due unto them: then i durst assure my self, that you would partly hold mee excused. now, in regard that you never had any, and i my selfe (for my part) have but onely one, i stand not exempted from those lawes, which are in common to other mothers. and being compelled to obey the power of those lawes; contrary to mine owne will, and those duties which reason ought to maintaine: i am to request such a gift of you, which i am certaine, that you do make most precious account of, as in manly equity you can do no lesse. for, fortune hath bin so extreamly adverse to you, that she hath robbed you of all other pleasures, allowing you no comfort or delight, but onely that poore one, which is your faire faulcone. of which bird, my sonne is become so straungely desirous, as, if i doe not bring it to him at my comming home; i feare so much the extreamity of his sicknesse, as nothing can ensue thereon, but his losse of life. wherefore i beseech you, not in regard of the love you have born me, for thereby you stand no way obliged: but in your owne true gentle nature (the which hath alwayes declared it selfe ready in you, to do more kinde offices generally, then any other gentleman that i know) you will be pleased to give her me, or at the least, let me buy her of you. which if you do, i shall freely then confesse, that onely by your meanes, my sonnes life is saved, and wee both shall for ever remaine engaged to you. when _frederigo_ had heard the ladies request, which was now quite out of his power to graunt, because it had bene her service at dinner: he stood like a man meerely dulled in his sences, the teares trickling amaine downe his cheekes: and he not able to utter one word. which shee perceiving, began to conjecture immediately, that these teares and passions proceeded rather from greefe of minde, as being loather to part with his faulcon, then any other kinde of matter: which made her readie to say, that she would not have it. neverthelesse shee did not speake, but rather tarried to attend his answer. which, after some small respite and pawse, he returned in this manner. madame, since the houre, when first mine affection became soly devoted to your service; fortune hath bene crosse and contrary to mee, in many occasions, as justly, and in good reason i may complain of her. yet all seemed light and easie to be indured, in comparison of her present malicious contradiction, to my utter overthrow, and perpetuall molestation. considering, that you are come hither to my poore house, which (while i was rich and able) you would not so much as vouchsafe to look on. and now you have requested a small matter of mee, wherein shee hath also most crookedly thwarted me, because she hath disabled mee, in bestowing so meane a gift, as your selfe will confesse, when it shall be related to you in very few words. so soone as i heard, that it was your gracious pleasure to dine with me, having regard to your excellency, and what (by merit) is justly due unto you: i thought it a part of my bounden dutie, to entertaine you with such exquisite viands, as my poore power could any way compas, and farre beyond respect or welcome, to other common and ordinarie persons. whereupon, remembring my faulcon, which nowe you aske for; and her goodnesse, excelling all other of her kinde; i supposed, that she would make a dainty dish for your dyet, and having drest hir, so well as i could devise to do: you have fed hartily on her, and i am proud that i have so well bestowne her. but perceiving now, that you would have her for your sicke sonne; it is no meane affliction to mee, that i am disabled of yeelding you contentment, which all my lifetime i have desired to doe. to approve his words, the feathers, feete, and beake were brought in, which when she saw, she greatly blamed him for killing so rare a falcon, to content the appetite of any woman whatsoever. yet she commended his height of spirit, which poverty had no power to abase. lastly, her hopes being frustrate for enjoying the faulcon, and fearing besides the health of her sonne: she thanked _frederigo_ for his honourable kindnesse, returning home againe sad and melancholly. shortly after, her sonne either greeving that he could not have the faulcone, or by extreamity of his disease, chanced to dye, leaving his mother a most wofull lady. after so much time was expired, as conveniently might agree with sorrow and mourning; her brethren made many motions to her, to joyne her selfe in marriage againe, because she was extraordinarily rich, and as yet but yong in yeares. now, although she was well contented never to be married any more; yet being continually importuned by them, and remembring the honourable honesty of _frederigo_, his last poore, yet magnificent dinner, in killing his faulcone for her sake, shee saide to her brethren. this kinde of widdowed estate doth like me so well, as willingly i would never leave it: but seeing you are so earnest for my second marriage, let me plainly tell you, that i will never accept of any other husband, but onely _frederigo di alberino_. her brethren in scornfull manner reprooved her, telling her, that hee was a begger, and had nothing left to keepe him in the world. i knowe it well (quoth she) and am heartily sorry for it. but give me a man that hath neede of wealth, rather then wealth that hath neede of a man. the brethren hearing how shee stoode addicted, and knowing _frederigo_ to bee a worthy gentleman, though poverty had disgraced him in the worlde: consented thereto, so she bestowed her selfe and her riches on him. he on the other side, having so noble a lady to his wife, and the same whome he had so long and deerely loved: submitted all his fairest fortunes unto her, became a better husband (for the world) then before, and they lived and loved together in equall joy and happinesse. pedro di vinciolo _went to sup at a friends house in the city. his wife (in the meane while) had a young man (whom shee loved) at supper with her._ pedro _returning whom upon a sudden, the young man was hidden under a coope for hennes._ pedro, _in excuse of his so soone comming home, declareth, how in the house of_ herculano _(with whom he should have supt) a friend of his wives was found, which was the reason of the suppers breaking off._ pedroes _wife reproving the error of_ herculanoes _wife; an asse (by chance) treads on the young mans fingers, that lay hidden under the hen-coope. uppon his crying out,_ pedro _steppeth thither, sees him, knowes him, and findeth the fallacy of his wife: with whom (neverthelesse) he groweth to agreement, in regard of some imperfections in himselfe._ the tenth novell. _reprehending the cunning shifts, of light headed and immodest women, who, by abusing themselves, doe throw evill aspersions on all the sexe._ the queenes novell being ended, and all the company applauding the happy fortune of _frederigo_, as also the noble nature of madam _giana: dioneus_, who never expected any command, prepairing to deliver his discourse, began in this manner. i know not, whether i should terme it a vice accidental, and ensuing through the badnesse of complexions uppon us mortals; or elsee an error in nature, to joy and smile rather at lewd accidents, then at deeds that justly deserve commendation, especially, when they doe not any way concerne our selves. now, in regard that all the paines i have hitherto taken, and am also to undergoe at this present, aymeth at no other end, but onely to purge your mindes of melancholly, and entertaine the time with mirthful matter: pardon me i pray you (faire ladies) if my tale trip in some part, and favour a little of immodesty; yet in hearing it, you may observe the same course, as you doe in pleasing and delightfull gardens, plucke a sweete rose, and yet preserve your fingers from pricking. which very easily you may doe, wincking at the imperfections of a foolish man, and smiling at the amorous subtilties of his wife, compassionating the misfortune of others, where urgent necessity doth require it. there dwelt (not long since) in _perugia_, a wealthy man, named _pedro di vinciolo_, who (perhaps) more to deceive some other, and restraine an evill opinion, which the _perugians_ had conceived of him, in matter no way beseeming a man, then any beauty or good feature remaining in the woman, entred into the estate of marriage. and fortune was so conforme to him in his election, that the woman whom he had made his wife, had a young, lusty, and well enabled body, a red hairde wench, hot and fiery spirited, standing more in neede of three husbands, then he, who could not any way well content one wife, because his minde ran more on his money, then those offices and duties belonging to wed-lock, which time acquainting his wife withall, contrary to her owne expectation, and those delights which the estate of marriage afforded, knowing her selfe also to be of a sprightly disposition, and not to be easily tamed by houshold cares and attendances; shee waxed weary of her husbands unkind courses, upbraided him daily with harsh speeches, making his owne home meerely as a hell to him. when shee saw that this domesticke disquietnesse returned her no benefit, but rather tended to her owne consumption, then any amendment in her miserable husband; shee began thus to conferre with her private thoughts. this husband of mine liveth with me, as if he were no husband, or i his wife; the marriage bed, which should be a comfort to us both, seemeth hatefull to him, and as little pleasing to me, because his minde is on his money, his head busied with worldly cogitations, and early and late in his counting-house, admitting no familiar conversation with me. why should not i be as respectlesse of him, as he declares himselfe to be of me? i tooke him for an husband, brought him a good and sufficient dowry, thinking him to be a man, and affected a woman as a man ought to doe, elsee he had never beene any husband of mine. if he be a woman hater, why did he make choyce of me to be his wife? if i had not intended to be of the world, i could have coopt my selfe up in a cloyster, and shorne my selfe a nunne, but that i was not borne to such severity of life. my youth shall be blasted with age, before i can truly understand what youth is, and i shall be branded with the disgracefull word barrennesse, knowing my selfe meete and able to be a mother, were my husband but worthy the name of a father, or expected issue and posterity, to leave our memoriall to after times in our race, as all our predecessours formerly have done, and for which mariage was chiefly instituted. castles long besieged, doe yeeld at the last, and women wronged by their owne husbands, can hardly warrant their owne frailty, especially living among so many temptations, which flesh and bloud are not alwayes able to resist. well, i meane to be advised in this case, before i will hazard my honest reputation, either to suspition or scandall, then which, no woman can have two heavier enemies, and very few there are that can escape them. having thus a long while consulted with her selfe, and (perhaps) oftner then twice or thrice; shee became secretly acquainted with an aged woman, generally reputed to be more then halfe a saint, walking alwayes very demurely in the streetes, counting (over and over) her _pater nosters_, and all the cities holy pardons hanging at her girdle, never talking of any thing, but the lives of the holy fathers, or the wounds of saint _frances_, all the world admiring her sanctity of life, even as if shee were divinely inspired: this she saint must be our distressed womans councellour, and having found out a convenient season, at large she imparted all her mind to her, in some such manner as formerly you have heard, whereto shee returned this answere. now trust me daughter, thy case is to be pittied, and so much the rather, because thou art in the floure and spring time of thy youth, when not a minute of time is to be left: for there is no greater an error in this life, then the losse of time, because it cannot be recovered againe; and when the fiends themselves affright us, yet if we keepe our embers still covered with warme ashes on the hearth, they have nor any power to hurt us. if any one can truly speake thereof, then i am able to deliver true testimony; for i know, but not without much perturbation of minde, and piercing afflictions in the spirit; how much time i lost without any profit. and yet i lost not all, for i would not have thee thinke me to be so foolish, that i did altogether neglect such an especiall benefit; which when i call to minde, and consider now in what condition i am, thou must imagine, it is no small hearts griefe to me, that age should make me utterly despised, and no fire afforded to light my tinder. with men it is not so, they are borne apt for a thousand occasions, as well for the present purpose we talke of, as infinite other beside; yea, and many of them are more esteemed being aged, then when they were yong. but women serve onely for mens contentation, and to bring children, and therefore are they generally beloved, which if they faile of, either it is by unfortunate marriage, or some imperfection depending on nature, not through want of good will in themselves. we have nothing in this world but what is given us, in which regard, we are to make use of our time, and employ it the better while we have it. for, when we grow to be old, our husbands, yea, our very dearest and nearest friends, will scarcely looke on us. we are then fit for nothing, but to sit by the fire in the kitchin, telling tales to the cat, or counting the pots and pannes on the shelves. nay, which is worse, rimes and songs is made of us, even in meere contempt of our age, and commendation of such as are young, the daintiest morselse are fittest for them, and we referred to feed on the scrappes from their trenchers, or such reversion as they can spare us. i tell thee daughter, thou couldst not make choyce of a meeter woman in all the city, to whom thou mightest safely open thy minde, and knowes better to advise thee then i doe. but remember withall, that i am poore, and it is your part not to suffer poverty to be unsupplyed. i will make thee partaker of all these blessed pardons, at every altar i will say a _pater noster_, and an _ave maria_, that thou maist prosper in thy hearts desires, and be defended from foule sinne and shame, and so shee ended her motherly counsell. within a while after, it came to passe, that her husband was invited foorth to supper, with one named _herculano_, a kind friend of his, but his wife refused to goe, because shee had appointed a friend to supper with her, to whom the old woman was employed as her messenger, and was well recompenced for her labour. this friend was a gallant proper youth, as any all _perugia_ yeelded, and scarcely was he seated at the table, but her husband was returned backe, and called to be let in at the doore. which when shee perceived, shee was almost halfe dead with feare, and coveting to hide the young man, that her husband should not have any sight of him, shee had no other meanes, but in an entry, hard by the parlour where they purposed to have supt, stood a coope or hen-pen, wherein she used to keepe her pullen, under which he crept, and then shee covered it with an old empty sacke, and after ran to let her husband come in. when he was entred into the house; as halfe offended at his so sudden returne, angerly she saide: it seemes sir you are a shaver at your meate, that you have made so short a supper. in troth wife (quoth he) i have not supt at all, no, not so much as eaten one bit. how hapned that? said the woman. mary wife (quoth he) i will tell you, and then thus he began. as _herculano_, his wife, and i were sitting downe at the table, very neere unto us we heard one sneeze, whereof at the first we made no reckoning, untill we heard it againe the second time, yea, a third, fourth, and fifth, and many more after, whereat we were not a little amazed. now wife i must tell you, before we entred the roome where we were to sup, _herculanoes_ wife kept the doore fast shut against us, and would not let us enter in an indifferent while; which made him then somewhat offended, but now much more, when he had heard one to sneeze so often. demanding of her a reason for it, and who it was that thus sneezed in his house: he started from the table, and stepping to a little doore neere the staires head, necessarily there made, to set such things in, as otherwise would be troublesome to the roome, (as in all houses we commonly see the like) he perceived, that the party was hidden there, which wee had heard so often to sneeze before. no sooner had he opened the doore, but such a smell of brimston came foorth (whereof we felt not the least savour before) as made us likewise to cough and sneeze, being no way able to refraine it. she seeing her husband to be much moved, excused the matter thus, that (but a little while before) shee had whited certaine linnen with the smoake of brimstone, as it is an usuall thing to doe, and then set the pan into that spare place, because it should not be offensive to us. by this time, _herculano_ had espied him that sneezed, who being almost stifled with the smell, and closenesse of the small roome wherein he lay, had not any power to helpe himselfe, but still continued coughing and sneezing, even as if his heart would have split in twaine. foorth he pluckt him by the heeles, and perceiving how matters had past, he saide to her. i thanke you wife, now i see the reason, why you kept us so long from comming into this roome, let me die, if i beare this wrong at your hands. when his wife heard these words, and saw the discovery of her shame; without returning either excuse or answere, foorth of doores she ran, but whither, we know not. _herculano_ drew his dagger, and would have slaine him that still lay sneezing; but i disswaded him from it, as well in respect of his, as also mine owne danger, when the law should censure on the deede. and after the young man was indifferently recovered; by the perswasion of some neighbours comming in: he was closely conveyed out of the house, and all the noyse quietly pacified. onely (by this meanes, and the flight of _herculanoes_ wife) we were disappointed of our supper; and now you know the reason of my so soone returning. when she had heard this whole discourse, then she perceived, that other women were subject to the like infirmity, and as wise for themselves, as shee could be, though these and the like sinister accidents might sometimes crosse them, and gladly she wished, that _herculanoes_ wifes excuse, might now serve to acquite her: but because in blaming others errors, our owne may sometime chance to escape discovery, and cleare us, albeit we are as guilty; in a sharpe reprehending manner, thus she began. see husband, here is hansome behaviour, of an holy faire seeming, and saint-like woman, to whom i durst have confest my sinnes, i conceived such a religious perswasion of her lives integrity, free from the least scruple of taxation. a woman, so farre stept into yeeres, as shee is, to give such an evill example to other younger women, is it not a sinne beyond all sufferance? accursed be the houre, when she was borne into this world, and her selfe likewise, to be so lewdly and incontinently given; an universall shame and slaunder, to all the good women of our city. shall i terme her a woman, or rather some savage monster in a womans shape? hath shee not made am open prostitution of her honesty, broken her plighted faith to her husband, and all the womanly reputation shee had in this world? her husband, being an honourable citizen, entreating her alwayes, as few men elsee in the city doe their wives; what an heart-breake must this needes be to him, good man? neither i, nor any honest man elsee, ought to have any pity on her; but (with our owne hands) teare her in peeces, or dragge her along to a good fire in the market place, wherein she and her minion should be consumed together, and their base ashes dispersed abroade in the winde, least the pure aire should be infected with them. then, remembring her owne case, and her poore affrighted friend, who lay in such distresse under the hen-coope; shee began to advise her husband, that he would be pleased to goe to bed, because the night passed on apace. but _pedro_, having a better will to eate, then to sleepe, desired her to let him have some meate, else hee must goe to bed with an empty bellie; whereto shee answered. why husband (quoth shee) do i make any large provision, when i am debard of your company? i would i were the wife of _herculano_, seeing you cannot content your selfe from one nights feeding, considering, it is now over-late to make any thing ready. it fortuned, that certaine husbandmen, which had the charge of _pedroes_ farme house in the countrey, and there followed his affaires of husbandry, were returned home this instant night, having their asses laden with such provision, as was to be used in his city-house. when the asses were unladen, and set up in a small stable, without watering; one of them being (belike) more thirsty then the rest, brake loose, and wandering all about smelling to seeke water, happened into the entry, where the young man lay hidden under the hen-pen. now, he being constrained (like a carpe) to lie flat on his belly, because the coope was over-weighty for him to carry, and one of his hands more extended forth, then was requisite for him in so urgent a shift: it was his hap (or ill fortune rather) that the asse set his foote on the young mans fingers, treading so hard, and the paine being very irkesome to him, as he was enforced to cry out aloude, which _pedro_ hearing, he wondered thereat not a little. knowing that this cry was in his house, he tooke the candle in his hand, and going foorth of the parlour, heard the cry to be louder and louder; because the asse removed not his foote, but rather trod the more firmely on his hand. comming to the coope, driving thence the asse, and taking off the old sacke, he espyed the young man, who, beside the painfull anguish he felt of his fingers, arose up trembling, as fearing some outrage beside to be offered him by _pedro_, who knew the youth perfectly, and demanded of him, how he came thither. no answer did he make to that question, but humbly entreated (for charities sake) that he would not doe him any harme. feare not (quoth _pedro_) i will not offer thee any violence: onely tel me how thou camest hither, and for what occasion; wherein the youth fully resolved him. _pedro_ being no lesse joyfull for thus finding him, then his wife was sorrowfull, tooke him by the hand, and brought him into the parlour, where shee sate trembling and quaking, as not knowing what to say in this distresse. seating himselfe directly before her, and holding the youth still fast by the hand, thus he began. oh wife! what bitter speeches did you use (even now) against the wife of _herculano_, maintaining that shee had shamed all other women, and justly deserved to be burned? why did you not say as much of your selfe? or, if you had not the heart to speake it, how could you be so cruell against her, knowing your offence as great as hers? questionlesse, nothing else urged you thereto, but that all women are of one and the same condition, covering their owne grosse faults by farre inferiour infirmities in others. you are a perverse generation, meerely false in your fairest shewes. when she saw that he offered her no other violence, but gave her such vaunting and reproachfull speeches, holding still the young man before her face, meerely to vexe and despight her: shee began to take heart, and thus replied. doest thou compare me with the wife of _herculano_, who is an olde, dissembling hypocrite? yet she can have of him whatsoever she desireth, and he useth her as a woman ought to be, which favour i could never yet find at thy hands. put the case, that thou keepest me in good garments, allowing me to goe neatly hosed and shod; yet well thou knowest, there are other meete matters belonging to a woman, and every way as necessarily required, both for the preservation of houshold quietnesse, and those other rites betweene a husband and wife. let me be worser garmented, courser dieted, yea, debarred of all pleasure and delights; so i might once be worthy the name of a mother, and leave some remembrance of woman-hood behind me. i tell thee plainly _pedro_, i am a woman as others are, and subject to the same desires, as (by nature) attendeth on flesh and bloud: look how thou failest in kindnesse towards me, thinke it not amisse, if i doe the like to thee, and endeavour thou to win the worthy title of a father, because i was made to be a mother. when _pedro_ perceived, that his wife had spoken nothing but reason, in regard of his over-much neglect towards her, and not using such houshold kindnesse, as ought to be between man and wife, he returned her this answer. well wife (quoth he) i confesse my fault, and hereafter will labour to amend it; conditionally, that this youth, nor any other, may no more visite my house in mine absence. get me therefore something to eate, for doubtlesse, this young man and thy selfe fell short of your supper, by reason of my so soone returning home. in troth husband, saide shee, we did not eate one bit of anything, and i will be a true and loyall wife to thee, so thou wilt be the like to me. no more words then wife, replyed _pedro_, all is forgotten and forgiven, let us to supper, and we are all friends. she seeing his anger was so well appeased, lovingly kissed him, and laying the cloth, set on the supper, which shee had provided for her selfe & the youth, and so they supt together merrily, not one unkind word passing betweene them. after supper, the youth was sent away in friendly manner, and _pedro_ was alwayes afterward more loving to his wife, then formerly he had been, and no complaint passed on either side, but mutuall joy and houshold contentment, such as ought to be betweene man and wife. _dioneus_ having ended his tale, for which the ladies returned him no thankes, but rather angerly frowned on him: the queene, knowing that her government was now concluded, arose, and taking off her crowne of lawrell, placed it graciously on the head of madam _eliza_, saying. now madam, it is your turne to command. _eliza_ having received the honour, did (in all respects) as others formerly had done, and after she had enstructed the master of the houshold, concerning his charge during the time of her regiment, for contentation of all the company; thus she spake. we have long since heard, that with witty words, ready answers, and sudden jests or taunts, many have checkt & reproved great folly in others, and to their owne no meane commendation. now, because it is a pleasing kind of argument, ministring occasion of mirth and wit: my desire is, that all our discourse to morrow shall tend thereto. i meane of such persons, either men or women, who with some sudden witty answer, have encountred a scorner in his owne intention, and layed the blame where it justly belonged. every one commended the queenes appointment, because it savoured of good wit and judgement; and the queene being risen, they were all discharged till supper time, falling to such severall exercises as themselves best fancyed. when supper was ended, and the instruments layed before them; by the queenes consent, madam _æmillia_ undertooke the daunce, and the song was appointed to _dioneus_, who began many, but none that proved to any liking, they were so palpably obscene and idle, savouring altogether of his owne wanton disposition. at the length, the queene looking stearnely on him, and commanding him to sing a good one, or none at all; thus he began. _the song. eyes, can ye not refraine your hourely weeping? eares, how are you deprivde of sweete attention? thoughts, have you lost your quiet silent sleeping? wit, who hath robde thee of thy rare invention? the lacke of these, being life and motion giving: are sencelesse shapes, and no true signes of living. eyes, when you gazde upon her angell beauty; eares, while you heard her sweete delicious straines, thoughts (sleeping then) did yet performe their duty, wit, then tooke sprightly pleasure in his paines. while shee did live, then none of these were scanting, but now (being dead) they all are gone and wanting._ after that _dioneus_ (by proceeding no further) declared the finishing of his song; many more were sung beside, and that of _dioneus_ highly commended. some part of the night being spent in other delightfull exercises, and a fitting houre for rest drawing on: they betooke themselves to their chambers, where we will leave them till to morrow morning. _the end of the fifth day._ finis. [transcriber's note: the original text does not observe the normal convention of placing quotation marks at the beginnings of paragraphs within a multiple-paragraph quotation. this idiosyncrasy has been preserved in this e-text. archaic spellings have been preserved, but obvious printer errors have been corrected. in the untranslated italian passage in day 3, story 10, the original is missing the accents, which have been added using an italian edition of _decameron_ (milan: mursia, 1977) as a guide. john payne's translation of _the decameron_ was originally published in a private printing for the villon society, london, 1886. the american edition from which this e-text was prepared is undated.] _the_ _decameron_ _of_ _giovanni boccaccio_ _translated by_ _john payne_ [illustration] walter j. black, inc. 171 madison avenue new york, n.y. printed in the united states of america _contents_ proem. day the first 1 the first story. _master ciappelletto dupeth a holy friar with a false confession and dieth; and having been in his lifetime the worst of men, he is, after his death, reputed a saint and called saint ciappelletto_ 16 the second story. _abraham the jew, at the instigation of jehannot de chevigné, goeth to the court of rome and seeing the depravity of the clergy, returneth to paris and there becometh a christian_ 25 the third story. _melchizedek the jew, with a story of three rings, escapeth a parlous snare set for him by saladin_ 28 the fourth story. _a monk, having fallen into a sin deserving of very grievous punishment, adroitly reproaching the same fault to his abbot, quitteth himself of the penalty_ 30 the fifth story. _the marchioness of monferrato, with a dinner of hens and certain sprightly words, curbeth the extravagant passion of the king of france_ 33 the sixth story. _an honest man, with a chance pleasantry, putteth to shame the perverse hypocrisy of the religious orders_ 35 the seventh story. _bergamino, with a story of primasso and the abbot of cluny, courteously rebuketh a fit of parsimony newly come to messer cane della scala_ 37 the eighth story. _guglielmo borsiere with some quaint words rebuketh the niggardliness of messer ermino de' grimaldi_ 40 the ninth story. _the king of cyprus, touched to the quick by a gascon lady, from a mean-spirited prince becometh a man of worth and valiance_ 42 the tenth story. _master alberto of bologna civilly putteth a lady to the blush who thought to have shamed him of being enamoured of her_ 43 day the second 48 the first story. _martellino feigneth himself a cripple and maketh believe to wax whole upon the body of st. arrigo. his imposture being discovered, he is beaten and being after taken [for a thief,] goeth in peril of being hanged by the neck, but ultimately escapeth_ 49 the second story. _rinaldo d'asti, having been robbed, maketh his way to castel guglielmo, where he is hospitably entertained by a widow lady and having made good his loss, returneth to his own house, safe and sound_ 52 the third story. _three young men squander their substance and become poor; but a nephew of theirs, returning home in desperation, falleth in with an abbot and findeth him to be the king's daughter of england, who taketh him to husband and maketh good all his uncles' losses, restoring them to good estate_ 57 the fourth story. _landolfo ruffolo, grown poor, turneth corsair and being taken by the genoese, is wrecked at sea, but saveth himself upon a coffer full of jewels of price and being entertained in corfu by a woman, returneth home rich_ 63 the fifth story. _andreuccio of perugia, coming to naples to buy horses, is in one night overtaken with three grievous accidents, but escapeth them all and returneth home with a ruby_ 66 the sixth story. _madam beritola, having lost her two sons, is found on a desert island with two kids and goeth thence into lunigiana, where one of her sons, taking service with the lord of the country, lieth with his daughter and is cast into prison. sicily after rebelling against king charles and the youth being recognized by his mother, he espouseth his lord's daughter, and his brother being likewise found, they are all three restored to high estate_ 75 the seventh story. _the soldan of babylon sendeth a daughter of his to be married to the king of algarve, and she, by divers chances, in the space of four years cometh to the hands of nine men in various places. ultimately, being restored to her father for a maid, she goeth to the king of algarve to wife, as first she did_ 85 the eighth story. _the count of antwerp, being falsely accused, goeth into exile and leaveth his two children in different places in england, whither, after awhile, returning in disguise and finding them in good case, he taketh service as a horseboy in the service of the king of france and being approved innocent, is restored to his former estate_ 100 the ninth story. _bernabo of genoa, duped by ambrogiuolo, loseth his good and commandeth that his innocent wife be put to death. she escapeth and serveth the soldan in a man's habit. here she lighteth upon the deceiver of her husband and bringeth the latter to alexandria, where, her traducer being punished, she resumeth woman's apparel and returneth to genoa with her husband, rich_ 111 the tenth story. _paganino of monaco stealeth away the wife of messer ricciardo di chinzica, who, learning where she is, goeth thither and making friends with paganino, demandeth her again of him. the latter concedeth her to him, an she will; but she refuseth to return with him and messer ricciardo dying, she becometh the wife of paganino_ 120 day the third 127 the first story. _masetto of lamporecchio feigneth himself dumb and becometh gardener to a convent of women, who all flock to lie with him_ 129 the second story. _a horsekeeper lieth with the wife of king agilulf, who, becoming aware thereof, without word said, findeth him out and polleth him; but the polled man polleth all his fellows on like wise and so escapeth ill hap_ 134 the third story. _under colour of confession and of exceeding niceness of conscience, a lady, being enamoured of a young man, bringeth a grave friar, without his misdoubting him thereof, to afford a means of giving entire effect to her pleasure_ 137 the fourth story. _dom felice teacheth fra puccio how he may become beatified by performing a certain penance of his fashion, which the other doth, and dom felice meanwhile leadeth a merry life of it with the good man's wife_ 143 the fifth story. _ricciardo, surnamed il zima, giveth messer francesco vergellesi a palfrey of his and hath therefor his leave to speak with his wife. she keeping silence, he in her person replieth unto himself, and the effect after ensueth in accordance with his answer_ 147 the sixth story. _ricciardo minutolo, being enamoured of the wife of filippello fighinolfi and knowing her jealousy of her husband, contriveth, by representing that filippello was on the ensuing day to be with his own wife in a bagnio, to bring her to the latter place, where, thinking to be with her husband, she findeth that she hath abidden with ricciardo_ 152 the seventh story. _tedaldo elisei, having fallen out with his mistress, departeth florence and returning thither, after awhile, in a pilgrim's favour, speaketh with the lady and maketh her cognisant of her error; after which he delivereth her husband, who had been convicted of murdering him, from death and reconciling him with his brethren, thenceforward discreetly enjoyeth himself with his mistress_ 157 the eighth story. _ferondo, having swallowed a certain powder, is entombed for dead and being taken forth of the sepulchre by the abbot, who enjoyeth his wife the while, is put in prison and given to believe that he is in purgatory; after which, being raised up again, he reareth for his own a child begotten of the abbot on his wife_ 169 the ninth story. _gillette de narbonne recovereth the king of france of a fistula and demandeth for her husband bertrand de roussillon, who marrieth her against his will and betaketh him for despite to florence, where, he paying court to a young lady, gillette, in the person of the latter, lieth with him and hath by him two sons; wherefore after, holding her dear, he entertaineth her for his wife_ 176 the tenth story. _alibech, turning hermit, is taught by rustico, a monk, to put the devil in hell, and being after brought away thence, becometh neerbale his wife_ 182 day the fourth 189 the first story. _tancred, prince of salerno, slayeth his daughter's lover and sendeth her his heart in a bowl of gold; whereupon, pouring poisoned water over it, she drinketh thereof and dieth_ 194 the second story. _fra alberto giveth a lady to believe that the angel gabriel is enamoured of her and in his shape lieth with her sundry times; after which, for fear of her kinsmen, he casteth himself forth of her window into the canal and taketh refuge in the house of a poor man, who on the morrow carrieth him, in the guise of a wild man of the woods, to the piazza, where, being recognized, he is taken by his brethren and put in prison_ 201 the third story. _three young men love three sisters and flee with them into crete, where the eldest sister for jealousy slayeth her lover. the second, yielding herself to the duke of crete, saveth her sister from death, whereupon her own lover slayeth her and fleeth with the eldest sister. meanwhile the third lover and the youngest sister are accused of the new murder and being taken, confess it; then, for fear of death, they corrupt their keepers with money and flee to rhodes, where they die in poverty_ 208 the fourth story. _gerbino, against the plighted faith of his grandfather, king guglielmo of sicily, attacketh a ship of the king of tunis, to carry off a daughter of his, who being put to death of those on board, he slayeth these latter and is after himself beheaded_ 213 the fifth story. _lisabetta's brothers slay her lover, who appeareth to her in a dream and showeth her where he is buried, whereupon she privily disinterreth his head and setteth it in a pot of basil. thereover making moan a great while every day, her brothers take it from her and she for grief dieth a little thereafterward_ 216 the sixth story. _andrevuola loveth gabriotto and recounteth to him a dream she hath had, whereupon he telleth her one of his own and presently dieth suddenly in her arms. what while she and a waiting woman of hers bear him to his own house, they are taken by the officers of justice and carried before the provost, to whom she discovereth how the case standeth. the provost would fain force her, but she suffereth it not and her father, coming to hear of the matter, procureth her to be set at liberty, she being found innocent; whereupon, altogether refusing to abide longer in the world, she becometh a nun_ 220 the seventh story. _simona loveth pasquino and they being together in a garden, the latter rubbeth a leaf of sage against his teeth and dieth. she, being taken and thinking to show the judge how her lover died, rubbeth one of the same leaves against her teeth and dieth on like wise_ 225 the eighth story. _girolamo loveth salvestra and being constrained by his mother's prayers to go to paris, returneth and findeth his mistress married; whereupon he entereth her house by stealth and dieth by her side; and he being carried to a church, salvestra dieth beside him_ 228 the ninth story. _sir guillaume de roussillon giveth his wife to eat the heart of sir guillaume de guardestaing by him slain and loved of her, which she after coming to know, casteth herself from a high casement to the ground and dying, is buried with her lover_ 232 the tenth story. _a physician's wife putteth her lover for dead in a chest, which two usurers carry off to their own house, gallant and all. the latter, who is but drugged, cometh presently to himself and being discovered, is taken for a thief; but the lady's maid avoucheth to the seignory that she herself had put him into the chest stolen by the two usurers, whereby he escapeth the gallows and the thieves are amerced in certain monies_ 235 day the fifth 243 the first story. _cimon, loving, waxeth wise and carrieth off to sea iphigenia his mistress. being cast into prison at rhodes, he is delivered thence by lysimachus and in concert with him carrieth off iphigenia and cassandra on their wedding-day, with whom the twain flee into crete, where the two ladies become their wives and whence they are presently all four recalled home_ 244 the second story. _costanza loveth martuccio gomito and hearing that he is dead, embarketh for despair alone in a boat, which is carried by the wind to susa. finding her lover alive at tunis, she discovereth herself to him and he, being great in favour with the king for counsels given, espouseth her and returneth rich with her to lipari_ 252 the third story. _pietro boccamazza, fleeing with agnolella, falleth among thieves; the girl escapeth through a wood and is led [by fortune] to a castle, whilst pietro is taken by the thieves, but presently, escaping from their hands, winneth, after divers adventures, to the castle where his mistress is and espousing her, returneth with her to rome_ 256 the fourth story. _ricciardo manardi, being found by messer lizio da valbona with his daughter, espouseth her and abideth in peace with her father_ 261 the fifth story. _guidotto da cremona leaveth to giacomino da pavia a daughter of his and dieth. giannole di severino and minghino di mingole fall in love with the girl at faenza and come to blows on her account. ultimately she is proved to be giannole's sister and is given to minghino to wife_ 265 the sixth story. _gianni di procida being found with a young lady, whom he loved and who had been given to king frederick of sicily, is bound with her to a stake to be burnt; but, being recognized by ruggieri dell' oria, escapeth and becometh her husband_ 269 the seventh story. _teodoro, being enamoured of violante, daughter of messer amerigo his lord, getteth her with child and is condemned to be hanged; but, being recognized and delivered by his father, as they are leading him to the gallows, scourging him the while, he taketh violante to wife_ 273 the eighth story. _nastagio degli onesti, falling in love with a lady of the traversari family, spendeth his substance, without being beloved in return, and betaking himself, at the instance of his kinsfolk, to chiassi, he there seeth a horseman give chase to a damsel and slay her and cause her to be devoured of two dogs. therewithal he biddeth his kinsfolk and the lady whom he loveth to a dinner, where his mistress seeth the same damsel torn in pieces and fearing a like fate, taketh nastagio to husband_ 278 the ninth story. _federigo degli alberighi loveth and is not loved. he wasteth his substance in prodigal hospitality till there is left him but one sole falcon, which, having nought else, he giveth his mistress to eat, on her coming to his house; and she, learning this, changeth her mind and taking him to husband, maketh him rich again_ 282 the tenth story. _pietro di vinciolo goeth to sup abroad, whereupon his wife letteth fetch her a youth to keep her company, and her husband returning, unlooked for, she hideth her gallant under a hen-coop. pietro telleth her how there had been found in the house of one arcolano, with whom he was to have supped, a young man brought in by his wife, and she blameth the latter. presently, an ass, by mischance, setteth foot on the fingers of him who is under the coop and he roareth out, whereupon pietro runneth thither and espying him, discovereth his wife's unfaith, but ultimately cometh to an accord with her for his own lewd ends_ 286 day the sixth 294 the first story. _a gentleman engageth to madam oretta to carry her a-horseback with a story, but, telling it disorderly, is prayed by her to set her down again_ 296 the second story. _cisti the baker with a word of his fashion maketh messer geri spina sensible of an indiscreet request of his_ 297 the third story. _madam nonna de' pulci, with a ready retort to a not altogether seemly pleasantry, imposeth silence on the bishop of florence_ 299 the fourth story. _chichibio, cook to currado gianfigliazzi, with a ready word spoken to save himself, turneth his master's anger into laughter and escapeth the punishment threatened him by the latter_ 301 the fifth story. _messer forese da rabatta and master giotto the painter coming from mugello, each jestingly rallieth the other on his scurvy favour_ 303 the sixth story. _michele scalza proveth to certain young men that the cadgers of florence are the best gentlemen of the world or the maremma and winneth a supper_ 304 the seventh story. _madam filippa, being found by her husband with a lover of hers and brought to justice, delivereth herself with a prompt and pleasant answer and causeth modify the statute_ 306 the eighth story. _fresco exhorteth his niece not to mirror herself in the glass if, as she saith, it irketh her to see disagreeable folk_ 308 the ninth story. _guido cavalcanti with a pithy speech courteously flouteth certain florentine gentlemen who had taken him by surprise_ 309 the tenth story. _fra cipolla promiseth certain country folk to show them one of the angel gabriel's feathers and finding coals in place thereof, avoucheth these latter to be of those which roasted st. lawrence_ 311 day the seventh 322 the first story. _gianni lotteringhi heareth knock at his door by night and awakeneth his wife, who giveth him to believe that it is a phantom; whereupon they go to exorcise it with a certain orison and the knocking ceaseth_ 323 the second story. _peronella hideth a lover of hers in a vat, upon her husband's unlooked for return, and hearing from the latter that he hath sold the vat, avoucheth herself to have sold it to one who is presently therewithin, to see if it be sound; whereupon the gallant, jumping out of the vat, causeth the husband scrape it out for him and after carry it home to his house_ 326 the third story. _fra rinaldo lieth with his gossip and being found of her husband closeted with her in her chamber, they give him to believe that he was in act to conjure worms from his godson_ 329 the fourth story. _tofano one night shutteth his wife out of doors, who, availing not to re-enter by dint of entreaties, feigneth to cast herself into a well and casteth therein a great stone. tofano cometh forth of the house and runneth thither, whereupon she slippeth in and locking him out, bawleth reproaches at him from the window_ 333 the fifth story. _a jealous husband, in the guise of a priest, confesseth his wife, who giveth him to believe that she loveth a priest, who cometh to her every night; and whilst the husband secretly keepeth watch at the door for the latter, the lady bringeth in a lover of hers by the roof and lieth with him_ 336 the sixth story. _madam isabella, being in company with leonetto her lover, is visited by one messer lambertuccio, of whom she is beloved; her husband returning, [unexpected,] she sendeth lambertuccio forth of the house, whinger in hand, and the husband after escorteth leonetto home_ 341 the seventh story. _lodovico discovereth to madam beatrice the love he beareth her, whereupon she sendeth egano her husband into the garden, in her own favour, and lieth meanwhile with lodovico, who, presently arising, goeth and cudgelleth egano in the garden_ 344 the eighth story. _a man waxeth jealous of his wife, who bindeth a piece of packthread to her great toe anights, so she may have notice of her lover's coming. one night her husband becometh aware of this device and what while he pursueth the lover, the lady putteth another woman to bed in her room. this latter the husband beateth and cutteth off her hair, then fetcheth his wife's brothers, who, finding his story [seemingly] untrue, give him hard words_ 348 the ninth story. _lydia, wife of nicostratus, loveth pyrrhus, who, so he may believe it, requireth of her three things, all which she doth. moreover, she solaceth herself with him in the presence of nicostratus and maketh the latter believe that that which he hath seen is not real_ 353 the tenth story. _two siennese love a lady, who is gossip to one of them; the latter dieth and returning to his companion, according to premise made him, relateth to him how folk fare in the other world_ 360 day the eighth 365 the first story. _gulfardo borroweth of guasparruolo certain monies, for which he hath agreed with his wife that he shall lie with her, and accordingly giveth them to her; then, in her presence, he telleth guasparruolo that he gave them to her, and she confesseth it to be true_ 365 the second story. _the parish priest of varlungo lieth with mistress belcolore and leaveth her a cloak of his in pledge; then, borrowing a mortar of her, he sendeth it back to her, demanding in return the cloak left by way of token, which the good woman grudgingly giveth him back_ 367 the third story. _calandrino, bruno and buffalmacco go coasting along the mugnone in search of the heliotrope and calandrino thinketh to have found it. accordingly he returneth home, laden with stones, and his wife chideth him; whereupon, flying out into a rage, he beateth her and recounteth to his companions that which they know better than he_ 371 the fourth story. _the rector of fiesole loveth a widow lady, but is not loved by her and thinking to lie with her, lieth with a serving-wench of hers, whilst the lady's brothers cause the bishop find him in this case_ 377 the fifth story. _three young men pull the breeches off a marchegan judge in florence, what while he is on the bench, administering justice_ 380 the sixth story. _bruno and buffalmacco, having stolen a pig from calandrino, make him try the ordeal with ginger boluses and sack and give him (instead of the ginger) two dogballs compounded with aloes, whereby it appeareth that he himself hath had the pig and they make him pay blackmail, and he would not have them tell his wife_ 383 the seventh story. _a scholar loveth a widow lady, who, being enamoured of another, causeth him spend one winter's night in the snow awaiting her, and he after contriveth, by his sleight, to have her abide naked, all one mid-july day, on the summit of a tower, exposed to flies and gads and sun_ 387 the eighth story. _two men consorting together, one lieth with the wife of his comrade, who, becoming aware thereof, doth with her on such wise that the other is shut up in a chest, upon which he lieth with his wife, he being inside the while_ 403 the ninth story. _master simone the physician, having been induced by bruno and buffalmacco to repair to a certain place by night, there to be made a member of a company, that goeth a-roving, is cast by buffalmacco into a trench full of ordure and there left_ 406 the tenth story. _a certain woman of sicily artfully despoileth a merchant of that which he had brought to palermo; but he, making believe to have returned thither with much greater plenty of merchandise than before, borroweth money of her and leaveth her water and tow in payment_ 418 day the ninth 427 the first story. _madam francesca, being courted of one rinuccio palermini and one alessandro chiarmontesi and loving neither the one nor the other, adroitly riddeth herself of both by causing one enter for dead into a sepulchre and the other bring him forth thereof for dead, on such wise that they cannot avail to accomplish the condition imposed_ 428 the second story. _an abbess, arising in haste and in the dark to find one of her nuns, who had been denounced to her, in bed with her lover and, thinking to cover her head with her coif, donneth instead thereof the breeches of a priest who is abed with her; the which the accused nun observing and making her aware thereof, she is acquitted and hath leisure to be with her lover_ 432 the third story. _master simone, at the instance of bruno and buffalmacco and nello, maketh calandrino believe that he is with child; wherefore he giveth them capons and money for medicines and recovereth without bringing forth_ 435 the fourth story. _cecco fortarrigo gameth away at buonconvento all his good and the monies of cecco angiolieri [his master;] moreover, running after the latter, in his shirt, and avouching that he hath robbed him, he causeth him be taken of the countryfolk; then, donning angiolieri's clothes and mounting his palfrey, he maketh off and leaveth the other in his shirt_ 438 the fifth story. _calandrino falleth in love with a wench and bruno writeth him a talisman, wherewith when he toucheth her, she goeth with him; and his wife finding them together, there betideth him grievous trouble and annoy_ 441 the sixth story. _two young gentlemen lodge the night with an innkeeper, whereof one goeth to lie with the host's daughter, whilst his wife unwittingly coucheth with the other; after which he who lay with the girl getteth him to bed with her father and telleth him all, thinking to bespeak his comrade. therewithal they come to words, but the wife, perceiving her mistake, entereth her daughter's bed and thence with certain words appeaseth everything_ 446 the seventh story. _talano di molese dreameth that a wolf mangleth all his wife's neck and face and biddeth her beware thereof; but she payeth no heed to his warning and it befalleth her even as he had dreamed_ 450 the eighth story. _biondello cheateth ciacco of a dinner, whereof the other craftily avengeth himself, procuring him to be shamefully beaten_ 451 the ninth story. _two young men seek counsel of solomon, one how he may be loved and the other how he may amend his froward wife, and in answer he biddeth the one love and the other get him to goosebridge_ 454 the tenth story. _dom gianni, at the instance of his gossip pietro, performeth a conjuration for the purpose of causing the latter's wife to become a mare; but, whenas he cometh to put on the tail, pietro marreth the whole conjuration, saying that he will not have a tail_ 457 day the tenth 462 the first story. _a knight in the king's service of spain thinking himself ill guerdoned, the king by very certain proof showeth him that this is not his fault, but that of his own perverse fortune, and after largesseth him magnificently_ 462 the second story. _ghino di tacco taketh the abbot of cluny and having cured him of the stomach-complaint, letteth him go; whereupon the abbot, returning to the court of rome, reconcileth him with pope boniface and maketh him a prior of the hospitallers_ 464 the third story. _mithridanes, envying nathan his hospitality and generosity and going to kill him, falleth in with himself, without knowing him, and is by him instructed of the course he shall take to accomplish his purpose; by means whereof he findeth him, as he himself had ordered it, in a coppice and recognizing him, is ashamed and becometh his friend_ 468 the fourth story. _messer gentile de' carisendi, coming from modona, taketh forth of the sepulchre a lady whom he loveth and who hath been buried for dead. the lady, restored to life, beareth a male child and messer gentile restoreth her and her son to niccoluccio caccianimico, her husband_ 472 the fifth story. _madam dianora requireth of messer ansaldo a garden as fair in january as in may, and he by binding himself [to pay a great sum of money] to a nigromancer, giveth it to her. her husband granteth her leave to do messer ansaldo's pleasure, but he, hearing of the former's generosity, absolveth her of her promise, whereupon the nigromancer, in his turn, acquitteth messer ansaldo of his bond, without willing aught of his_ 478 the sixth story. _king charles the old, the victorious, falleth enamoured of a young girl, but after, ashamed of his fond thought, honourably marrieth both her and her sister_ 481 the seventh story. _king pedro of arragon, coming to know the fervent love borne him by lisa, comforteth the lovesick maid and presently marrieth her to a noble young gentleman; then, kissing her on the brow, he ever after avoucheth himself her knight_ 485 the eighth story. _sophronia, thinking to marry gisippus, becometh the wife of titus quintius fulvus and with him betaketh herself to rome, whither gisippus cometh in poor case and conceiving himself slighted of titus, declareth, so he may die, to have slain a man. titus, recognizing him, to save him, avoucheth himself to have done the deed, and the true murderer, seeing this, discovereth himself; whereupon they are all three liberated by octavianus and titus, giving gisippus his sister to wife, hath all his good in common with him_ 491 the ninth story. _saladin, in the disguise of a merchant, is honourably entertained by messer torello d'istria, who, presently undertaking the [third] crusade, appointeth his wife a term for her marrying again. he is taken [by the saracens] and cometh, by his skill in training hawks, under the notice of the soldan, who knoweth him again and discovering himself to him, entreateth him with the utmost honour. then, torello falling sick for languishment, he is by magical art transported in one night [from alexandria] to pavia, where, being recognized by his wife at the bride-feast held for her marrying again, he returneth with her to his own house_ 503 the tenth story. _the marquess of saluzzo, constrained by the prayers of his vassals to marry, but determined to do it after his own fashion, taketh to wife the daughter of a peasant and hath of her two children, whom he maketh believe to her to put to death; after which, feigning to be grown weary of her and to have taken another wife, he letteth bring his own daughter home to his house, as she were his new bride, and turneth his wife away in her shift; but, finding her patient under everything, he fetcheth her home again, dearer than ever, and showing her her children grown great, honoureth and letteth honour her as marchioness_ 510 conclusion of the author 525 here beginneth the book called decameron and surnamed prince galahalt wherein are contained an hundred stories in ten days told by seven ladies and three young men proem a kindly thing it is to have compassion of the afflicted and albeit it well beseemeth every one, yet of those is it more particularly required who have erst had need of comfort and have found it in any, amongst whom, if ever any had need thereof or held it dear or took pleasure therein aforetimes, certes, i am one of these. for that, having from my first youth unto this present been beyond measure inflamed with a very high and noble passion (higher and nobler, perchance, than might appear, were i to relate it, to sort with my low estate) albeit by persons of discretion who had intelligence thereof i was commended therefor and accounted so much the more worth, natheless a passing sore travail it was to me to bear it, not, certes, by reason of the cruelty of the beloved lady, but because of the exceeding ardour begotten in my breast of an ill-ordered appetite, for which, for that it suffered me not to stand content at any reasonable bounds, caused me ofttimes feel more chagrin than i had occasion for. in this my affliction the pleasant discourse of a certain friend of mine and his admirable consolations afforded me such refreshment that i firmly believe of these it came that i died not. but, as it pleased him who, being himself infinite, hath for immutable law appointed unto all things mundane that they shall have an end, my love,--beyond every other fervent and which nor stress of reasoning nor counsel, no, nor yet manifest shame nor peril that might ensue thereof, had availed either to break or to bend,--of its own motion, in process of time, on such wise abated that of itself at this present it hath left me only that pleasance which it is used to afford unto whoso adventureth himself not too far in the navigation of its profounder oceans; by reason whereof, all chagrin being done away, i feel it grown delightsome, whereas it used to be grievous. yet, albeit the pain hath ceased, not, therefore, is the memory fled of the benefits whilom received and the kindnesses bestowed on me by those to whom, of the goodwill they bore me, my troubles were grievous; nor, as i deem, will it ever pass away, save for death. and for that gratitude, to my thinking, is, among the other virtues, especially commendable and its contrary blameworthy, i have, that i may not appear ungrateful, bethought myself, now that i can call myself free, to endeavour, in that little which is possible to me, to afford some relief, in requital of that which i received aforetime,--if not to those who succoured me and who, belike, by reason of their good sense or of their fortune, have no occasion therefor,--to those, at least, who stand in need thereof. and albeit my support, or rather i should say my comfort, may be and indeed is of little enough avail to the afflicted, natheless meseemeth it should rather be proffered whereas the need appeareth greater, as well because it will there do more service as for that it will still be there the liefer had. and who will deny that this [comfort], whatsoever [worth] it be, it behoveth much more to give unto lovesick ladies than unto men? for that these within their tender bosoms, fearful and shamefast, hold hid the fires of love (which those who have proved know how much more puissance they have than those which are manifest), and constrained by the wishes, the pleasures, the commandments of fathers, mothers, brothers and husbands, abide most time enmewed in the narrow compass of their chambers and sitting in a manner idle, willing and willing not in one breath, revolve in themselves various thoughts which it is not possible should still be merry. by reason whereof if there arise in their minds any melancholy, bred of ardent desire, needs must it with grievous annoy abide therein, except it be done away by new discourse; more by token that they are far less strong than men to endure. with men in love it happeneth not on this wise, as we may manifestly see. they, if any melancholy or heaviness of thought oppress them, have many means of easing it or doing it away, for that to them, an they have a mind thereto, there lacketh not commodity of going about hearing and seeing many things, fowling, hunting, fishing, riding, gaming and trafficking; each of which means hath, altogether or in part, power to draw the mind unto itself and to divert it from troublous thought, at least for some space of time, whereafter, one way or another, either solacement superveneth or else the annoy groweth less. wherefore, to the end that the unright of fortune may by me in part be amended, which, where there is the less strength to endure, as we see it in delicate ladies, hath there been the more niggard of support, i purpose, for the succour and solace of ladies in love (unto others[1] the needle and the spindle and the reel suffice) to recount an hundred stories or fables or parables or histories or whatever you like to style them, in ten days' time related by an honourable company of seven ladies and three young men made in the days of the late deadly pestilence, together with sundry canzonets sung by the aforesaid ladies for their diversion. in these stories will be found love-chances,[2] both gladsome and grievous, and other accidents of fortune befallen as well in times present as in days of old, whereof the ladies aforesaid, who shall read them, may at once take solace from the delectable things therein shown forth and useful counsel, inasmuch as they may learn thereby what is to be eschewed and what is on like wise to be ensued,--the which methinketh cannot betide without cease of chagrin. if it happen thus (as god grant it may) let them render thanks therefor to love, who, by loosing me from his bonds, hath vouchsafed me the power of applying myself to the service of their pleasures. [footnote 1: _i.e._ those not in love.] [footnote 2: syn. adventures (_casi_).] _day the first_ here beginneth the first day of the decameron wherein (after demonstration made by the author of the manner in which it came to pass that the persons who are hereinafter presented foregathered for the purpose of devising together) under the governance of pampinea is discoursed of that which is most agreeable unto each as often, most gracious ladies, as, taking thought in myself, i mind me how very pitiful you are all by nature, so often do i recognize that this present work will, to your thinking, have a grievous and a weariful beginning, inasmuch as the dolorous remembrance of the late pestiferous mortality, which it beareth on its forefront, is universally irksome to all who saw or otherwise knew it. but i would not therefore have this affright you from reading further, as if in the reading you were still to fare among sighs and tears. let this grisly beginning be none other to you than is to wayfarers a rugged and steep mountain, beyond which is situate a most fair and delightful plain, which latter cometh so much the pleasanter to them as the greater was the hardship of the ascent and the descent; for, like as dolour occupieth the extreme of gladness, even so are miseries determined by imminent joyance. this brief annoy (i say brief, inasmuch as it is contained in few pages) is straightway succeeded by the pleasance and delight which i have already promised you and which, belike, were it not aforesaid, might not be looked for from such a beginning. and in truth, could i fairly have availed to bring you to my desire otherwise than by so rugged a path as this will be i had gladly done it; but being in a manner constrained thereto, for that, without this reminiscence of our past miseries, it might not be shown what was the occasion of the coming about of the things that will hereafter be read, i have brought myself to write them.[3] [footnote 3: _i.e._ the few pages of which he speaks above.] i say, then, that the years [of the era] of the fruitful incarnation of the son of god had attained to the number of one thousand three hundred and forty-eight, when into the notable city of florence, fair over every other of italy, there came the death-dealing pestilence, which, through the operation of the heavenly bodies or of our own iniquitous dealings, being sent down upon mankind for our correction by the just wrath of god, had some years before appeared in the parts of the east and after having bereft these latter of an innumerable number of inhabitants, extending without cease from one place to another, had now unhappily spread towards the west. and thereagainst no wisdom availing nor human foresight (whereby the city was purged of many impurities by officers deputed to that end and it was forbidden unto any sick person to enter therein and many were the counsels given[4] for the preservation of health) nor yet humble supplications, not once but many times both in ordered processions and on other wise made unto god by devout persons,--about the coming in of the spring of the aforesaid year, it began on horrible and miraculous wise to show forth its dolorous effects. yet not as it had done in the east, where, if any bled at the nose, it was a manifest sign of inevitable death; nay, but in men and women alike there appeared, at the beginning of the malady, certain swellings, either on the groin or under the armpits, whereof some waxed of the bigness of a common apple, others like unto an egg, some more and some less, and these the vulgar named plague-boils. from these two parts the aforesaid death-bearing plague-boils proceeded, in brief space, to appear and come indifferently in every part of the body; wherefrom, after awhile, the fashion of the contagion began to change into black or livid blotches, which showed themselves in many [first] on the arms and about the thighs and [after spread to] every other part of the person, in some large and sparse and in others small and thick-sown; and like as the plague-boils had been first (and yet were) a very certain token of coming death, even so were these for every one to whom they came. [footnote 4: syn. provisions made or means taken (_consigli dati_). boccaccio constantly uses _consiglio_ in this latter sense.] to the cure of these maladies nor counsel[5] of physician nor virtue of any medicine appeared to avail or profit aught; on the contrary,--whether it was that the nature of the infection suffered it not or that the ignorance of the physicians (of whom, over and above the men of art, the number, both men and women, who had never had any teaching of medicine, was become exceeding great,) availed not to know whence it arose and consequently took not due measures thereagainst,--not only did few recover thereof, but well nigh all died within the third day from the appearance of the aforesaid signs, this sooner and that later, and for the most part without fever or other accident.[6] and this pestilence was the more virulent for that, by communication with those who were sick thereof, it gat hold upon the sound, no otherwise than fire upon things dry or greasy, whenas they are brought very near thereunto. nay, the mischief was yet greater; for that not only did converse and consortion with the sick give to the sound infection of cause of common death, but the mere touching of the clothes or of whatsoever other thing had been touched or used of the sick appeared of itself to communicate the malady to the toucher. a marvellous thing to hear is that which i have to tell and one which, had it not been seen of many men's eyes and of mine own, i had scarce dared credit, much less set down in writing, though i had heard it from one worthy of belief. i say, then, that of such efficience was the nature of the pestilence in question in communicating itself from one to another, that, not only did it pass from man to man, but this, which is much more, it many times visibly did;--to wit, a thing which had pertained to a man sick or dead of the aforesaid sickness, being touched by an animal foreign to the human species, not only infected this latter with the plague, but in a very brief space of time killed it. of this mine own eyes (as hath a little before been said) had one day, among others, experience on this wise; to wit, that the rags of a poor man, who had died of the plague, being cast out into the public way, two hogs came up to them and having first, after their wont, rooted amain among them with their snouts, took them in their mouths and tossed them about their jaws; then, in a little while, after turning round and round, they both, as if they had taken poison, fell down dead upon the rags with which they had in an ill hour intermeddled. [footnote 5: syn. help, remedy.] [footnote 6: _accidente_, what a modern physician would call "complication." "symptom" does not express the whole meaning of the italian word.] from these things and many others like unto them or yet stranger divers fears and conceits were begotten in those who abode alive, which well nigh all tended to a very barbarous conclusion, namely, to shun and flee from the sick and all that pertained to them, and thus doing, each thought to secure immunity for himself. some there were who conceived that to live moderately and keep oneself from all excess was the best defence against such a danger; wherefore, making up their company, they lived removed from every other and shut themselves up in those houses where none had been sick and where living was best; and there, using very temperately of the most delicate viands and the finest wines and eschewing all incontinence, they abode with music and such other diversions as they might have, never suffering themselves to speak with any nor choosing to hear any news from without of death or sick folk. others, inclining to the contrary opinion, maintained that to carouse and make merry and go about singing and frolicking and satisfy the appetite in everything possible and laugh and scoff at whatsoever befell was a very certain remedy for such an ill. that which they said they put in practice as best they might, going about day and night, now to this tavern, now to that, drinking without stint or measure; and on this wise they did yet more freely in other folk's houses, so but they scented there aught that liked or tempted them, as they might lightly do, for that every one--as he were to live no longer--had abandoned all care of his possessions, as of himself, wherefore the most part of the houses were become common good and strangers used them, whenas they happened upon them, like as the very owner might have done; and with all this bestial preoccupation, they still shunned the sick to the best of their power. in this sore affliction and misery of our city, the reverend authority of the laws, both human and divine, was all in a manner dissolved and fallen into decay, for [lack of] the ministers and executors thereof, who, like other men, were all either dead or sick or else left so destitute of followers that they were unable to exercise any office, wherefore every one had license to do whatsoever pleased him. many others held a middle course between the two aforesaid, not straitening themselves so exactly in the matter of diet as the first neither allowing themselves such license in drinking and other debauchery as the second, but using things in sufficiency, according to their appetites; nor did they seclude themselves, but went about, carrying in their hands, some flowers, some odoriferous herbs and other some divers kinds of spiceries,[7] which they set often to their noses, accounting it an excellent thing to fortify the brain with such odours, more by token that the air seemed all heavy and attainted with the stench of the dead bodies and that of the sick and of the remedies used. [footnote 7: _i.e._ aromatic drugs.] some were of a more barbarous, though, peradventure, a surer way of thinking, avouching that there was no remedy against pestilences better than--no, nor any so good as--to flee before them; wherefore, moved by this reasoning and recking of nought but themselves, very many, both men and women, abandoned their own city, their own houses and homes, their kinsfolk and possessions, and sought the country seats of others, or, at the least, their own, as if the wrath of god, being moved to punish the iniquity of mankind, would not proceed to do so wheresoever they might be, but would content itself with afflicting those only who were found within the walls of their city, or as if they were persuaded that no person was to remain therein and that its last hour was come. and albeit these, who opined thus variously, died not all, yet neither did they all escape; nay, many of each way of thinking and in every place sickened of the plague and languished on all sides, well nigh abandoned, having themselves, what while they were whole, set the example to those who abode in health. indeed, leaving be that townsman avoided townsman and that well nigh no neighbour took thought unto other and that kinsfolk seldom or never visited one another and held no converse together save from afar, this tribulation had stricken such terror to the hearts of all, men and women alike, that brother forsook brother, uncle nephew and sister brother and oftentimes wife husband; nay (what is yet more extraordinary and well nigh incredible) fathers and mothers refused to visit or tend their very children, as they had not been theirs. by reason whereof there remained unto those (and the number of them, both males and females, was incalculable) who fell sick, none other succour than that which they owed either to the charity of friends (and of these there were few) or the greed of servants, who tended them, allured by high and extravagant wage; albeit, for all this, these latter were not grown many, and those men and women of mean understanding and for the most part unused to such offices, who served for well nigh nought but to reach things called for by the sick or to note when they died; and in the doing of these services many of them perished with their gain. of this abandonment of the sick by neighbours, kinsfolk and friends and of the scarcity of servants arose an usage before well nigh unheard, to wit, that no woman, how fair or lovesome or well-born soever she might be, once fallen sick, recked aught of having a man to tend her, whatever he might be, or young or old, and without any shame discovered to him every part of her body, no otherwise than she would have done to a woman, so but the necessity of her sickness required it; the which belike, in those who recovered, was the occasion of lesser modesty in time to come. moreover, there ensued of this abandonment the death of many who peradventure, had they been succoured, would have escaped alive; wherefore, as well for the lack of the opportune services which the sick availed not to have as for the virulence of the plague, such was the multitude of those who died in the city by day and by night that it was an astonishment to hear tell thereof, much more to see it; and thence, as it were of necessity, there sprang up among those who abode alive things contrary to the pristine manners of the townsfolk. it was then (even as we yet see it used) a custom that the kinswomen and she-neighbours of the dead should assemble in his house and there condole with those who more nearly pertained unto him, whilst his neighbours and many other citizens foregathered with his next of kin before his house, whither, according to the dead man's quality, came the clergy, and he with funeral pomp of chants and candles was borne on the shoulders of his peers to the church chosen by himself before his death; which usages, after the virulence of the plague began to increase, were either altogether or for the most part laid aside, and other and strange customs sprang up in their stead. for that, not only did folk die without having a multitude of women about them, but many there were who departed this life without witness and few indeed were they to whom the pious plaints and bitter tears of their kinsfolk were vouchsafed; nay, in lieu of these things there obtained, for the most part, laughter and jests and gibes and feasting and merrymaking in company; which usance women, laying aside womanly pitifulness, had right well learned for their own safety. few, again, were they whose bodies were accompanied to the church by more than half a score or a dozen of their neighbours, and of these no worshipful and illustrious citizens, but a sort of blood-suckers, sprung from the dregs of the people, who styled themselves _pickmen_[8] and did such offices for hire, shouldered the bier and bore it with hur