CHAPTER I. DON FERNANDO DE VALOR.

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At the close of a summer's day, sometime near the end of the fourteenth
century, a party of young knights, seven in number, were returning to their
several countries from attending a great tournament held in the lists of the
Moorish palace of the Alhambra, then occupied by John, king of Castile.
This tournament was held in honor of the nuptials of the Prince with the
Infanta, and from its magnificence had drawn together the flower of the
chivalry of many lands. The company of knights alluded to, consisted of
one of Spain, whose castle lay northward, near the Pyrennees; one of
France; one of England; one of Germany; one of Rome; of a Scottish
knight, and a knight of Venice, all journeying homeward from the jousts,
with their esquires and retinues.

At the end of the first day's travel, they pitched their tent near the banks
of a pleasant river; and after having removed their heavier armor, and refreshed
themselves, holding the whilst much pleasant discourse touching
the feats of knighthood that had been done at the tournament, each began
to laud the prowess of the chivalry of his own land. After some dispute,
it was agreed between them that each should recount some achievement of
his own knights; and the palm of knightly honor be awarded to that country
which furnished the knight of greatest prowess and skill in arms. The
lot to commence the narration, fell upon the Spanish knight, whose name
was Don Fernando de Valor, who, though young in years, had performed
many deeds of great bravery, both in the lists and in the field.

The rich Castilian moonlight fell pleasantly upon the group of knights
seated upon the verdant sward before their tent, the door of which was
hung with burnished shields and casques, which gleamed resplendent in its
beams, while their spears and lances were stacked in the gleaming moonshine
on either side of the entrance. At their feet was the bright stream
beside which they were encamped, moving past in alternate light and shadow,
like gliding steel. Behind them reclined their esquires, and others of
their retainers, prepared to listen to the recounting of deeds of arms, while
farther in the rear, beneath a group of majestic cork trees, were tethered
the unharnessed steeds, their steel saddles and chain armor hanging about

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upon the branches, or piled upon the ground. To the south, the lofty Sierras
of Granada, shining with snow, rose sublimely like marble pillars, upholding
the sky; and in the midst of this scene, Don Fernando thus began
his story.

The Achievement of the young Count Alarcos in winning
his Spurs.

“The sun of an autumn evening was gilding the towers of Seville, when
a youthful knight, attended by a stout esquire, reined up his road-worn steed
upon the summit of a hill. Before him, lay the fair city, with its Moorish
banners topped with the silver crescent, floating above her battlements.—
The lofty walls were lined with steel-clad men-at-arms, whose spearheads
gleamed in the western sun like points of flame. Eucircling the walls,
having a fair verdant space of three good bow-shots' breadth between, were
pitched the christian tents, looking like a snowy girdle woven with red banners,
in which was emblazoned the cross; while burning shields of gold
and silver hanging at the numerous tent doors, seemed to the eye of the
young cavalier, meet gems for this warlike cincture. Knights in resplendent
armor were riding hither and thither; and before the king's tent, which
was conspicuous by its height and magnificence, a tournament was in progress;
for there were visible, from the distance at which he stood, two
knights in shining casques, with scarlet mantles waving in the wind, tilting
at each other within lists formed on the green, before the royal tent door;
while ladies were discovered seated around, gracing with their presence
and beauty this martial pastime.

Over all the mingled and varied prospect of battlement, tent and plain,
of warriors, banners and steel, glowed the refulgence of the mellow sunset,
peculiar to the south of Spain, the whole fair scene looking as if bathed in
an atmosphere of liquid gold.

`Now, by the golden girdle of our lady of Bivar! but this is a fair sight,
good Perico,' said the young knight, addressing his attendant, yet without
turning his head from the scene. `See how bravely the accursed banner
of the infidel floats over our good christian city of Seville. They are strongly
shut up there, and methinks it will be many a long week, ere the cross
takes the place of the crescent on yon high towers. But God wot, our good
king will be sure ne'er to leave her gates till he hath the key in his guantlet.'

`And that key, Master Alarcos, will have more steel than iron in it, and
a good cross for the handle,' said the esquire, speaking through the bars of
his shut visor.

`Thou meanest his sword, Perico, and so do I. But save me, if you camp
is not a brave show for a youth who hath never, till now, seen a martial
host a-field, larger than a castle's retainers.

`Let us spur! The sun is touching the summits of the Sierras, and I
would fain get to the camp ere the night set in.'

The two horsemen then put their animals to their speed, and rapidly descended
the winding road into the plain, on their way to the christian camp.
In the meanwhile, we will describe their general appearance and bearing.
The young cavalier was not above twenty years of age, and of handsome
person, and possessed a noble,though youthful countenance. His hair was
of a dark brown hue, and escaping beneath his blue riding bonnet, flowed
in waves over his shapely shoulders. His eye was large, full, and very
dark, and, while he surveyed the embattled plain beneath, beamed with the
proud spirit of ambitious youth, while his cheek flushed with excitement
and hope. He was clad in a suit of russet link armor, that yielded to
his body as pliantly as the velvet surcoat he wore above it. His fine

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neck was bare, save that a white linen band, clasped by a cross of diamonds,
encircled it close to the border of his surcoat. A short horseman's mantle
hung loosely off his left shoulder, and his mailed boots were encased in
buff-colored overhauls of chamois leather. At his belt, in a steel scabbard,
hung a sword, with a jewelled cross for the hilt. He carried, in his uncovered
hand, an ivory riding switch, to which was attached a white silken ribbon.
His gauntlets hung dangling by their chain wristhands over his saddle
bow, on which also was suspended a light shield, richly embossed and inlaid,
and bearing for its device the crest and talons of a black eagle. His
casque hung by its chainlets also to his saddle, while his esquire carried his
spear and the heavy war garniture, needful for camp service. The horse
of the young knight was securely mailed in scale armor for the breast and
head, and in chain armor for his body. Though slight of limb, and elegant
rather than strong, he was harnessed like a knight's steed intended for service;
and the youth himself, though wearing a jewelled throat clasp, and
displaying diamonds on his sword bilt, was harnessed like an experienced
warrior, rather than like young cavaliers of his age and day, who much delighted
to glitter in gowns of soye with gold profusely ornamenting their
arms and armor; wore gloves of kid skin delicately perfumed within their
guantlets, and donned bonnets when the helmet was laid aside, richly broidered
and set off with gay and flaunting plumes. His man-at-arms was all
in iron; no gold was upon his crest or crosslet, but from gauntlet to heel he
sat upon his steed a bulwark of iron mail; while his stout brown steed was
black with the heavy proof mail that was laid upon him.

The young knight was the youthful count Alarcos, nearly allied to the
royal blood of Castile. He had passed his youth in retirement with his
mother, who only the week previous had given her consent that he should
don armor and join the king's army at the leaguer of Seville. Sad had been
the parting between the noble parent and the young soldier; and when we
now encounter him on his way, through three days' journey have separated
him from his paternal roof, the thoughts of her lonely state in the castle of
Lanuza had cast such a heavy cloud over his spirits that the sight of the
christian camp and the beleagured city alone had power to dissipate it.

The road by which they descended the summit, wound for some distance
along the mountain side, and ere it turned into the valley towards the camp,
approached within long cross-bow shot of the walls, so that travellers at that
point were placed in great danger from any bolt sped from the battlements.
There was no way to turn aside from this menacing peril, as a precipice rose
to a great height no one hand, and a deep and angry river foamed on the
other. The only alternative, therefore, was to ride bravely forward, or turn
cowardly back, and gain the camp by going many leagues about and approaching
it from the south quarter. This peril the young count and his
esquire did not discover until they came near the bottom of the hill, when
they saw several travellers on horseback, and peasants on mules, grouped
beneath a large cork tree that overhung the way, and seeming to be in fearful
and anxious consultation. The young knight and his esquire were riding
by them at a round pace, when one of them, who by his costume and
the bales with which his nag was laden, was a bujonero, or travelling merchant,
rode out into the path, and said, in a loud tone of warning,

`Hold rein, fair knight, and you my good esquire, for there is peril in the
way. We were journeying toward the christian camp, and on our way, not
many paces in advance, we were shot at from the walls, and one of our number
was wounded. He lies there beneath the tree, where you see the group,
nigh his death, without priest to shrive him. So we turned hastily back,
and are in consultation what to do. If you ride forward, brave cavalier,
you will surely be shot with shaft a good yard and ell long. We have commodities
in our packs for the king's camp, and sorry are we our way is
stopped.'

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`Thou, thyself, dealest in yards and ells, bujonero; therefore, thou should'st
little heed thine own measuring rods, though the Moor may give something
more honest length of measure in his steel-headed yard than thou and thy
eraft art wont to dispense to thy customers. `But,' added the young cavalier,
riding a little forward, when an opening through the trees gave him a
view of the walls, towering skyward, and of the road before him, after passing
near them, making an abrupt turn up the valley, `the highway, as you
say, cometh full nigh to you battlements. By the red rood! But there is
temptation for a maiden knight to win his spurs by a little bold venture.—
See the green turbans, and the serried spear-heads how they bristle above
the rampart. They are watching us, Perico. I can see their glittering eyes
even at this distance! `Heaven save us,' said the pedlar; if they should
make a sally from yonder gate —'

`Thy rich goods then,' said Count Alarcos, laughing, `would shortly deck
the infidels' bodies; and thy head and those of thy comrades grace the iron
pinnacles of yonder gate-head.'

`Holy Saint Peter and his sword defend us,' exclaimed the bujonero in
alarm, which was equally shared by the promiscuous company with which
he travelled; and laying his staff stoutly across his nag's back he took the
lead of a general escapade that soon left the knight and his esquire sole occupants
of the spot.

`There goes a brave company of christians,' said the esquire, `first calling
on St. Peter's sword for aid, and then trusting to their beasts' legs for safety.
We are well rid of them. Now, good master, how shall we get to the king's
camp without being shot at like deer from the walls?'

`I do confess, Perico, that I should have been better pleased had the road
given wider space for the Moor's shafts to fly across. As it is we may not
turn back like yon scampering horde of Jews, pedlars and other money-getting
rogues. Let us keep the road at an easy trot, like cavaliers journeying
unsuspicious of danger. It will be a far shot-bolt that reaches us, and we
can so watch them as they fly, as to receive them in time upon our shields.
Let us on, but not quicken our pace one jot beyond the ordinary gait of
travellers.'

`Our Lady guard you, my noble master,' said the esquire. `It is a dangerous
ride we have to take, but I would rather see thee perish, and lie myself
by thy side, than have thee turn back for a Moorish lance.'

`At my first outset in a knightly career, it might never be without infamy.
Were an old and tried soldier here, he could choose his own way,
without dishonor. My way lies in the path before me. Let us on, good
Perico, putting our trust in Heaven.'

`Don your casque, my lord, and brace your shield,' said the esquire, as
they prepared to move forward.

`No, I will ride in unsuspecting guise. If danger come I will be soon
ready.' Thus speaking, the fearless and adventurous young knight, true to
the principles of chivalry, which enjoin its devotees to court rather than
turn aside from danger that lay in the path, rode easily forward, followed a
few paces behind by his faithful esquire. They soon came to the foot of the
hill, and entered upon the level ground, over which the road wound, approaching
in one of its angles very near the walls. They trotted forward
some time in silence, intently watching the battlement lined with armed
Moors, over whose heads floated the standard of the Prophet.

`I yet hope to live, my good Perico,' said the young cavalier, as the shadow
of a tower before them fell across their road, `to see the day, when yon
green banner, with its haughty crescent, emblem of a false faith, shall no
more flash back the setting sun's beams in all the fair land of Spain. How
calmly the blue sky bends over it. Methinks over the standard of the infiel,
the heavens should ever lower black and menacing. But God is good;

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and, as the priests tell us, hath wisdom in sending rain and sunshine, both
upon Christian and infidel.

`He hath put their judgment into the Christians' hand,' said the esquire,
devoutly; `and he who slayeth an infidel doeth God service. Don your
helm, my lord, I see them fitting shafts to their cross-bows. We are now
within range.'

`Nay,' said the young Count, stoutly, `I will not, by taking precaution,
show the Moor that I fear danger ere danger come.' They had now arrived
where the road made the nearest approach to the wall, and where blood upon
the ground, and a broken arrow lying near, indicated the spot where the
companion of the bujonero had fallen.

`These peddling varlets were full bold thus to come near a leaguered city
with its walls bristling with steel points,' said the knight; `but these men
will, for a score or two of bezants' value of merchandise, peril life and limb.
Shall not, then, forsooth, a cavalier, for his country, his faith and his knightly
troth, put himself in jeopardy. How is this? They have suffered us to
ride on, unmolested, for full three hundred paces. Do they mistake us for
their own?'

`They have ell yards for trading pedlers, and knight's weapons for knight's,'
said the esquire; for see, my lord. Yonder gate, before us, is thrown open,
and there ride forth two—nay five knights. Let us spur ere they place
themselves across our path between us and the Christian camp.'

`Nay, good esquire,' said Count Alarcos, turning his looks quietly towards
the sally port, whence a company of five Moorish knights had issued. `Neither
let us press nor slacken speed. They have withheld their cross bowmen's
shafts to give us reception due to our degree. We will not refuse
their hospitality, but meet them.'

`'Tis too great peril, my good lord; and I did swear upon my sword's
crosslet to thy lady mother as well not to advise thee to peril, as to defend
thee from danger. Let us ride forward while the way is open. See! to
the king's camp is not a third of a mile, and we can soon reach it in safety.'

`Nay, I have never seen a Moor close at hand, and fain would gratify my
curiosity. But! will not meet them without knightly covering to my head.'

Thus saying, the young Count removed his woolen cap, and placing his
helmet upon his head, closed the visor. He then braced his shield to his
arm, received from his esquire his lance, and placing it in easy rest, rode on
as before. In the meantime, the Moorish knights had left the gate, and galloping
across the plain, drew rein, and stood in the path by which the Count
and his esquire were approaching.

The advance of the knight and his esquire by the road beneath the walls,
had been observed from the Christian camp, and much interest was awakened
by their quiet and easy journeying in the face of such danger.

`By my halidom,' said the king, as his attention was drawn to them by
one near him while watching the jousts before his tent, `but yonder cavalier
taketh it coolly. The Moors do not molest him. He hath a charm. See!
the cross-bow-men are levelling their shafts, yet they do not launch them.
Who knoweth yonder gallant knight?'

`No one replied; when the princess Beatriz, his daughter, whose attention
had also been drawn from the lists by the approach of the two horsemen,
said, `He is youthful by his figure and carriage, sire, and doubtless
hath come to offer service in our camp.'

`He is a brave gallant. Look, caballeros—the gates are thrown open, and
five knights come forth to withstand his journey. Now, heaven favor his
escape from the infidel.'

`See, he flies not, sire!' said the beautiful Beatriz, who with her ladies, as
well as all the knights present, had turned their attention from the now
neglected lists, to watch the single knight's adventure.

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`No, by the mass,' cried Ferdinand, he hath donned his casque and braced
his shield; and now his esquire, fearless as his master, delivereth to him
his lance. 'Fore God he doth mean to give them battle. He thinketh one
christian knight an even match for five infidels. I would I knew him. But
such a brave cavalier must not fall by such odds. Ho! what four knights
will take stand by his side and help him give good account of these Moors?'

The king had hardly spoken ere half a score of cavaliers were in the saddle,
lance in rest.

`Hold!' cried the princess; `whoever he be, let him have, alone, the honor
of the field he hath so bravely challenged. If he be unhorsed, then,
brave knights, hie ye swift to his rescue.'

`Ay,' said the king; if he wanted help he would make a signal. Let
him have the achievement. If he fall he could never do so in a better fray.
But, by my crown, it he do get worsted, yon infidel crew shall pay for his
life, if I have to take stirrup in person.'

In the meanwhile, the object of so great interest interest in the christian
camp, all eyes in which were watching him, rode on, with his visor down
and lance in rest, at the same quiet pace he held before the Moors appeared.
He came within fifty paces of them, and seeing that they quite closed
up the beaten path, he coolly turned his horse aside and took the sward,
but neither quickening nor slackening his pace. Steadily he rode on, as
unmoved as if turning out of his way to avoid a slough or mule drove that
blocked the road. The Moors, all five tall and iron harnessed knights, had
their visors raised and lances levelled. As he approached so coolly, and
turned aside so quietly, they surveyed him with surprise, wondering, and
expecting that each moment he should charge them or turn to flee. In this
expectation, and deceived by such unwonted conduct, they had let him ride
till he and his esquire were abreast of them; when seeing that he would
escape, one of them raised the Moorish war-cry and charged upon him.

`The villains have some courtesy,' said the king as he beheld this. `If
they set upon him but one at a time, I do not fear but he will make them
bite the dust. He is but a slight person—but God wot! but he has a true
soul. There rolls the Moor upon the ground, horse and rider! Brave lance!
skilful knight!' and a shout rung the air from the christian camp.

Two more of the Moors, then furiously charged the victorious young
Count Alarcos, one of whom his trusty esquire unhorsed and slew, the
knight himself, after breaking his lance, and taking his sword, overthrowing
the other. `Alla-il-allah!' shouted the remaining two Moors, and both rode
against the youth, who for a few moments was engaged with them ere his
esquire could extricate his sword from a crevice in the mail of him he had
slain, and come to his aid. The contest was brief, but terrific, and fatal to
the Moors; and Count Alarcos and his stout esquire, taking from the conquered
infidels their swords and shields, as trophies of their prowess, left
them, two of them slain and three of them wounded, lying at length upon
the path where they had drawn themselves up to oppose their progress.

`Now by the iron sword of El Cid,' cried the king, with animation, having
with his nobles and knights around him `witnessed with intense interest
the issue of this contest, `Christian knighthood hath had honor this
day! Ride forward, knights, and meet the victor, lest the Moors sally forth
to avenge on him their foul dishonor. 'Fore Heaven! but he and his esquire
ride on their way again at the same easy pace as if they had not rode
over the bodies of five infidels! But see, he turns back!'

Count Alarcos had not proceeded far towards the camp when he discovered
that in the contest he had lost his ivory riding switch, with the silken
ribbon appended to it. When he learned this, he stopped his horse and turning
round, said to his esquire, `I must not purchase knightly honor at the
expense of filial faith, good Perico. The scarf was given me by my noble

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mother as a guerdon and memento at parting from her not four days since.
I could not lose it so soon, and I did not make the effort to recover it, I
should be unworthy to replace it by a maiden's gift. I must go back. Halt
thou here.'

`Nay, I shall not leave thee, my noble master. But let us hasten and return
at speed—for the Moors will be upon us.'

`To please thee I will ride at thy own pace.'

Count Alarcos and his esquire then galloped back, and notwithstanding,
when the Moors on the walls darkened the air with arrows, they kept on
their course. The bolts, save two, fell far short of them; one of these piercing
the neck of Perico's horse, inflicting a slight wound; the other striking
against the Count's shield, and falling, its force being nearly spent,
harmlessly to the ground. On reaching the spot, they saw that one of the
Moors had raised himself up and was stanching with his mantle, a wound
in his side. Near him, on the ground, stained with drops of blood, lay the
white ribbon and switch, Count Alarcos ventured so much to recover. He
dismounted, and taking it up, pressed it to his lips breathing his mother's
name.

`Now let us to horse and spur to preserve the glory won this day,' said
his esquire. `A troop of Moorish knights, seven in number, are galloping
from the gates towards us.'

Count Alarcos turned his head and seeing them approaching, mounted
his horse, saying:

`Softly, good esquire, let us not hasten our pace, but ride at ease. Shall
we one moment conquer, to flee the next? Those who come are but Moors,
like those we have just overthrown. If there be two more, there will be
two more swords and two more shields to carry away as trophies.'

`This is rash, my lord'

`It is cowardly to fly. I am just entering upon achievements of knighthood,
and while I am a Christian knight and Castilian gentleman,I will never
save my life by turning my back. They shout and mock us! Let us
turn and face them.'

The party of Moors were gallopping furiously towards the two horsemen,
when, seeing them stop and turn towards them, they were surprised at their
fearlessness; and suddonly reining up, seemed to hold a consultation. In
the meanwhile, Count Alarcos and his esquire, with their faces towards
their foes, backed their horses, and in this way step by step backwards, moved
in the direction of the royal camp. The king, seeing their bold procedure,
recalled the knights that were going forth, and bade them wait the
issue. `It were a pity,' he said to his nobles, `so brave a knight should not
have all the honor this propitious day chooses to bring him. By the rood!
I look to see him charge and discomfit the whole seven infidels and despoil
them of their armor; when he shall be called the knight of the Twelve
shields.'

The Moors, after a few moments' deliberation turned their horses' beads
and rode to the spot where their friends lay. A loud shout of triumph hereupon
broke from the christian host, while the silence of the Moors crowding
the battlements indicated their chagrin.

`Now, by my kingly faith, I will ride forth and meet this champion who
hath done such honor this day to knighthood, and brought such glory to the
christian arms,' said Ferdinand.

`I will accompany thee, royal sire,' said the princess Beatriz, and with
my own hands reward his chivalry.'

The king forthwith took horse and so did his daughter, and at the head of
a troop of knights they rode forth the camp to meet and receive the unknown
knight. When the Count Alarcos saw the approach of the king,
whom he knew by his stately bearing and the fashion of his helmet, as well

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as by the rank and circumstance of power with which he was attended, his
modesty would not let him harbor the thought that it was to do him honor
that this royal procession advanced. He therefore said to his esquire,

`We will turn aside, good Perico, and so avoid this meeting with such
royal and knightly company, in our present soiled and way-worn condition;
for, what with travel and fighting, we are in unseemly plight. I would fain
present myself with my mother's letter before the king in a more befitting
fashion. So we will ride aside.'

Ferdinand divining this intention by seeing them turn their horses to the
left as if to gain the camp by another direction, sent two gentlemen forward
who conveyed to him in courtly phrase, the king's command that he and his
esquire should forthwith ride forward to his presence.

Blushing with embarrassment, the brave Count Alarcos, bidding his
esquire keeep close to him, rode forward between the two gentlemen, wondering
what the king should want; for his humility would not let him believe
that he had done ought beyond a true knigt's duty, and had thus merited
reward. The king, seeing him advance, rode forward to meet him; the
princess riding on a milk-white palfrey by his side.

`I will reverse my shield, and the king shall not know me by its device,'
said the Count to himself; for as yet I know not the reception I shall have
at his hands, as there hath been long coldness between him and my noble
mother.'

`Thou art welcome, stranger knight,' said king Ferdinand. `Thou hast
achieved deeds this day worthy of Rodrigo de Bevar, the Cid, of whose
blood I will be sworn, thou hast somethidg in thy veins. Thou art welcome
to our camp, and to honor thy valor, which we have witnessed, we have
come out to meet thee. Wilt thou lift thy visor that we may know what renowned
knight we have with us.'

`My noble liege,' replied the youthful Count Alarcos, surprised yet pleased
at this gracious reception from his sovereign, `I fear when thou shalt
know my name, and that I have for the first time drawn a maiden sword to
win my spurs, thou wilt repent the honor thou hast unwittisgly done an unknown
youth.'

`Ne'er a bit! for if thou art young, so much more is thy credit. Lift thy
visor.'

The youthful warrior raised the bars of his visor, and showed the beholding
king and admiring princess the modest and conscious face of a youth of
scarce twenty summers. The king gave utterance to a round oath of surprise,
and Beatriz, with the ladies attending her, uttered exclamations of delight;
while the nobles and cavaliers around, in various ways manifested
their astonishment that such achievements as they had beheld, should have
been performed by a beardless youth.

`Thy face, as well it may be, for its youth is unknown to me,' at length
spoke Ferdinand. `What device bearest thou?'

Count Alarcos turned his shield and the king beheld the Black Eagle's
crest and talons, the insignia of the royal house of Castille.

`By the holy rood!' he exclaimed, `this device and thy deeds prove thee
none else than the son of my royal cousin, that brave knight Perez Garci,
Count of Alarcos. Art thou he?'

`I am, my liege,' answered the Count with diffidence at being the centre
of so many observing eyes. `I bear for your royal hands this packet from
the Countess of Alarcos.'

`Thou hast this hour ennobled even thy proud lineage, noble and youthful
Count. Thou art from this day a part of our royal household and near my
person. Give him thy hand, daughter, for he is thy blood cousin. I will
also honor him.'

The princess, scarce nineteen, extended her hand to the young knight

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who reverently pressed his lips to it; and then Ferdinand dismounting, unbuckled
his own spurs, and placed them with his own royal hands upon the
iron heels of the Count, who fain would have withheld him from conferring
upon him so great at honor.

`Now, knight in deed as well as in courtesy and by birth; come thou to
sup with us in our tent and tell me of my cousin, the fair Countess; who
hath so many years absented herself from court, we had well nigh forgot
her. But we forgive her, since she sends thee her representative. Pray
thee why didst thou return after thou and thy trusty esquire hadst overthrown
the Moors? I would fain know, for mere bravado could not make
so brave a man thrust himself back where he might endanger the laurels so
nobly won?'

`To recover this silken scarf which I had missed, and which had fallen
upon the ground in the fray.'

`The gift of some true maiden—thou art loyal in love as well as brave in
war,' said the king, smiling.

`Nay, my liege,' answered the youth, coloring, `I shall ne'er think of love
till I achieve something worthy a maiden's regard. The scarf is my mother's
parting gift, and I would not lightly lose it where a few paces return
would restore it to me.'

`Better still! By my knighthood thou art a good son, and filial honor is
great knightly merit, for he who honoreth his mother is worthy of a mistress.
Beatriz, were it not a shame to thee and thy ladies that so true a
knight should wear only a mother's gage?'

`Fair cousin,' said Beatriz, with downcast eyes, as he rode by her side,
the king being on the other hand, `you, who have so gallantly preserved a
mother's memento, knowest how to defend that of a maiden princess. Receive
this scarf and wear it in honor of her who bestows it. For never braver
knight wore maiden's favor.'

Thus speaking, the princess removed from her throbbing bosom her blue
scarf, and with a blush of virgin shame and pride, cast it across his mailed
breast. `Gallantly and fairly done, daughter,' said Ferdinand. `Behold!
knights and gentlemen, the reward beauty bestows upon valor.'

Thus speaking, the King and Beatriz escorted Count Alarcos into the
royal tent, where a kingly entertainment was provided, at which he sat down
on Ferdinand's right hand. Late at night he was conducted to a tent prepared
near by for him, where his faithful esquire Perico, waited to receive
him. Bewildered by the distinguished reception he had met with, the
young knight threw himself upon a sumptuous couch; and while listening
to the tales in his praise which Perico averred he had heard from every lip,
he fell asleep dreaming that the princess Beatriz was carried off by seven
Moorish knights, and that he and Perico had rescued her and brought her
back to the camp, for which deed the king gave him her hand in marriage,
shehaving beforehand, as he dreamed, given him her heart.

CHAPTER II. SIEUR LOUIS DE LINANT.

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When Don Fernando de Valor, the Spanish Knight, had ended his tale,
there arose a general murmur of approbation, not only from the six knights,
but also from their esquires, who had listened with no little pride and satisfaction
to the account given of the doughty deeds of the faithful and brave
Perico, and which they took most account of, he being of their degree.—
When the knights had each of them spoken his opinion of the achievement
of Don Alarcos, and greatly admired his valor and modesty, and his honorable
reception of the king and the princess, and were in their hearts ready
to give the palm of honor to Spain for excellence in knighthood, up rose
the French knight, who had not yet spoken, and said:

`The tale of our knightly brother of Spain hath been listened to with that
attention its entertainment, and the heroic deeds it recounted, demanded;
and all have been full ready to bestow on Don Alarcos the praise due to
gallant deeds. But he, alone, is a true knight, who is one not only in arms
but in honor; who not only can do achievements of renown, but maintain
the purity of his name and fame till death. One blot can deface an escutcheon,
though emblazoned in gold with the deeds of a long life of knightly
valor. This Don Alarcos were well worthy to represent Spanish chivalry,
and give it the palm, by this deed of his, over that of other lands, did his life
not furnish an act that should not only set aside what he hath herein done,
but blot his name from the roll of chivalry.'

The knights heard with surprise this address of Sieur Louis de Linant,
and wondered much what dishonor a young knight with so brave a beginning,
could have been guilty of, that should degrade his fair fame; and all
eyes were turned towards Don Fernando. This cavalier was not a little
hurt at Sieur Louis de Linant's words, and looking haughtily around, at
length said:

`If the Sieur de Linant can lay aught to the charge of Don Alarcos, whose
deeds I have just narrated, in proof of the superior prowess of the knights
of Spain, disparaging his knighthood, I will withdraw my challenge for the
laurels of chivalry for Spain, and let that country take them, which shall, in
the issue, better prove its title thereto. Let the Sieur de Linant tell this tale
of his, that shall render Don Alarcos's claim unworthy of your countenance.
'

After some little debate, it was agreed that Sieur de Linant should, the
next evening, when they were encamped, give them the story, on hearing
which, they were to decide whether Don Fernando should or no, give up
his claim in Don Alarcos' behalf. The knights then retired to rest within
the tent, for the story of Don Alarcos, and their subsequent discourse thereupon,
had consumed much of the space between sunset and midnight.

The following evening, after having quartered within the walls of a ruined
and roofless castle, once belonging to the Moors, they seated themselves, after
supper, beneath a broken arch, through which the moonlight streamed
in broad beams of silvery fulgence, bringing into bright light the knights,

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but leaving in black shadows the esquires, horses, and armor. A dark forest
stood around the castle; and through the arch in the distance could be
discerned an oval lake, lying like a gigantic shield of silver, at the foot of a
dark mountain; and with this fair scene before them, the Sieur de Linant
thus began his story, which he called
`The Knight of two betrothals, or the fair Gertrudis de Roquebetyn.'

`As the tale I have to relate,' said the French knight, courteously looking
around, and speaking in an agreeable voice, `has for its hero this Garci Perez,
Count of Alarcos, I shall take up the story but a few months subsequent
to his achievement with the five Moors; and as the lady of the tale was related
to one of my remote ancestors, I have reason to know the particulars
of the incidents I am about to narrate.

It was a dark and tempestuous night, about five months after the reception
of Count Alarcos by the king and princess, as hath been faithfully related
by Don Fernando de Valor, that Gertrudis, the fair, blue-eyed daughter
of the Vicompte de Roquebetyn, was awakened from sleep by the bursting
in of her lattice. At first she was greatly alarmed for fear of mischief;
but hearing the tempest howl about the castle, and seeing the lightning and
hearing the thunder roll, she knew it was the wind which had made such
violent entry into her chamber. She rose, and casting a white dressing robe
about her, sat on the bed-side, too much agitated at the terrific tempest raging
without, to sleep. Not wishing to call her attendant, who slept in the
adjoining closet, she sat alone watching the sublime spectacle of a midnight
storm among the passess of the Pyrennes, for near them was situated the
castle of the Count Roquebetyn. A faint lamp that hung near her bed's
head, cast upon her person its soft light. She was not more than eighteen
summers old, a sweet bud just blooming into flower. Her eyes were blue
like the sky in a June afternoon, when no wind is stirring. Her hair, escaped
from her cap, fell upon her ivory shoulders in abundant tresses, a river
of gold flowing over a bank of lilies. Her complexion was like the snow
of the Sierras, when warmed and glowing into life by the rosy sunshine of
a Florentine autumn. Her mouth was the model of loves bow, and two
dimples on either cheek were filled with his arrows. Her figure was slight
and spirited, reminding the beholder of a gazelle or an antelope, ready to
fly on discovering the hunter. Her hand, as she folded together the front of
her robe over her virgin bosom, was like pearl moulded into a hand; and so
delicately veined was it, so rosy the nails, that you would have sworn a master's
cunning pencil had been drawing and tinting the finished workmanship;
for ne'er in woman was aught before seen so sweetly perfect. Her
foot, which was now thrust into a broidered slipper, was the peer to her
hand, and both were the standard of the divine shape which her envious
robes hid from mortal eyes. Such was the outward seeming of the Lady
Gertrudis de Roquebetyn. Her mind was finished by the graces of maidenly
scholarship, such as befitted her birth and sex, while her heart was the
throne of all that is gentle, and noble, and good. She was spirited and fearless,
like her noble father, an I patient, religious and full of affection, like her
deceased mother. No Arabian bulbul e'er sang with sweeter strain than
she, no troubadour but composed songs in her praise.

As yet she had appeared neither at court nor tournament; a few weeks
only having elapsed since her sire withdrew her from the convent of Nuestra
Senora de la Pena, where she had been placed from early girlhood. Her
heart—nay, she hardly knew she had one, save for happiness, as the birds
have—was free and untouched by love's sweet and painful emotion. Yes,
there was one object she loved—her singing bird, Froilan. She was a

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bright, pure flower of the mountain cliff, which had hudded and blown unseen.”

`Happy the good knight who should be so blessed, as to find it and wear
it on his own bosom,' said Sir Henry Percie, the English knight. `I do
know in England a Grace Plantagenet, who answereth thy description of
Gertrudis de Roquebetyn. But I interrupt thy tale, and so crave thy pardon
fair knight.'

“While the maiden sat upon her bed-side, listening to the wild voices of
the sweeping blast, as it went shrieking by, she thought she distinctly heard
a man's shout, mingling with the tempest. She bent her ear, shrinking
within herself the whilst, and again heard it, as if calling for aid from without
the gate that led to the pass of the mountains. Knowing no fear, she
left her bed-side, and hastened to the fallen casement and looked forth.—
All was dark, and she waited for a flash of lightning to reveal objects; in the
meanwhile the voice rose distinctly to her ear, and she could hear the
words,

`Shelter, for the sake of the Virgin, for a knight and his retinue.'

At the same instant, a bright flash revealed to her, standing beyond the
draw-bridge, which her window commanded, a small party of horsemen in
armor, upon which the red glare of the lightning vividly gleamed. Obeying
the generous impulse of her feelings, the fearless maiden waved her
hand, and shouted back that they should be admitted; but finding the wind
bore her voice away ere it reached them, she bethought herself of her lamp
and getting it, she hung it high in her window, as a token of their having
been heard. The signal was answered by a glad shout from the storm-beset
party. Gertrudis, then waking her maids, bade them call up her father,
while she hastened to the porter's lodge to rouse him to unbar the castle
gates and raise the draw-bridge. It was not long before the party were admitted,
and refreshments having been set before them by order of the hospitable
master of the castle, they, being four in number, a knight, his esquire,
and two men at-arms, were lodged as became their degree.

The lady Gertrudis did not delay, after waking the porter, to see the entrance
of the travellers, but happy at having been instrumental in affording
shelter from such a fearful tempest, amid so wild a country, to those in
need of it, she hastened back to her chamber, and was not long in going
to sleep.

It was late the next morning when she awoke, and as she opened her
eyes, she was conscious of having been awaked by a song, which some one
was still singing in a rich but careless voice, upon the terrace beneath her
casement. A single reflection brought the events of the past night to her
recollection, and with a conscious emotion of she knew not what feeling,
she rose and stole, with a fluttering heart, to the window. The storm had
passed away, and the sun shone with dazzling splendor. Did the maiden
hope—did she believe she should see the strange knight for whom she had
obtained shelter? The deep rich voice thrilled to her soul as she listened,
arresting her timid steps at a little distance from the casement, as the singer
seemed to be pacing to and fro, directly beneath it. Thus he sang:

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The voice was sweet, and the cancionero was idly sung; but the words
told Gertrudis that the voice was not sweet for her, e'en if he was, as she
believed while she listened, young and handsome. Softly she approached
the casement and leaned over. Beneath her, about twelve feet, stood a
young cavalier, without helm or bonnet, his dark brown hair falling in ring-lets
over the jewelled collar of his cuirass, which was of Milan steel. He
was tall and elegant in person, but his face she could not discern, as it was
turned from her as well as beneath her. He was leaning against the casement
of his sleeping apartment, which opened upon the terrace that over
looked the mountain passes, and commanded a far prospect of a valley dotted
with hamlets, and snow-white casas. He was gazing musingly upon
the scene, and watching the foaming torrents raised by the rains, rushing
downward from the hills. The air which he had just sung was yet lingering
on his lips, in a scarce audible humming of the notes.

The curiosity of the maiden was excited, and she became interested to
learn who was this stranger guest; for she knew full well that he must be
the knight who had been driven to the castle by the storm. In the casement
hung a cage containing a favorite ruisenor, who, at her presence, trilled
his voice in a few glad notes, which drew the attention of the knight,
who, looking up, whistled a gay air, as if inviting the songster to imitate it.
He at the same time stepped back to get a better view of the bird, when he,
caught sight of the skirt of the maiden's white robe, who had lingered to
throw a few seeds to her favorite. He now stepped farther along the terrace
to get sight of the wearer, when the lady Gertrudis looking down, beheld
him gazing upward. Blushing at being discovered, she hastily fled into her
room, with the image of the handsomest youth impressed upon her mind
she had ever looked upon or dreamed of. Her little heart seemed to large
for her bosom, it throbbed so, between shame, pleasure, and the novelty of
the new and undefined feelings the sight of a handsome young knight is
likely to awaken in the breast of a susceptible young maiden, who has been
all her life buried in a convent.

She had hardly retreated to her toilette-table to arrange her hair and person,
consciously with greater care than ever before, ere she heard a rushing
sound past her window, and turning with alarm, she saw her bird shrinking
terrified upon the balustrade of her casement, from the swoop of a hawk
which had just swept by. Flying to the relief of the bird, whose door she
had left open in her hurried retreat from the window, she had nearly placed
her hand upon the little trembler, when the hawk returund, and with an
unerring flight pounced upon him, and seizing him in his talons, bore him
screaming through the air towards the cliffs. In her anxiety and distress
she quite forgot herself and her exposure in her robe du chambre, to the gaze
of the knight. He, however, having been the witness of the scene, and divining
that the bird was the pet of the maiden whom he had discovered,
had, after the first swoop of the hawk, begun to climb the stone abutments
of the window, to rescue the bird, when it was borne off. Surprised, as
well he might be, at the surpassing beauty of the lady, as she now appeared
at the casement, with her snowy arms outstretched towards her lost bird, he
felt too much sympathy for her distress, and too deep an interest, on her account,
in the fate of the bird, to regard her, at such a moment, with more
than a hasty glance, which was, however, sufficient to inflame his bosom
with love.

`My bird—my poor Froilan!' cried Gertrudis, standing in her balcony
with tears in her eyes, and her hair dishevelled over her bosom.

[figure description] Page 018.[end figure description]

`Fear not. I will rescue him, unhurt, lady,' said the knight, and instantly
disappeared within his casement. The poor maiden beheld the hawk
soar higher and higher in wheeling circles, with Froilan in his talons, and
then uttering a fierce cry, shoot off towards the cliff, in the top of a scathed
pine, upon which was visible his eyrie, distant a third of a mile from the
castle. In a few moments, ere the hawk had reached half way to his destination,
the distressed Gertrudis beheld the young knight galloping from beneath
the archway of the castle, followed by two cross-how-men afoot. He
pursued the direction taken by the halcon, whom his quick eye had discovered
making for his lofty perch. Waving his hand to lady Gertrudis, and
then lightly bringing it to his lips, he dashed forward in chase. The eyes
of the maiden followed his wild course, with intense interest. Now he disappeared
in a ravine, now his snowy plume waved above the ridge of a low
hill; now he was fording a torrent—her prayers for his safety following him—
now he was climbing the precipice beyond. As she watched him, her
anxiety for Froilan was lost in her fears for his safety.

`The Virgin protect the noble youth!' she cried, clasping her hands together,
as she saw his horse twice fall with her rider. `Oh, I would rather
lose Froilan, than so brave a knight should come to harm, in his generous
efforts to rescue him! Poor bird! he is dead by this time, from fright, even
if the sharp talons of the halcon have not pierced him. The bird hath nearly
reached his eyrie! The bowman shoots! The halcon is unharmed, and
soars higher. Now he settles upon his eyrie! Poor Froilan! thy delicate
breast will be torn by his voracious brood! I could die to save thee from
thy terrible fate. See! he dismounts, and ascends the cliff! He is at the
summit! now he mounts the tree! God speed him! He ascends higher
and higher, lightly he mounts from limb to limb, and branch to branch! he
is near the top, three score foot from the earth. He will reach it! Froilan
may be saved! Oh, how can I be enough grateful? Holy Virgin! two
fierce halcons attack him! He battles with them! He has struck one with
his steel, and he tumbles headlong over the cliff. The other assails him
more fiercely, and he fights him, still ascending. He pauses—he is wounded
or wearied—oh, that ruisenor had perished, ere he should have put
such life in jeopardy. Ha! the other bird shrieks, and falls down to the foot
of the tree, the glittering steel flashing in his side as he flutters and plunges.
The bow-men shout! He has reached the nest! He places something in
his bosom, and rapidly descends. He remounts his steed and returns to the
castle on the wings of the wind!'

She fell upon her knees, and with a grateful heart, thanked Heaven for
his preservation. She thought not of Froilan—a deeper feeling than ever a
favorite bird could awaken had, in that last half hour of anxiety and peril,
taken possession of her bosom. She rose from her knees, a sense of maidenly
propriety bid her to arrange her person, and not meet the knight in her
morning robe, though she could have worn nothing so becoming. So she
delayed to learn if Froilan was safe, to prepare her toilette to meet the young
knight. This was a great change to be brought about in so short a time in
a maiden's heart; but maidens love singing birds well enough, till young
cavaliers come in their way, and then the poor birds, like Froilan, have a
powerful rival.

Ere she had quite completed her toilet, her father entered with her bird
safe, and the compliments of Garci Perez, the Count of Alarcos.

`Was he hurt, dear father?' she said, blushing at her own earnestness.

`Yes, in the wing, with a scratch of the hawk's talons.'

`I—I meant the knight, sir.'

`Oh, the knight,' repeated her father, smiling: ah, poor Froilan, thou
mightest as well have been eaten by the halcon's brood.'

Gertrudis dropped her eyes, while her whole face was suffused with a

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soft, rich glow, like sunset mingling with moonlight in the sky. She took
her bird from his hand, and smoothing its plumage, kissed it, and laid it upon
her bosom with many a tender word of endearment, but she could not
disguise from her heart that she had now a deeper emotion in regarding it—
that it had been lying near the heart of the youth who had so gallantly
rescued it.

At the breakfast-hour she was presented to the knight by her father, and
thanked him so sweetly for his brave rescue of her bird, that the youth's first
admiration of her beauty was deepened into love, which he did not forbid
his eyes out-speaking; and though she, for modesty, did not let him see the
tale her own eyes would have told about her heart, had she dared to lift the
fringed lids, she could not quiet the agitated undulations of that sea of love
beneath her vesture, which caused the heart to speak for itself its own emotion
at his presence.

Day after day the Knight of Alarcos lingered in the castle, unable to tear
himself away from the lady Gertrudis; and, I wot the two met often upon
the terrace, when the mellow moon shone, and the winds whispered, and the
stars watched, and the murmur of waters came fitfully to the ear; and so
Gertrudis gave her heart to Count Alarcos, and he laid his at her feet in return.
The third week of the Count's sojourn, poor Froilan died in his cage—
for sadly had his mistress neglected him of late! The lady Gertrudis
sighed once, but shed not a tear, and, bidding her maid cast him into the
moat, gave Count Alarcos her hand to lift her into the saddle;—for, when it
was told to her Froilan was dead, she was preparing to ride a hawking.—
Thus the young Knight, in the end, caused the death of the favorite he had
risked his own life to save; but poor Froilan was his rival, and he felt no
grief that Gertrudis could not soothe; and she for Froilan had got a loving
knight—which she thought far better than a singing bird.

As the Vicompte de Roquebetyn well knew the rank and family of Count
Alarcos and his relationship to the royal House of Castille, the alliance between
him and his daughter was in every way desirable; and as he was
waxing in years, he was solicitous to have his child well married ere his
death should leave her an orphan. He, therefore, gave his consent to their
union, when it was asked by the devoted knight, and that it should take place
on his return from Paris, whither he was going on a private embassy from
the king, when the storm and love withal stayed his journey. He then took
leave of his betrothed wife and proceeded on his way towards France.

`So brave a knight as Count Alarcos hath thrice shown himself to be, was
well worthy to pluck the flower of the cliffs and wear it in his bosom,' said
the Roman knight.

`He was, nevertheless, a false and craven knight, as thou shalt hear,' said
the Sieur Linant.

`The day on which he had achieved so gallant a deed against the moors,
the Princess Beatriz, as Don Fernando in his tale hath well told, witnessing
his bravery and seeing afterwards that it was matched by the beauty and
manliness of his person, became enamored of him. As he was afterwards
stationed near the person of the king, she often saw him; and he being
young and having no ladye-love, whose name could give suitable lustre and
incentive to his achievements, he easily fell into admiration of her in return;
though, if left to himself, there was nothing in her that would have greatly
captivated, beyond mere outward gallantry, a person like the young Count
Alarcos. Though beautiful to look at, with dark expressive eyes and hair
like a raven's plumage, and a queenly figure, she was haughty, and had little
softness of manner. Nevertheless Count Alarcos, flattered by her attention
before the whole court, and fancying himself in love, when his heart
was not touched, it being only his vanity, he was led, on one unhappy occasion
to make a vow of betrothal to her; she having artfully brought him to

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the point to do this being desirous of securing him before he should see other
maidens; for she knew there was not in Castille, save her cousin, another
knight her equal in lineage—and that, unless she wedded him she
might never wed.

Thus was Count Alarcos artfully bound to a designing woman, whom he
loved not; but yet, knew not that he was a s'ranger to true love, until he
beheld, a few weeks afterwards, in her father's castle, the lovely Gertrudis
de Roquebetyn. When he saw her face from the terrace, he, for the first
time, felt that he had a heart. He seemed to awaken to a new existence!
A torrent of novel and tumultuous emotions filled his soul! It remained for
her to break up the deep fountains of his feelings, unlock the wealth of his
affections, and discover to him powers of his being he was ignorant that he
was possessed of. From that day he looked back to his betrothal with the
haughty Princess Beatriz with grief and contempt, felt that in the presence
of Gertrude, she was nothing to him, and he wondered that she should ever
have succeeded in binding him in such delusive chains. As the power of
his love grew, it swallowed up all other feeling with it; and obeying its influence,
he resolved, after a brief but severe struggle between his vow and
his love for Gertrudis, to commit himself to the current of his deep and irresistible,
but pure and holy passion, and forgetting the Princess Beatrix,
offer himself with all his heart and soul to the shrine of his heart's idolatry.

He spoke not to Gertrudis of his betrothal to the princess, which was
known only to themselves; and he trusted on his return from France, to be
able to release himself with her consent, failing to obtain which, he determined
to break his vow of betrothal, which was drawn from him rather than
given, by the insidious princess, and when he was ignorant of the true state
of his own heart.'

Here several of the knights spoke, and delivered their opinions upon the
conduct of Count Alarcos in this instance; the English and German Knights,
as well as the Sieur Linant, censuring and condemning it, while the Roman,
Venetian and Spanish knights were for excusing him, on the two-fold ground
of the artfulness of the princess, and his inexperience. The Scottish knight,
whose name was Sir Roy Bruce, being silent, was asked for his opinion,
when he replied that he was at that present time in the same dilemma with
regard to two maidens, as Count Alarcos, he could not give his opinion till
he himself had decided how to act, as his love went not with his vow. The
English knight therefore said haughtily, that a gentleman would keep his
oath, let what betide—that a knight's vow is a knight's life!'

Sir Roy Bruce rose angrily at these words, which he took to himself, and
a hot quarrel had well nigh came of it, but for the interferance of the other
knights; and Sir Henry Percie having disclaimed allusion in his speech to
the Scottish knight, peace was restored again, and the matter passed. Sieur
Linant then continued his story of Count Alarcos, as follows:

`Not many weeks passed, ere this knight of two betrothals, having fulfilled
his mission into France, returned, spending a day at the castle of his ladye-love,
and fixing upon the day for the bridal, for which ceremony he was to
return immediately after seeing the king and surrendering his mission. On
his arrival at court, king Ferdinand graciously received him. The princess
was present, and instead of receiving from him a smile of love and lealty of
troth, he seemed not to notice her presence, being, as it were, so much absorbed
with his business with the king. After the audience, she privately
sent for him, but he excused himself with the plea of fatigue, and she became
alarmed for the fate of her love.

`This comes of riding to Paris,' she said, with mingled grief and anger.
`He hath there seen some maiden who hath made him play me false, I
fear.'

[figure description] Page 021.[end figure description]

For three days he came not near her, fearing to see her. The third day
he had private audience of the king, and told him of his love for the lady
Gertrudis, and his wish to take her to wife. The king listened well pleased,
and not suspecting how the matter stood between the Count and his daughter,
the princess, he gave his consent, congratulating him upon his good fortune,
and inviting him and his bride to court. Having obtained the royal
permission, Count Alarcos sent a page, and solicited an interview with the
princess, with the design of asking a release from his engagement. Angry
at his marked neglect of her for three days, the princess refused to see him,
thinking that his message implied repentance and a desire of atonement,
and so determining to punish him. But soon she rued that refusal, for the
same evening she was told that Count Alarcos had left the court for the castle
of the Vicompte de Roquebetyn. The king entered her boudoir, and
found her pacing it, her cheeks bathed in tears of grief and anger.

`How is this, daughter Beatriz?' he asked with surprise.

Too proud to confess her love for one who cared not for it, the princess
was silent.

`Well, whate'er hath made thee weep, I have news will make thee merry,'
said the king. `We are to have a brave bridal.'

`A bridal, sire?'

`A brave knight and a sweet maiden are to be soon mated, and are to
grace our court. I 'faith, when he getteth his fair wife, he will break less
Moors' heads for a twelvemonth, I'll warrant me,' said king Ferdinand,
laughing.

`Who meanest thou, father?' gasped the princess, half-suspecting, yet not
daring to believe all her fear suggested.

`Our cousin, the gallant Count of Alarcos, who, it seems, on his way
Franceward, was driven for shelter to the castle of Vicompte de Roquebetyn,
whose lovely daughter, not satisfied with the protection her father's
roof gave his person, took herself charge of his heart, and I' faith, it seems
would not surrender it when he left, and so he journeyed to France without
it. He hath to day asked my assent to his marriage, and I have—'

`Not given it—by the cross!' exclaimed the princess Beatriz, with eyes of
fire.

`I have, and he hath ridden away with a brave company of knights, and a
gallant retinue, to bring his bride.'

The princess was for a few minutes paralyzed with this intelligence of
the false faith of her treacherous cousin. Her first impulse was to confess
all to the king, and despatch horse in pursuit of the recreant knight. But
her woman's pride came to her aid. The thought of her degradation was
madness; yet she felt she must not make known the dishonor done her, unless
she would experience the scorn of all the ladies of her court. She
would not have it known that the proud princess Beatriz, with all the royal
rank and beauty, could not keep the heart she had chosen, but had been deserted
for another, inferior in rank. The idea, too, of having it whispered
that she gave her love where it was not requited, was acutely mortifying to
her.

These considerations, which flashed across her mind in an instant, at once
governed her conduct, and without betraying her feelings further, she complained
of being ill, and desired to be left alone. That night the deserted
and slighted princess slept not for her rage, grief and shame. She had truly
loved Count Alarcos, and to lose even the object of her affection was to
her sufficiently painful. But to lose him under such humiliating circumstances,
was not patiently to be borne. After a night of alternate suffering
and plans of vengeance, she finally calmed herself, for she had come to her
determination.

`Yes, let him marry—I will wait—let him marry! Then my revenge will

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be double-barbed, and the wound deeper. He shall marry, and then, if he
love her, will I have his punishment in my hands; and, by our lady, he shall
be the instrument of his own misery and my vengeance!'

Count Alarcos married. But fearing the vengeance of the princess, he
delayed bringing his bride to court; and so for several months kept her close
at her father's castle, where he lived with her perfectly happy. The princess
at length artfully prevailed on the king to command the count to leave
his castle with his wife, and take up his abode for the ensuing winter near
the court. Count Alarcos obeyed. The beauty of his bride was the theme
of all tongues. None gave her so gracious a reception as the princess Beatriz,
who, beneath an outside of forgiveness towards him, and attachment
for his bride, concealed the most dangerous intentions. Wondering at her
free forgiveness, the thoughtless count was, nevertheless, well pleased, and
she managed to lull asleep in his bosom all suspicion. But, my idle romance
hath consumed the evening, gentle knights, without coming to an end,' said
the Sieur de Linant: if it hath sufficient interest, and you would learn the
issue of the Count Alarcos's treachery to the princess Beatriz, and her revenge
therefor, I will, with your consent, conelude the tale to-morrow night.
I thank you for the courtesy and grace with which you have listened to me,
fair sirs!'

The knights, one and all, expressed themselves greatly entertained with
the story, and unanimously signified to Sieur de Linant their wish that he
should, when next they pitched their camp, go on with it. They then retired
within their spacious tent, the esquires laying themselves down by the
outside; and soon all was still, save the ruisenor singing to his mate in a
neighboring tree; the sighing of the night breezes through the arches of
the old Moorish tower, and the liquid gurgle of a brook that crept among
the ruins.

CHAPTER III.

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Showing how the Princess Beatriz avenged herself, for the treachery
of the Count Alarcos.

Early the ensuing morning, the knights mounted with their retinue of
esquires and men-at-arms, and throughout the day journeyed pleasantly amid
a fertile valley; their road winding beside a river, on whose banks stood
many a fair castle, and rural hamlet. At eventide they arrived at a noble
wood of palm trees, the lofty and gigantic trunks of which, springing into
the air, noble columns a hundred feet in height, expanded like the arches of
a cathedral, presenting a canopy which shut out the skies over their heads,
while beneath stretched arcades of the most magnificient dimensions. The
nakedness of the tall shafts was relieved by luxuriant tendrils of the wild
grape vine, twining in masses of verdure around them, or hanging in immense
festoons from tree to tree. Through the spacious avenues of this noble
wood, the knights advanced on horseback without obstruction. The
declining sun penetrated at intervals through the far asunder columns of
the trees, in broad lanes of light, like carpets of sun-gold unrolled along the
level sward. On all sides, cool and pleasant shades invited to repose; and
tempted by the beauty of the spot, the travel-worn cavaliers resolved to
pitch there their tents for the night. Having ended their frugal evening repast,
they reclined before the tent, each falling into such attitude for listening,
as was his habit, and Sieur de Linant then resumed his story, which he
called
“The Revenge of the Princess Beatriz, or the Grievous Crime of
Count Alarcos.”

“The bride of the false knight,” said the French knight, “by her beauty
and grace, and superior excellence, served to deepen the wound in the
breast of the princess Beatriz. She could not be insensible to the charms
either of her person or mind. Yet, as these were the allurements which
had drawn Count Alarcos away from her, she looking at them through her
jealous mind, regarded them only as so many deformities. If the sweet
countess smiled, the Infanta cursed the smile, because such had robbed her
of her betrothed knight. If she sang, her voice, though sweet as a bulbul's
was discordant to her ears, and filled her soul with rage and torment. The
lovely bride could not but perceive that the princess, much as she strove to
hide it till the time of her revenge was well ripened, was disaffected towards
her; and prompted by her gentleness, and loving nature, she strove
to conciliate her; but the more gently she deported herself, so much the
more the princess hated her. She at length told her husband with great
grief, how she feared she had done some evil thing which had sorely displeased
the princess Beatriz, who, though she outwardly showed her courtesy,
she knew to be inwardly but ill-content with her.

The cheek of Count Alarcos burned with rising shame, from the

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consciousness of the true cause, on hearing these words from his innocent
bride, and in his heart he felt ill at ease; for he now knew that however the
princess had seemed to pass over his defection, she had secretly cherished
evil thoughts in her heart, both towards him and his bride. He, however,
laughed, and tapping her forehead, said playfully:

`'Tis nought, sweet wife, but thy own beauty that hath made the princess
envious. Thou must not heed it; for she is a woman! So, hereafter,
keep thou more by my side, and in thy own bower; for I would have thee
and Beatriz meet seldom!'

Though the husband spoke thus to his unsuspecting wife, he became
alarmed for her safety, not thinking of his own. He therefore resolved to
obtain leave of the king to return to his castle for a while; on the plea of an
approaching event, on the occurrence of which, as a husband, and an expectant
father, he was desirous of having his wife in his own abode. To
this the king gave his consent, and the same evening the count left the dangerous
atmosphere of the court, for the peaceful retreat of his castle.

When the princess Beatriz learned his sudden departure, she became excited
to such a degree of rage and disappointment, that for several hours she
was nearly distracted. At length she grew calm, and seated alone in her
chamber, thus she spoke to herself:

`It is better it were so—better far. This delay will give me threefold
vengeance. This was the night, and this the hour in which my long-nurtured
revenge was to have had its consummation; and they have escaped!
Now there will be three bosoms to pierce instead of two! Count Alarcos,
thou false knight and perjured lover! I heed not thy flight, nor will it save
thee! I bide my time!'

Impatiently did the princess wait from day to day, to hear that the Count
Alarcos had been made a father. At length word came that the fair countess
Gertrudis had given birth to a son. This intelligence, strange as it
would seem, filled the princess with joy. She now resolved to lose no time
in consummating her plan of vengeance. She would have carried it out on
the first day she saw the bride after her marriage; but her heart and her
hand shrunk, day by day, from the deed, while her hatred grew deeper with
the lingering execution of her purpose. It was by this prolonged indecision
that they had for the time escaped her, and the wife had become a mother,
and the deserted betrothed still unavenged. But this event, which at first
view appeared to her so unpropitious, gave new inspiration to her cruel
soul.

At her suggestion the king was prevailed upon to stand sponsor for the
boy, and forth with to send to Count Alarcos, bidding him bring his wife
and heir to the capital. Gratified with the honor intended him, the Count
so soon as his lady recovered, and when the child was in his fourth month
left his castle and brought her up to Court. The christening took place
with great pomp and joy, and none seemed more happy at the event, or
more sincere in congratulating the lovely mother, than the princess Beatriz.
`Now comes the pitiful part of my tale, fair knights,' said the Sieur de Linant
in a sad tone, and sighing as he thought of the woeful history he was
about to relate.

The christening was over, and the king and his brave retinue of knights
and nobles, the Infanta with her brilliant train of ladies, pages, and gentlemen
in velvet and gold, had returned from the cathedral; the Count Alarcos,
and his fair wife, the brightest stars of this royal galaxy. The palace
was reached, and each retired from the pageant; the king to his chamber,
the princess to her bower, the count and his wife and child, to their own
furnished mansion, in a plaza, not far distant from the royal palace. It was
now evening. The mellow glow of sunset had given place to the deep blue
of night with its stars. The princess Beatriz sat in her window, looking

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forth with her eyes, but not with her mind. Her thoughts were tumultuous
and evil. Her bosom heaved restlessly beneath her crimson vesture, and
her cheek was pale. The expression of her lips was close and decided, as
if with the concentration of some strong and single passion. Her eye was
dark as the depth of a sunless well, in the noon-tide; the lid immovable, and
the look steady and fearful. Long, long, she sat by her casement, in this
strange mood and aspect of visage; her lips at times moving, but giving
forth no articulate sound. At length she rose up, and entering her anteroom,
despatched a page for the king.

When he entered her apartment, she received him reclining upon a
conch, with a robe thrown around her. From her face every trace of emotion
had been withdrawn into the recesses of her heart; but still her cheek
was white.

`Well, my child,' said the king, seating himself near; `thy page hath
brought me a message, saying you desired to see me. You are pale! Art
thou ill, daughter?'

`Nay, sire,' she said, quickly; `I have sent to speak with thee, touching
a matter that lieth very near my heart. How likest thou this fair countess
of Alarcos?'

`Passing well,' answered the king; `she hath a beauteous face, and a
heart full of gentleness and love. Didst observe to-day the bright look of
her proud, maternal eye, when the cardinal praised the beauty of her noble
babe; and the young father, how proudly he glanced around! I would
thou wert well married, girl, and had so brave a boy to bring to the font and
inherit my throne.'

The cheek of the princess suddenly flushed; but the blood retreated to
her heart as rapidly as it gushed from it, while she said calmly:

`And how like you, sire, this Count, my cousin?'

`He is the best knight in Spain! and she the fairest wife. But thou art
ill at ease! What mean these questions you put to me? There is fathom
to them, child, beyond my plummet's reach. Out with thy mind!'

`Thou hast just said thou didst wish me wed. Listen. I will not hide
longer my dishonor and my grief. Thou shalt know the wrong done thy
daughter, king!'

Thus spoke the injured princess; and then raising herself from her couch,
she recounted her wrongs:

`Know, king of Castile, that thou art degraded in thy child. A knight—
'tis shame for me to speak it, but it is to a father's ears, and my vengeance
must not die for want of words, and ears to hear them! a knight of no mean
degree, whom thou hast loved to honor, hath long since plighted to me his
troth. I gave him all my love—all the affection of a woman's bosom poured
I into his! I loved him better than my life, dwelt on his looks and words
with foolish fondness, and in his footstep's faintest sound heard sweetest
music. 'Twere not maidenly to love unwooed; but love, my father, once
awakened in a woman's heart, knoweth no rest to its wing till it nestle
where it would. Noble, proud, and gay-lived, he did not so deeply requite
my passion as I would he should do; yet still I believed he loved me. At
length secretly we plighted troth, and our betrothal was registered in heaven.
After this, his love grew cold, while mine became a flame, consuming me.
We often met, and I as oft did chide him for his indifference; but he would
swear his love unchanged, and so measuring it by my own, I did believe his
oath.'

`And I knew nothing of this love-passage within my very household,' said
the king, who had listened with surprise and impatience. `Who was this
bold knight?'

`Nay, let me go on. He was at length sent from court on a message to
France, and in his absence, saw a maiden whose beauty lured him from his

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love's allegiance; and, forgetful of his oath, his plighted troth, and hundred
vows of love, betrothed her. On his return he saw me not: but getting thy
consent in the very face of his oath to thy daughter, the traitorous knight
hastened to her father's castle, and there wedded her.'

`By the sword of Cid Ruy he dies!' exclaimed the king, rising up and
stamping the floor with indignation and fury. `Who was this perjured
knight—nay, thou couldst place thy love on none beneath thee in blood—
'tis Count Alarcos! Speak, daughter! He alone of all the knights is thy
peer!'

`Thou hast named him, sire! Gertrudis de Roquebetyn was the maiden
for whom a princess of Castille is dishonored!'

`Santiago! but this false traitor shall be well punished. His head shall
roll from the scaffold by to-morrow's sun. A king's daughter is not to be
lightly dishonored, nor a knight's vow lightly broken.'

`Nay, father, let me have this retribution in my own hand. Maiden
shame would withhold the confession, but I still love this recreant knight,
and if he redeem his pledge to me, I can still forgive the past.'

`Stands the matter so,' said the king with surprise. `Then by the rood!
Don Alarcos—for he is thy peer—shall wed thee! He shall on the morrow
divorce this Countess Gertrudis. If he has bound himself in new vows,
old oaths he may not break. Thou shalt not lose a loyal spouse, for a false
lover's treachery. You have erred, daughter, in loving as you did; and
this conduct of Don Alarcos hath brought shame on you as a maiden princess,
and on my grey hairs. While the countess lives, she dishonors thee.
Would thy royal mother was living to counsel thee and me, in this new care
that hath come upon me. Speak, thou, my daughter, and give thy counsel
in this matter.'

`Nay, father,' said the artful princess, who well knew what counsel she
had long cherished for this occasion, `Nay, I have little wit and wisdom to
advise; but, certes, I think the Count Alarcos may cause this usurping countess
to die.'

`The fair Countess perish!' exclaimed the king with a look of surprise
and pain.

`She must die. Let it be noised that sudden disease shortened her tender
life; for her health is now delicate and the rumor would be believed. Then
let the Count Alarcos come to me and redeem his broken vow.'

The king sat for a long space confounded, but at length said sorrowfully,

`It were a pity to put out of life so fair a lady, and she so lately a mother.
It were two murders with one stroke! Nay, I cannot command her death.
Let him be divorced.'

`No!' said the princess sternly; `she must die, and Count Alarcos shall
come and ask me for his wife.'

`I would rather this false Count were slain, for he alone hath done this
foul wrong, and she is innocent.'

`The Count shall live to be my husband! she is not innocent—her peerless
beauty is her guilt. I insist, good king, that she dies.'

The king walked the chamber in great perplexity, for he was much troubled
in mind, having a great desire to spare the sweet and innocent lady's
life; also, to please his daughter, and wipe away her wrong. At length
he said:

`Good daughter, if divorce and a convent for the countess will not gratify
thy revenge, thou shalt have thy will, for foully a king's daughter hath been
wronged. I will order her execution privately, and let it be given out that
sudden sickness took her breath. The Count shall then wed you, and so
none shall know your dishonor.'

`Command that the Count himself be her executioner!' said the princess

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with a look that it would seem only an evil angel could give the full depth
of expression to.

`Himself!' repeated king Ferdinand. `I will no less revenge—no lighter
punishment. With his own hand shall he divide the chain that bound him
to another, when he was bounden to me. This is my vengeance and his
punishment. Long have I cherished it—long have I waited for it! I would
have told thee my dishonor ere this, but I waited till the father should, in
the mother of his child, bind himself to her with new and fresher bonds of
affection, that the task I was to give him to do might weigh heavier upon
his hand, the blow sink deeper into his heart!'

`Thou hast well ripened thy vengeance, Infanta,' said the king, who, although
of a stern and vindictive temper himself, could not listen without
surprise to her plan of finished revenge. `But thou wilt be defeated. The
Count loves her, and will not take her life.'

`Thou must give him the alternative, her life or his own. The block, or
redeem his vow to me!' said the inexorable princess. `Do not hesitate, my
father! Art thou king of this realm, and the head of chivalry, that thou
wilt let pass this wrong to a princess of the realm, or this stain on the honor
of knighthood!'

`No. By my own kingly honor and knightly faith, this shall not go unpunished!
The countess, who hath been the means of this dishonor, shall
die, and the count who inflicted it, shall execute thy vengeance upon her,
therein suffering most thy punishment in himself. By my faith, daughter,
none but a woman would have ripened such a plan. It shall be done. Early
tomorrow I will have speech in private with the Count of Alarcos. Ere
long thou shalt know the issue. A sweet good night, daughter. As a
knight and father, I will avenge the woman and daughter.'

`God speed thee,' answered the Infanta, `and soon bring the Count Alarcos
to my feet.'

The following day the Count Alarcos and his wife were seated in her bower,
playing with their boy, tossing and praising it, he comparing its eyes to
the eyes of its mother, and she proudly likening his dimpled mouth to his.
While they were thus happily engaged, feeling that much as they loved each
other before, they now loved a great deal more, since the birth of their boy,
in whom both saw their loves meeting, there came a king's page with a message,
saying, that the king desired the Count Alarcos to dine with him that
day.

`Now haste thee early from the banquet, love,' said the sweet lady, when
the time came for him to go away; `the hours you pass with me are all sunlight,
while those that keep you absent are alternate clouds and tears.'

Count Alarcos smiled fondly at these words, promised, and embracing her,
kissed his boy which she held up to him, and went his way to the king's
banquet; little guessing, I wot, why the king desired his company. The
feast was a sumptuous one, served in a vast hall hung round with tapestry
of silk and cloth of gold. At each guest's chair, stood a page holding a golden
goblet of wine oft replenished, and servitors many a one in gay apparel,
waited at the kingly board. The Count Alarcos sat by the king's right hand,
and was by him well entertained with courteous cheer; so well did Ferdinand
disguise his intent.

At length, when the banquet was at an end, and the guests had withdrawn
to listen to the singers, or witness the voluptuous motions of the danzarines,
as they danced to the tinkling tabor; the king and the Count of Alarcos being
left alone, the monarch thus began:

`I have heard, Alarcos, strange news since yester e'en. What is this tale,
that you plighted your word and knightly troth to a lady, ere you wedded
your present wife?' And the king fixed his glance closely on the face of
Count Alarcos. The knight started and dropped his eyes, fearing to look at

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the king, who at once saw by his guilty look that the Infanta had told only
what was true of him. `This is a sad thing I hear, Count, that you did
plight yourself to be a husband to my daughter. If more passed, you yourself
know the truth; but thou hast broke thy vow, and brought shame upon
a maiden. Now, by the cross, there is a lady fair doth lie within my daughter's
place. Two wives are not allowed in Spain: yet, certes, thou must
wed my child! Let it be noised that sudden illness seized the countess'
breath, and cut short her tender life; then come and woo my daughter. `If
ought hath passed between you, more than I know, let nothing be said, so
none my dishonor shall know, and you both shall wed in honor.'

`Most gracious liege,' said the Count, `I confess the truth, nor will deny
what I have done. I to the princess did plight my troth, and vowed to wed
her. I have broken my vow in a most unknightly manner, and deserve punishment.
But spare the innocent—let my wife escape thy vengeance! Slay
not the sinless, for the sin of the guilty. Avoid that wicked deed.' And the
Count of Alarcos was full of sorrow.

`Be the deed and its guilt fastened upon thine own treachery, false knight,'
said the king. `If guiltless blood must wash out thy stain, be thou answerable
therefore, for thou hast made the blot that asks such atonement. The
tarnished honor of kings must have innocent blood to restore its purity.—
Thy wife dies, Count.'

`Nay, my liege!' and the Count Alarcos threw himself at the feet of the
king.

`She dies, false and treacherous knight! She must not live to behold another
sun. Ere morning dawn, her life must have its end, and thine own
hand must do the deed.'

`Pardon! grace! your majesty! spare the wife of my bosom!' implored
the Count, bathing his feet with tears.

`There is no remedy! she dies, thou her executianer, or thy own head,
shorn of its locks, shall be brought to the block!' And thus speaking, the
king disengaged himself from his grasp, and left the banquet room.

`Alas! alas!' said the Count of Alarcos, rising to his feet, `how wretched
is my lot! My Gertrudis—my life—my love! I cannot think of thee!—
Doomed, adjudged to death, and I to do the deed! Wo is me! I have
stained the blood of a king by my broken troth, and now my poor innocent
lamb's blood must flow to blot out the dishonor! alas! from my own sin
springs this cruel fate! my wife—my Gertrudis—my child! oh Christ Jesu!
have pity on me!' He crossed the hall with a staggering step, he scarce
knew whither. He leaned against a column near the portal, unable to move
farther, for blindness came over him, and his heart weighed like lead in his
bosom.

`Put to death my dear wife!' he muttered again, moved forward, talking
to himself in tones pitiful to hear; `it is the king's command. I dare not
disobey it, for treason would blot my name! It must be done—I must slay
her—God blame me not, but look upon my great strait! Alas! that one
so young and sinless—the life of my life, should bleed for my sin! alas, that
my love should be her death! Henceforth, sorrow, be thou my bride!'

Thus spoke the wretched and guilty Count of Alarcos; and after staying
to gather strength of heart and body, he dejectedly bent his steps homeward.
It was a weary way, and he could wish he ne'er might reach its end.
He thought of his fair countess, how tenderly she loved him; of his sweet
babe, and how fondly she oherished it. He at length came to the portal and
paused, fearing to enter.

`How, alas!' he said, `shall I meet the cheerful countenance and welcoming
smile of my kind Gertrudis? To see her coming forth with smiles
to meet me, who so soon must be her murderer!'

She heard his footstep, for she was up and watching his return, and ere

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her page could hasten to announce him, she flew and met him in the gate.
Her babe was at her breast, and all the fond hope and love of the wife and
mother beamed in the kind lady's face.

`Thou art come, my husband,' she said, advancing to receive his wonted
embrace; `welcome, my beloved Alarcos—my lord—my life!'

He drops his head and is silent. She arrests her step and gazes on him
with looks of anxiety. `What hath happened, my lord! Your brow looks
sad, and your eyes are red with weeping. Tell, oh, tell your wife!'

`I'll tell thee, sweet wife,' answered Count Alarcos, with a breaking heart;
`I will tell thee—but not now!' He did not look up while he spoke, for he
could not brook in his the gaze of the sweet eyes which so soon his own
deed would seal in death—he could not look on the fair form which so soon
was to be a corpse. `I'll tell thee,' said he sadly, `when we are in your
bower. Let us sup together, and bring me wine, for my heart is sick.'

The countess, though heavy at his sorrow, not knowing how soon she
need weep for herself, set about his repast, and furnished it with her own
hands; not willing her maid should serve her lord when he was sorrowful,
her love telling her the wife doth the best at such a season. He sat by his
board, and she sat beside him. But he could eat nothing for his grief at
which the king had commanded him to do, and sat by her side pale und
sad; nor ate she any thing for his sorrow. She then gently asked him what
ailed him. He did not answer her, but laid his throbbing head upon the
board and the tears flowed fast from his eyes.

`Gertrudis,' he said at length, `I would retire—come thou with me to our
chamber. I fain would sleep.'

She followed him in silence to her bower, where they were wont to sleep;
but I ween there was little sleep that night in that place. The Countess laid
herself weeping upon her breast. Never had she laid down with so heavy
a heart. Her husband, whose untold grief—alas, full soon he made known
its cause—had made her sorrowful, walked the chamber long and with a
troubled step. Her eye followed each step he made with anxious tenderness.
Suddenly he barred the chamber door, and with a dark and heavy
visage came near her as she lay, her baby upon her breast, for though it had
two nurses, it loved best the nourishment its mother gave it. Poor babe!
how should this have plead for thy mother's life with thy cruel sire! She
looked up and smiled as he came near. He heeded not the look of love, but
said,

`Alas, unhappy lady—thou art of all wives the most to be pitied; I of all
men!'

`Nay, my lord and noble husband,' she said, smiling sweetly; `she who
is Count Alarcos's wife can never be unhappy!'

`In that very word, unhappy woman, lies all your misery—is gathered all
your wo. Ere I beheld you I was betrothed to the Princess Beatriz. Shame
and seeking opportunity for revenge hath kept her silent until now. She
has to-day divulged it to my lord the kind, and claims me for her own!
Alas! The right is on their side! The king has this day said that since
you hold his daughter's rightful place, you this night must die!' It was
with pain and anguish Count Alarcos spoke these words of shame, and the
tears flowed while he spoke. The Countess rose up in her couch and said
bitterly,'

`Are these the wages of my long and fond affection, my noble husband?
Have I not been to thee a leal and lowly wife? Reward not my true love
with death!'

`It may not be,' said the Count sternly.

`Oh, slay me not! see I kneel at thy feet; spare my life—spare thy sweet
boy's life, which is lodged within my breast; send me back to my noble father's,
from whence you took me not two years ago, a gleeful bride; there

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will I live a chaste and secluded life, and rear my noble boy to manhood
for thee; oh, kill me not, noble Count.'

`My oath is given—I've sworn to the king thy death. Ere dawn of day
you die.'

`Thou wilt not slay me, my husband.'

`I would not—for thou art my life? But else knightly dishonor and disgrace,
and the infamy of the ignominious block await me. I take thy life to
save my honor, not my life.'

`Alas!' said the lovely Countess, rising from her knees, her brown hair
falling loosely adown her snowy robe, and the tears flowing from her eyes;
`alas! this is because I am alone, and my father is far distant, and old and
frail. Were my brave brother alive, thou wouldst not do this wicked deed.
It is my helplessness that maketh this coward king to force my death. But
'tis not death that terrifies me. No. I fear it not—for my soul with God's at
peace: but I am loth to leave my dear babe so!' and she pressed the infant
to her bosom, and kissed it, as if her heart were breaking.

`Now, be thou ready,' said the count, looking away. `Give me the
child.'

`One more kiss?' she cried, and clung to it as if she would never separate
from it. But he took it from her and lay it upon the bed. She knelt,
and folding her hands across her bosom, said a prayer. She then rose up
and said, stretching her hands towards her babe, which cried a little at missing
her,

`Let me, kind Alarcos, give my poor boy one drink more; one farewell
drink before my breast be cold.'

`Why prolong the pain and bitterness of this hour,' he said. `Prepare,
sweet wife, there is no time to give, for the dawn already is breaking in the
east.'

`Be kind, thou wicked Count, yet still-loved husband; be kind, I pray
thee, to my poor dear babe! See, he sleeps.'

`Be ready, Gertrudis.'

`Hear me, Count of Alarcos. I give thee my forgiveness for this cruel
deed, for the love's sake wherewith I have loved thee, since first we met.—
Thee, I freely pardon. But the king and cruel princess, here, in God's sight
I call His curse upon them for their unchristian deed of slaughter. I charge
them with my last dying word, to meet me in the realm of death, and at
God's throne, ere the moon, which now is new, makes her round complete.
'

She knelt before him, and gave him her scarf, which had been his birthday
gift, saying softly, `shed not my blood, but with this stop my breath,'
awaited her piteous doom.

He looked not in her face; he sought no parting glance from her sweet
blue eyes, upturned to their own azure heaven; but putting the scarf around
her snowy neck, which gently bent to meet the death, he drew it tight and
strong, and held her thus, until the heart which so often had beat against
his, ceased! and stiff and cold she lay extended along the floor. He raised
her then upon the couch, and covering her with a white robe, knelt by her
side, and cried in misery and woe to Jesu and Mary mother. But dark and
iron were the heavens above him, and his black and guilty soul found no
hope or comfort from its fell remorse. He rose up to his feet, and unbarring
his chamber door, called louded for his esquires. When they came in,
and looked with dismay upon her, as she lay before them dead, he said,

Look on and weep! In her innocence she hath died. Ne'er was sweeter
lady in all Spain, or one more void of wrong! In her innocence they
have slain her, and God will take heed of their offence!'

Thus died by a cruel king's command, a haughty princess' vengeance, and

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a false knight's treachery, a sweet, innocent lady, and sooth, God's vengeance
staid not long.

Ten days thereafter, while the princess Beatriz was seated in her hall,
with her maids and gentlemen around her, thinking in heart how soon she
would wed the Count Alarcos, there was seen by all present, to enter the
hall, a knight in black armor, with his visor down, who strait approached
her. She looked up, and saw him, and instantly turned pale, and a look of
mortal fear came over her countenance. The knight strode near, and silently
took her hand, which she, unresisting, gave him.

`Thou would'st wed, princess,' he said in a deep tone; `come with me, I
will be thy bridegroom.'

She uttered not a word, made no effort to remain; but with her eyes set in
horror, her cheeks like marble, and a tottering step, she suffered him to lead
her forth through the hall. Without, stood two steeds, a black and a white
one. Placing her upon the white one, he leaped upon the other, and taking
her bridle in his hand, they dashed away from the palace, toward the gates,
at full speed; but well, I ween, no horses with such riders passed through
the gates that day, and never was the Princess Beatriz heard of more. She
had obeyed the call of the innocent Countess, and gone to meet her `in the
realms of death!'

Ten days after the fearful doom of the hapless princess, the king, who
ceased not to mourn for her, and tremble for himself, was riding at the head
of his knights, on his way to say mass at the cathedral, for the deliverance
of the soul of his unhappy daughter. At the door of the church, a gigantic
knight in full armor, mounted on a black horse, stood in his path. When
the king saw him, his heart trembled, and his spirit failed him.

`If thou would'st say mass, king Ferdinand,' said the knight, `ride with
me.'

`Whither?' demanded the fear-stricken and guilty king.

`Into the realms of death.'

And thus speaking, the knight took the bridle of the king's steed in his
hand, and the two horsemen, in the sight of all present, galloped away in the
direction of the gatrs: but, I wot, no porter saw such riders pass forth the
city gates that day.

The moon was waning into her decreasing horn, when the Count, who
had not ceased to weep the deed he had so cruelly done, and had kept his
chamber, was startled by the appearance before him, of the spirit of his
slaughtered wife. Her face was grave, but the look was not angry.

`Count Alarcos, the moon has waned, and the guilty king and princess
have been summoned before the awful bar of God. Thou art wanted to
bear witness at their judgment and be thyself adjudged. Come, my husband,
thou art summoned to the realms of death!'

When the Count's attendants entered his chamber the next morning, they
were filled with dismay at seeing their lord's body, lying cold and stiff along
the chamber floor. Thus the cry of innocence was heard in Heaven, and
three guilty spirits stood together, summoned before the judgment-seat of
Christ.

Thus ended the tale of the Sieur de Linant, in which, all the knights
were deeply interested. They all condemned Count Alarcos for breaking
his faith to the princess at the first; but having broken it and married the
fair lady Gertrudis, it became him to keep faith to her. Respecting his duty
in obeying the king, and thereby slaying his own wife, there was a difference
of sentiment; the German and Venetian knights saying that he could
do no otherwise; the Roman and Scottish knights saying that he was guilty
of cowardly murder, and should have withstood the king, and rather been
slain; and the Roman knight, with whom Sieur de Linant sided, averring
that if he did kill her, he should have killed himself also, over her body.

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The English knight, however, rising up, said with great warmth,

`From first to last, this Count Alarcos hath proved himself a false knight,
and base knave. He was false in vowing to love the princess, when he loved
her not; but having plighted his troth, he was pledged to redeem it. The
beauty, gentleness, and peerless charms of the lady Gertrudis, whom he saw
afterwards, were no excuse for breach of faith towards one less lovely, or
less loved. By his marriage he was false to both; for while his oath had
been given to the princess, he could not bind himself to the Countess Gertrudis.
His old oath stood, and he could make no new one. When, at
length, the king, inspired by the Infanta, commanded him to slay her, he
should rather have held his spurs to the armorer's axe, bent his head to the
block, and suffered the ignominy and the death. But, instead, he sacrifices
innocence; that he may preserve his innocence untainted. By the lion heart
of Richard Plantagenet! he did bring upon himself and knighthood greater
dishonor, by his craven and guilty deed, than the rolling of a hundred
knight's heads from the scaffold. He was a treacherous, base, and craven
knight, and unworthy of name or place in the roll of chivalry. God judge
him; for, by the cross, methinks he hath greater guilt than those who set
him on.'

The English knight, Sir Henry Percie, having thus spoken, all the knights
including the Spanish knight, agreed with him. And so Don Fernando
having failed to prove the precedence of Spanish knighthood, as represented
in the person and prowess of the Count of Alarcos, it fell to the lot of
Signor Pier Farnese, the Venetian knight, to relate a tale of Venetian chivalry,
at their next encampment.

CHAPTER IV. Pier Vernese, the Venetian Knight.

[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]

The fourth day of their journey, as the sun was declining below the Sierra
Moeda, leaving a golden effulgence suffusing all the sky, the company
of cavaliers approached a stately castle, the abode of a famous knight, Don
Alonzo de Aguilar, now stricken in years. He was seated in his hall, before
an open casement, looking forth upon the highway, as they slowly
wound up the valley. His grand-daughter was reading to him an ancient
ballad called `The Lady of the Tree; for though no longer able to engage
in knightly achievements, and do chivalrous deeds for love and lealty, he
delighted to sit in his oaken chair and listen to the sweet voice of Donna
Violante; and certes, never were ballads given in sweeter melody than discoursed
in her low musical tones. This is the ballad the maiden was reading
to the old knight:

[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]

`He was a false knight, child,' said the old noble, when Donna Violante
had ended; `he should have forthwith delivered the charmed maiden from
her thralment! For such emprises is chivalry maintained!'

`She rightly treated him, sire, by not speaking to him, for all his kneeling
on the sword,' said Donna Violante; no doubt this shameful knight killed
himself in the wood, as he promised.'

`He should ha' done it, daughter! But what company journeyeth hitherward?
Look!—thy eyes are young. I see the glancing of steel and the
flutter of bonnets.'

`It is a brave company of knights and men-at-arms, sire,' exclaimed Donna
Violante, clapping her bands and looking delighted as she gazed forth
`One, two, five, seven brave knights are riding in advance, on prancing
steeds, and their esquires and retinue come up behind!'

`They doubtless come from the tournament, and journey homeward. It
is evening, and they should soon encamp. Let us go forth to the castle
gate, and as they ride past I will offer them hospitality.'

When the knights got opposite the great gate of the castle, not knowing
its lord, they were riding by, when suddenly they beheld it thrown open,
and the old noble appear, his locks white as wool, leaning on his sweet
grand-daughter's arm.

`God save you all, gentle knights,' he said, waving his hand for them to
stop; the day is past, and it is many a mile to hamlet or hostel; and I should
bring shame upon my head to let so brave a company take lodging in the
forest, when my castle hath roof and room. So alight, fair cavaliers, and
share the hospitality of Alonzo de Aguilar.'

When the knights heard this name, and so knew who the fine old knight
was, they one and all lifted their travelling honnets and did him reverence,
for chivalry acknowledged no better or nobler name than his. Donna Violante
modestly seconded the hospitable invitation of her grandsire, and the
knights, thanking them for their courtesy, which would not be said nay,
rode into the court of the castle, and became their guests for the night.

After the hospitable meal, which Donna Violante and her maids had
quickly provided for them, was over, the whole party remained seated in
pleasant talk around the board. Sir Henry Percie, whose heart was deeply
smitten by the gentle beauty of the fair hostess, being seated near her, was
entertaining her with accounts of the tournament, and of his journey, and
how they had beguiled the hour of their encampment, by tales of each other's
lands. On hearing this, Donna Violante signified her desire that the
Venetian knight, whose lot Sir Henry Percie had told her it was, should relate
his story for the evening's pastime. The old knight of Aguilar, also
pressing him to tell it, he thus began;

`It was in the year 1204,' began the handsome and gallant signor Pier
Farnese, looking respectfully towards the maiden, `when the combined
chivalry of France and Venice lay before Constantinople. The bosom of
the Golden Horn was covered with the war galleys of the Venetians, and
its shores were white with the warlike tents of their allies, the Franks.—
The siege had lasted long, and yet the infidel Turks held their city untouched
by a Christian foot, though a hundred thousand soldiers of the cross were
encamped around her gates within bolt shot. One brilliant morning the

[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]

rising sun shimmered the rippling Bosphorus with liquid gold, flashed back
from a hundred minarets of silver, and blazed from myriads of lances,
helms and banners. The fleet of numerous war galleys looked like burnished
barks in the radiant splendor of its beams, and the satin tents of the
princes and chief knights lining the green shores of the Bosphorus, shone
like palaces of pearl. Never such morning beamed on such gallant show;
while from the minarets was heard the loud cry of the muezzin of `Allah il
allah,' calling the infidel to prayer, mingling with trumpets of the Christian
hosts assembling to battle outside the walls. It was the fortieth day of the
siege, and the Turks had kept themselves so close within their city that no
warlike deed had yet been done. There was many a brave knight, who,
riding up to the city gates, threw defiance at the Saracen, and challenged a
combatant, but none up to this time had appeared to answer any of these
numerous invitations to fair and open battle.

In the midst of this brilliant and stirring scene on the morning I have described,
the attention of Turk, Gascon and Venetian, was drawn to a superb
galley that suddenly shot round a point of the Golden Horn, and gallantly
and swiftly approached the Doge's galley of state. It was a fair and stately
vessel, with three banks of plashing oars, and it skimmed the waters as if
its feathery sweeps were living wings. On all sides, as it advanced into the
port, were heard exclamations of delight and surprise at its great velocity,
as well as at its splendor; for many a morn one would look seaward and
not such a bark behold! It had three tall masts of cedar, polished like ivory;
broad sails of blue satin; a burnished poop of beaten gold, and on her
lofty prow was perched the bronzed eagle of St. Marc. Her decks were
bristling with casques, cuisses and shields, and ever and anon a shout would
be borne therefrom over the water, which was answered back from galley
and camp.

`By the good rood, messieurs,' said Charles of Anjou, who from his tent
beheld the approach of the galley; `this is a fair show! Hath Cleopatra
risen from the sea to visit us? 'Tis a Venetian bark by her sign of the lion
of San Marco! Who knoweth her?'

`It must be the nephew of the Doge, my liege, the young knight Medici
de Contavini, who is daily looked for to join us,' answered one.

`He must be a rare youth to come in such guise! By my beard, I would
have sworn a maiden sailed in you pretty toy! Yet, 'fore God! there is
good warlike show of steel heads on her decks, and her rowers have sinews!
'

`'Tis said he is a gallant, my liege, and spendeth great incomes upon his
apparel; yet I have heard he knoweth how to use steel as well as glitter in
gold!'

`Certes, he shall here have opportunity,' said the French king. `Methinks
such gairish outside should be a braggart's! We will try him. See,
he hath anchored his gilded plaything by the Doge's galley, which with its
iron prow, steel plated poop, tall black sides and warlike garniture contrasts
it well.'

The Doge, in the meanwhile, the brave, blind old Dandolo, received the
newly arrived knight on board his galley with an affectionate embrace, and
leading him into his room of state, there discoursed with him of Venice.—
The same afternoon, Charles of Anjou gave an entertainment to the chief
knights of Venice and of France, in his princely tent. The young knight
Medici di Contavini was invited and came. He was a tall, finely moulded
young man, clad in armor of Damascus steel, embossed and inlaid with
gold. His lose were silk, worked with gold; he wore a collar of diamonds,
clasped with an emerald, and jewels of great beauty sparkled on the cross

[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]

of his sword. The pole of his lance was of cedar wood, inlaid with silver'
and an amethyst was set in its handle. Gloves of chamois, worked with
the needle in brilliant devices, and scented with perfumes, were on his
hands, and a gorgeous cap, adorned with a priceless pearl, was upon his
head. He was mounted on a snow-white palfrey, with housings of cloth of
gold, with a tread as dainty as a lady's. When Charles of Anjou who was
clad in mailed steel, without ornament, saw him approach, he spoke some
words of contempt to those around him, and when he came up, received
him with ill grace, not concealing his dislike. The Venetian knight did not
heed this manner; but gracefully saluted him, and dismounting, gave his
palfrey in charge to a page, who, scarce less richly attired than his master,
had attended him, riding a slender-limbed snow-white Arabian.

`Now, by my knighthood,' said Anjou to an English knight, `I have not
seen in Christendom such discredit to Christian arms. He bringeth contempt
on chivalry, and is only fit for spoil to these mussulmen, who, if they
knew what a gay popinjay we had in camp, would make a special sally for
his capture. So long as they know they would get only steel and iron
knocks, they have kept close enough.'

Thus spoke the brave and rough French prince before the banquet began;
and took thence no further heed of the knight of Venice; who mating
with cavaliers of his own age, soon made himself quite at his ease.

The entertainment was sumptuous and hospitable as became a prince's
board. The discourse among the guests was of the long leaguer that probably
was before them ere they could take the city. Many a plan was discussed
for shortening the seige; but none pleased the prince, who, knowing the
strength of the walls, was content to get the victory by-and-by with patient
waiting for it. After several knights had spoke their minds of the matter,
the young Venitian knight, Medici di Contavini, having listened to each
with great attention, rose up and said,

`It were no difficult matter, methinks, to take the city! The infidels are
brave in their defences! A well-directed attack upon the gate over against
St. Sophia, would be successful, and entrance once made, the city would fall
into our hands.'

`It were easy to get words, sir Venitian,' scornfully answered Charles of
Anjou, who with all the knights present, had looked on the speaker with
surprise; `words are easily got: but deeds we want!'

`My liege,' said a young French knight present, `this gilded cavalier did
openly boast without the tents, before we sat down to the repast, that he
with a thousand men could easily take the city; and wondering much that
we should lay thus quietly before its gates.'

`Said he so?' shouted Anjou fiercely.

`I did, noble prince,' said the young Medici in a firm tone.

`Then by the throne of France, you shall not want the occasion to put
your words to proof!'

`If you will place at my command one thousand men, I will, ere to-morrow's
sun, plant the standard of St. Marc where over yonder gate now waves
the cresent of the infidel!'

`Good words these, fair sir,' said Charles, who was not a little astonished
to hear such come from a `boudoir knight,' as he had contemptuously termed
him when he first beheld him. `Seven times we have been driven back
from her gates with great loss of life.'

`Give me the men I ask, and the deeds they betoken shall be as good,'
answered Medici de Contavini, with quiet determination. `If I fail, let my
head answer it.'

`By Saint Dennis! but his speech rings like good metal, if there be gilt
atop,' said the prince to those near by. Thou shalt have thy wish, sir

[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]

knight. As this is a venture of thy own seeking, and in which we have little
faith, and do consent to it only to punish thy vain boasting, the condition
of thy failure shall be the loss of thy spurs; they being of gold will serve
the soldiers better than they will have done thee, by being coined into sterling
bezants.'

The Venetian knight little heeded the contemptuous manner of the
French king, nor the smiles of the knights, who could not help comparing
his bravery of words with the fippery of his apparelling.

`When wilt thou go on this emprise to take the city for us, sir knight of
the casket?' asked the king's fool.

`I am now ready, good fool; wilt be my esquire?' replied the knight
playfully; so that all wondered that he kept his temper so colly.

`Art ready say'st thou?' demanded the king! `'Tis two hours to the setting
of the sun, a short time forsooth, in which to take a city. But so doughty
a knight need not have many minutes in achieving the exploit he boasts
of. If thou art ready, I will soon have not only one, but five thousand halberds,
and a hundred lances a-saddle!'

The young Venetian smiled haughtily, and rising from the table, went
out, the knights and gentlemen also going after him. At the prince's command,
a thousand stout men-at-arms, all in iron breast and back pieces
filed before his tent; and a hundred knights mounted on proud and pawing
horses, with great bravery of targets and glittering lances, their banners all
displayed, pranced by with waving plumes, and beneath each corselet a
buoyant heart and bold.

All the while the young Venetian knight, whose words had called forth
this warlike cavalcade, stood near the prince, calm and unmoved, watching
the brave show of war. When he saw that all had passed by, and were
ready marshalled on the plain, he turned to his page and spoke low in his
ear. The boy left him and the prince said,

`Now, sir Venetian, the lances I lend thee are in rest, waiting thee to
mount. By the mass, I look to see thy jewelled mail rolling in the dust
beneath yonder towers, if thou darest trust thy perfumed locks so near
them! But the issue be thine!'

`Noble prince of Anjou, that a knight's valor lieth not in his apparel but
in his heart, I trust this day to teach thee and thy gentlemen,' answered
Medici di Contavini.

The prince was about to reply hastily, when his attention was drawn to
an esquire of gigantic stature, armed cap-a-pie, in plain iron mail, mounted
upon a brown horse of large size, and leading a jet black steed glittering
with Milan mail. This esquire rode up to the Venetian knight, and dismounting,
gave him a polished steel helmet in place of his golden one,
which his page took from him; an iron collar for the jewelled one he wore;
a cuirass of proof mail, and a sword with an iron hilt, in exchange for the
one with the jewelled handle; stout gauntlets of steel replaced his perfumed
chamois gloves; and iron boots with iron spurs, the embroidered hose.

The transformation was soon made; and the late beau cavalier stood before
the surprised Charles of Anjou, a well-appointed knight, clad in steel
from head to heel. Ere he could express his surprise, Medici di Contavini
receiving his horse from his esquire, leaped into his steel saddle and
sat erect thereon, before the prince and the whole camp of warriors.—
Charles of Anjou gazed a moment upon the warlike and knightly figure
which the Venetian presented, then struck his gauntlet-armed hand upon
his thigh, and swore ne'er knight of braver presence had sat on horseback
before him.

`Fore God! brave Venetian, I have done thee wrong, I fear me,' said Anjou
bluntly.

[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]

`Let the issue of this day tell,' answered the knight of Venice quietly.
`If you have given me these brave knights and soldiers to aid me in my enterprise,
let me at once lead them forth.'

The knight of Medici then placed himself at the head of the troops, the
trumpets sounded with loud and stirring notes; and in sight of the whole
French army and fleet of Venetian galleys, the young Venetian knight rode
at easy pace across the plain, towards the city walls. When the Mussulmen,
from the towers and battlements, beheld this warlike array approach
ing the principal gate of their city, the alarm flew round that the whole
christian army was moving to the attack. The infidel leaders gathered
their forces at the weakest points, the walls were trebly manned, and every
preparation was made to meet the anticipated assault.

When Medici de Contavini had come at the head of his hundred lances
and thousand mounted men-at-arms within hearing of the gate, he rode a
little ways in advance of his followers, who kept back from the arrows
which the Turks began to shower from the walls, and sounding his bugle
called for a parley.

The Turkish prince Saladin, admiring the courage which rode so fearlessly
amid falling shafts as if it were a shower of snow-flakes instead of
steel heads, bade his bowmen and archers cease discharging their missiles.

`What wouldst thou, christian knight?' demanded Saladin, `that thou
bravest death to get speech of me?'

The knight made no answer, but riding closer to the gates intently surveyed
them, his motive being to stop the flight of the arrows till he could
carefully inspect their strength. Saladin waiting for him to reply, unwittingly
let him take a good view of the defences before he suspected his intention;
which he no sooner began to do than he sent upon him such a
cloud of yard-long shafts that the air was darkened above his head. They
rattled against his helmet, shield and corselet, like hail; but this brave knight
knew well the proof of his good armour. Slowly he rode back to the hundred
knights who had witnessed his courage and now respected him as
much for his bravery of soul as before they had held him in contempt for
his finery of apparel.

`Noble knights and men-at-arms,' he said lifting his visor and addressing
them, `I find I have made your prince Charles of Anjou a hasty promise
to raise in one day a city which should, as I find on viewing its high
walls and brazen gates, well nigh cost a year! But I have given my
knights pledge and will redeem it if my life be the forfiet. I would, ye
were assure of possessing yonder city to-night as I am of my grave. But
repentance comes too late. I have idly given my pledge and will redeem
it. Once more I shall approach to yonder gate, and when you see them
open it, if by stratagem I can prevail on them to do so, it shall be my part
to keep it open till you enter.'

Thus speaking this brave knight turned his horse's head and devoutly
saying an Ave, spurred a second time alone back towards the gate.

`Saint Dennis! but this knight means to out do chivalry this day;' said
Charles of Anjou, who saw him again advance; `he is either mad or the
devil in mail. See him wave his head to the Turk!'

When Saladin saw the knight come forward before the gate a second
time, he forbade his bowmen to shoot their arrows; thinking that he was
under a vow to some lady, and was fulfilling it by this bravery; and being
a good knight himself and not fearing any danger to the city from a single
man, he was inclined to see the issue of it.

The infidel prince had rightly guessed the secret of the adventurous daring
of the Venetian knight. He loved a fair and noble lady, the daughter

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of the Duke of Nuben, who, promised to reward his love only when a
christian banner should be placed by his hand on the wall of Constantinople.
It was this vow that brought the knight now to the siege, and led
him by boasting words to induce Charles of Anjou to give him men for
making the attempt. Thus the words of Medici di Contavini, were not
the mere vain bravado of a fool-hardy boaster, but the leal love of a brave
knight, seeking glory which was to have such reward. How he was to effect
his object he knew not when he went forth from the banqueting tent;
but he had resolved not to return to the French camp till he had succeeded
or fallen in the attempt, All that truest valor, though strangely mixed with
an extravagant love of gorgeous and costly display, could effect he knew
he was able to achieve. The rest, like a pious knight whose heart was
Heaven's and his ladye-loves, he left to God!

Slowly and composedly he pranced up towards the bronzed gates, his
visor closed, his lance in rest, and seated in his saddle like a rock. It was
a gallant sight, and the eye of Christian and Infidel was on him as he rode.

`Ho, sir knight, dost thou mean to break thy lance at our city gate? If
such be thy vow, Allah speed thee!' cried Saladin scornfully, as he came
nearer than before he had done.

`Come down hither, infidel prince, and let my lance find better target
than thy gate, against thy breast-plate,' cried Medici di Contarini, laughtily.

`God and his prophet! But thou art full insolent for a Christian dog,'
cried Saladin, angrily. `If thou wert not a beardless boy by the beard of
Mahomet, I would come down and meet thee!'

The knight, riding within fifty yards, stopped before the gate brandishing
his lance, taunting him with cowardice, and calling upon him to come forth
and meet him in single combat. But Saladin wisely kept his place upon
his tower.

`If thou wilt not come open your gate then, and let forth twelve of your
infidel knights of unbelieving Mahouri, and I will encounter them in fair
battle,' he cried, coolly, while displaying before the armed legions upon the
walls, marvellous feats of horsemanship, with the same ease and grace of
carriage, as if he were disporting himself at a tournament. Never had the
Turks witnessed such bold courage; never had the French knights known
such fool-hardiness; for such they termed it while they admired his fearless
bearing and insensibility to danger.

Medici Contarini was not herein acting without purpose, however, as the
event will show! Failing to irritate the Turkish prince who stood upon the
wall in his gold wrought turban and jewelled tahali, so far as to induce him
to come out and give him fair combat, and finding none of the Saracen
knights disposed to accept his challenge, he resolved upon a course which
would he believed induce the Turks to make a sally; for from the strength
of the walls and gates he saw that no human efforts from without, could
open them; and that unless they were unbarred voluntarily from within,
he was likely to lose both his mistress and his knighthood. Suddenly putting
spurs to his steed he turned as if to flee. As he expected his feigned
flight drew after him a discharge of arrows and lances, to escape which he
bent to the saddle bow covering himself with his shield. The Moors on
seeing him turn shouted their war-cry in triumphant defiance at this flight
of the Christian champion, while Charles of Anjou and his knights felt
mortified at the sight.

`By the cross! I knew he was but a carpet knight, the gilded craven,'
cried Charles angrily. `Ha! he hath turned back and gallops towards the
gate again! See! The air above him is darkened with feathered shafts!

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He hath a charmed life or weareth the armour of William the Norman.—
Let us see the issue of this.'

Medici di Contavini finding that his flight had, as he desired, drawn upon
him a discharge of arrows, after riding away a little distance from the walls,
be all at once turned his horse and rode at full speed back again. The
Moors, seeing this, for a moment ceased discharging their missiles from surprise.
He dashed forward at full speed with his lance poised and his
shield covering his head, and when he came near enough he launched
his spear with great force at the oaken pillar of the gate where it struck
quivering!

`Behold, Saladin,' he cried in a loud voice which reached Charles of
Anjou, `a Christian spear with a christian cross thereon striking in the holy
gate of Saint Sophia. If thou art a true follower of Mahoun and hast the
courage of one of thy Nubian slaves thou wilt come down and pluck it
out!'

`By the sacred coffin of Mahomet, the Christian dog hath placed a curse
upon our city!' cried Saladin, on the wall to his soldiers around him. `Let
it not be bruited through Christendom that no Saracen knight was found
who dare remove it. I would have a huge stone slung upon the dog, but
knighthood would say none dare go down while he is before the gate. He
who goes forth must do it in his face. A thousand golden bezants, a horse
and suit of armour to him who will pluck me that accursed spear.'

None moved; for the prowess and bold daring and seemingly charmed
life of the Christian knight struck terror into their breasts, and while he sat
there upon his saddle like an iron tower, ready to fall upon them, no one
dared go out the gate.

`Now, by the prophets' sword!' said Saladin, `this dishonor shall never
be said of us. Give me my horse and armour.'

When his knights saw that he would himself ride forth they then offered
to go. But he would not listen to them, and arming himself and mounting
his war-horse he ordered the postern, a small gate beside the great gates, to
be thrown open; and clad in a rich coat of Damascus mail, with a glittering
crescent upon his helmet and a gleaming sabre in his hand be rode beneath
the narrow arch attended only by a gigantic Eunuch in sable armour. No
sooner did the Venetian kinght see the postern open and Saladin himself
ride forth, than he knew that the good Christ had given the infidel hold
into the hand of the Christian.

Proudly and fearless rode the Saracen prince forth his gate, and with one
stroke of his sabre shivered to pieces the lance and trampled its cross-shaped
head beneath the iron hoofs of his war horse. Then turning his charger
round he took his lance from the Nubian, set it in rest and charged the
christian knight, like a thunderbolt. Medici di Contavini bad no lance
wherewith to meet the Saracen's charge, and setting firm in bis saddle till
he had come close upon him, he suddenly leaped to the earth, leaving his
noble horse to be the sacrifice. The infidel who had calculated on overthrowing
horse and rider, was too near to turn aside and came against the
horse with such a shock as to cast him over headlong upon the earth. As
he passed him in the onset the Venitian gave him a back stroke with his
sword that made him reel in his saddle. Saladin turned short round and
setting his lance again charged the knight now afoot, who, nothing daunted
now awaited him. The infidel's advancing lance was turned aside with his
shield and his own well directed sword point entered between the joints of
the mail and penetrating the heart of his steed slew him upon the spot, while
Saladin was overthrown. The Eunuch flew to his aid and the brave Venetian
Knight with a courtesy as great as his courage waited to let him assist
his lord to his feet. They now renewed the contest fiercely on foot with

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their heavy swords, and the noise of their weapons as they fell upon each
other's mail was like that of armourers at work at their forge. At length a
heavy stroke of the Christian knight's sword fetched the Saracen to his knee:
a second brought him upon his face.

`Now ask thy life and yield thou the keys of the city,' cried Medici di
Contavini placing his sword point to his hearded throat.

`Not to a Christian dog,” he muttered through the bars of his visor, as he
lay upon his back.

`Then let dogs lick thy blood,' answered the Christian knight; and he
was pressing the sharp point of his weapon deep into the jugular of his neck,
when the Nubian assailed him with great fierceuess; while at the same
time several Turkish knights followed by soldiers of the guard rushed forth
afoot to the rescue of their prince, who, for the honor of Islam had thus put
his life in jeopardy.

`Now, by our knighthood it is time we gave our champion aid also,' said
the company of hundred knights he had left on the plain; and shouting

`Monjoie, monjoie! to the rescue,' they galloped at speed to the succor of
the knight, who, standing astride the fallen prince, had defended himself
singly a few moments against the eunuch, and then slew him ere the Turks
could come near. Fiercely, with cries of Allah il Allah they set upon him
ten to one; and as ten to one he kept them at bay. When he was the hardest
beset, and had twice got wounded, two knights of Gascony who had
got in advance of their companions, gave him their help. The Turks seeing
their prince still down and those who went to succor him hard pressed,
as knight after knight of the hundred came near and gave him his blow,
they threw open their gates and let forth a troop of three hundred horse who
charged upon the French knights with loud outcries.

`Now, God and St. Dennis!' cried Charles of Arjou seeing from the door
of his tent things at this crisis, `it is time we took horse! This gilded knight
hath turned out an iron warrior, and faith, is likely to give us the city as he
boasted! Onward to the assault knights all, each at the head of his own
battalion.'

The thousand men-at-arms whom Charles had sent with Medici di Contavini,
seeing the sally of the three hundred Turks, now came up to the aid
of the Knights, and a general battle ensued around the christian knight and
the fallen Saracen. Medici di Contavini seeing this, took Saladin's sword
from his grasp, thrust him through the neck, and then at one blow severed
his head from his body. Displaying it on high, he leaped with it upon the
horse of a Turk whom he hurled from it, crying aloud,

`Behold the head of Saladin!'

There was a loud and terrible cry from the fighting mussulmen, which
was echoed from the walls, at this sight, and those who had sallied from the
gates turned and fled in great panic to regain the city.

But Medici di Contavini anticipating this, had got before them, and followed
by his esquire and a score of French knights, got to the gates first, on
which those who kept it began with great haste to close them. The Christians
however, were too soon upon them; and Medici di Contavini, cutting
to the earth the warden, tore the heavy iron keys from his grasp, and for a
moment stood singly defending them and the opening of the gates which
other Turks would have closed. When the knight and his esquire got within
they quickly slew those around it and flung wide the leaves of the gates,
through which now poured the flying Turks closely pressed and mixed up
with the Christians. Thus like a mighty torrent of two rivers meeting and
foreing itself between rocky barriers, this fierce tide of battle flowed through
the broad portal into the city.

Medici di Contavini first sought the flight of stone stairs leading to the

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two towers above the arch of the gate where waved the green banner of the
Prophet crowned with the silver crescen:. Desperately did the Turks defend
the passage; but the brave Medici knew not what it was to give back,
and aided by those behind he pressed forward and upward till he stood upon
the terrace. Before him at the summit of a gilded pole, floated in the sunlight
the flag of the infidel. With a single stroke of his cross hilted dagger,
for his sword had been broken in the fight, he severed the silken cords that
fixed it in the air, and down it came earthward fluttering like a wounded
bird. A loud and triumphant shout rose from the van of the christian army
which was rolling like a deep sea against the walls, the Prince of Anjou in
advance conspicuous with his snowy plume. Onward he galloped at the
head of a thousand knights and entered, amid the clash of arms and the
shrieking of trumpets, the gate beneath him.

`Now, fair Biancha thou art mine,' cried the victorious knight as he
caught the descending flag and cast it beneath his feet! And thus I win
thee and give the infidel city to God!' As he said these words he ascended
the staff, and striking the silver crescent from its top, planted deep in its
stead his dagger, the hilt of which was a crucifix.

`Now for the flag of Venice and San Marco to float beneath it.'

His page, as he spoke, sprang to his side unfolding the Venitian Eagle!
The next moment the broad flag of the city of the Isles, was waving to the
breeze and flashing in the sun above the Moslem towers!

`Make room too for France beneath it, brave Venitian,' said Charles of
Anjou appearing on the terrace with dented shield, blood streaming sword,
and soiled plume; and giving him, with his own hand the colors of France,
the knight hoisted them with those of the Eagle and Lion of St. Mark.

`Now, valorous Medici di Contavini, said the prince, `let me embrace the
best knight in Europe!'

And thus saying, Charles of Anjou took the brave Venetian in his arms
before all his chivalry. But the favor of the prince, the possession of the
city, the glory he had won, were all less to him than the love of his lady.—
The battle meanwhile raged fiercely in the city, and great was the slaughter
of the infidels. By the time the sun had gone down beneath the waves of
the Hellespont, Constantinople was in the hands of the French and Venitians,
and the cross of Christ was floating above every tower and citadel of
Islam. The honors that fell to Medici di Contavini for this gallant achievement
which had placed the capital of Islam in the hands of the Christians,
were modestly received and humbly worn as became such a valorous knight.
The next day the prince gave a banquet in the hall of the Emperial Seraglio
and when all the Knights present looked to see the Champion of Christendom
as they termed him, appear in the armor he had fought so well in, great
was their surprise to see him enter, flashing with gems and gay in silks and
velvet, with waving plumes dancing above his fragrant locks, and instead
of his iron gauntlet, gloves of chamois, sweet scented with ottar; his motion
as he moved, sesding waves of perfume from him through the hall.

`Sit here, my lord of Contavini,' said Anjou advancing to meet him, and
seating him by his right hand; `the fragrance of thy step, which yesterday
so grieved our humor, we look upon to-day as the sweet breath of valor;
and thy glittering silks and sparkling gems, and gold and velvet apparelling
look to our eyes the true and proper garniture of knighthood, of which thou
art henceforth the mirror.'

The brave knight was greatly honored at the feast; but being impatient
to return to take the prize of love and beauty he had with such chivalrous
deeds of valor won, he soon took his leave; and before night his gorgeous
galley was far down the Bosphorous.'

Thus ended the story of Pier Farnese the knight of Venice, which he

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narrated with grace and modest eloquence; Dona Voilante expressed himself
greatly entertained, and was full of admiration at the exploits of the brave
Medici di Contavini. The old lord of Aguilar said how such a knight was
a glory to Chivalry, and that he liked much his strategy of fixing his lance
in the gate, than which he said, nothing would quicker make them open it
to pluck it forth. The companions of Pier Farnese having severally spoken
their minds, each greatly lauding the courage and noble character of Medici
di Contavini, it was unanimously decided by the lovely Dona Violante, to
whom judgment was referred, that unless the other knights could offer as
fair a champion for the knightly honor of their own land, the palm of knighthood
must in truth and honor be given to Venice.

So, after they had all thanked the knight of Farnese for his chivalrous
tale, the lot for the ensuing evening was cast, and it fell upon the German
knight named Rother de Ernest, to narrate the next story of knightly
achievement.

CHAPTER V. Rother de Ernest, the German Knight.

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At the close of the fifth day of the journey of the seven knights, they
came to a convent situated in the bosom of a delightful vale, and surrounded
with meadows, groves and broad fields waving in the evening sun rays,
like seas of golden waves. Attached to the convent was a spacious court,
overshadowed with olive trees, which was appropriated, like the caravanserai
of the east, to the accomodation of travellers. Hither the knights turned
in just as the sun set, and were hospitably received by the Lady Superior,
who, from a wicket above the gate, gave them welcome. Betweeen the outer
court and the court of the castle, was a very high wall, which prevented
all communication with the sacred retirement of the sisterhood. Provisions,
in hospitable profusion, were lowered down to the knights from the wicket,
and as the place was large and well roofed, the travellers fared well. After
their repast had been made, the Roman cavalier, Vitelli di Braganti, seeing
sundry bright eyes peeping down through the lattice, and willing to entertain
the fair nuns in their loneliness, as well, may be, as to display his rich
voice, sung a Romancero, which, however, was better fitting beneath a lady's
bower, than the lattice of a holy convent. This is one of the stanzas:



`All the stars are glowing
In the gorgeous sky;
In the stream scarce flowing,
Mimic stars do lie;
Blow, gentle, gentle breeze!
But bring no cloud to hide
Their dear resplendencies;
Nor chase from Zara's side
Dreams bright and pure as these.'

Such songs of love ili become a convent's walls,' said the Spanish Knight
Don Fernando de Valor. `If we must be in a merry mood, let us sing some
ballad recounting the doughty deeds of good Christian knights against the
Moors. I remember a ballad recounting the achievement of Garci Perez
de Vargas, that showeth how he got the name of Machuca, or `The Pounder;
' for, he having broken his sword in battle, pulled up by the roots a wild
olive tree, and with the trunk thereof performed such wondrous deeds that
the holy maidens will esteem themselves happy in having had the pleasure
to hear them.'

`Nay,' said the Scottish knight, `this were too warlike for a convent's ear.
If you will listen, I will, by your leave, fair cavaliers, sing you a famous
Scottish ballad, recounting a deed of charity of that good and gentle-hearted
knight, King Robert the Bruce, and for which the Spanish bards have
have given credit to Rodrigo de Bivar. It is a holy ballad and befitting this
place.'

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The ballad was sung and listened to by all present with great attention;
and when the Scottish knight had done, the usual evening's entertainment
was resumed.

It now being the turn, on this night, of Rother de Ernest to relate a tale
in proof of the superiority of German knighthood over that of the other
lands whose chivalry had been illustrated by the foregoing tales, he
placed himself in an attitude to command their attention, and the regard of
the listening nuns from the casement around, and thus, in a pleasant voice,
began his story:

“Next to deeds of great valor in a knight, are those noble acts which
have for their base the gentler feelings of the heart, and which are shown,
not so much by deeds of warlike character and high emprise of arms, as in
relieving the distressed and averting wrong. The story of Sieur de Linant,
in the history of Don Alarcos, has shown us that a knight may achieve the
greatest acts of valor and strength, and excel in skill of arms all his fellow
knights, yet stain the glory and excellence of his brilliant deeds by moral
actions that will degrade him as low as his bravery bath before elevated
him. My story, therefore, gentle cavaliers, will not touch so much upon
doughty deeds, though we can show our share of these in Germany, I wot,
but upon those higher attributes of chivalry which adorn a knight.

Olof St. Morin was the son of a woodman who dwelt in the black forest
of Baden. He was, when in his eighteenth year, a tall, manly, handsome
lad, with flowing brown hair, a brilliant eye and finely shaped features looking,
save his sun-browned cheek and coarse attire, rather like a prince's son
than a peasant's. He had already evinced great courage both to do and to
endure, which latter is the noble quality! In his disposition he was mild
and amiable to a fault, in his manner gentle, but in spirit firm and indomitable.
His mind was also above his birth, and his skill in books, which the
good monks in a neighboring convent loaned him, was by no means to be
despised even by the holy fathers themselves. It was a marvel how, amid
the gloom of the forest, the wildness of its cataracts and the savage character
of the scenes around him, he should have become what he was; but nature
sometimes goes out of her path to strike out her best achievements.

One morning Olof was roaming the forest in search of kine which had
strayed from his father's cot when the distant winding of a bugle fell upon his
ears, and in a few moments he caught a glimpse of a party of knights who
were passing along the imperial road which wound through the forest.—
Instigated by curiosity he turned back to take a place on the high way
whence he might behold the passage of the cavalcade. It came prancing
on with the sound of bugles, the ringing of steel, and clangor of shields,
swords and spurs. In advance, rode an imperial herald on his gorgeously
emblazoned tabard; then came two knights abreast, attended by their esquires
bearing their shields and spurs; then pranced a company of the gentlemen
of the court in gay and gallant costume, in high and merry converse
But what especially drew the eyes of the young forester as he stood leaning
upon a tree, was a beautiful palanquin with curtains of azure silk spangled
with silver and a canopy of cloth of gold, beneath which sat a lovely lady,
whom he was assured could be none less than a princess. It was followed
a few paces behind by a score of mounted men-at-arms. He saw that amid
all her splendor, her face was sad, and immediately his heart felt sympathy
for her. On either hand of the palanquin which was borne on the shoulders
of four strong serfs, rode in silence a lady on a white palfrey, one of
whom was elderly and stern' the other a dark eyed beauty whose dazzling
charms at once struck the peasant lad with a sort of bewildering fascination;
for he could not keep from her his eyes; and as she saw him she smiled upon
him with such dazzling power that, for a moment, in the wild rushing of

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blood to his brain he lost all consciousness. At this moment the chief of the
party riding up to the palanquin spoke to the occupant, and then ordered a
halt, and beckoned to the young forester, who alertly yet modestly advanced
towards him where he sat upon his horse beside the palanquin.

`Thou seemest as if thou should'st know these forests well,' said the old
knight, `canst thou tell us how far it is to the Convent of St. Mark?'

`It is half a league, turning to the left after you ford the wolf's glen, and
keeping the beaten path,' he answered embarrassed, for the large sweet eyes
of the lady in the palanquin were fixed upon him with an expression of interest.
His own fell beneath them, and he felt as if tears would come to
his eyes, he knew not wherefore. The other female whose dark glance had
flashed upon him so vividly was forgotten, and his thoughts were filled with
the pale and beautiful creature who appeared to him like some of the celestial
beings he had seen in dreams. He looked up an instant under the influence
of these feelings, and his eyes met hers fixed upon him so large, blue
and tearful, that for the first time in his life he felt unhappy.

The cavalcade was passing on again when a strange noise to the left in
the depths of the forest drew all eyes. It increased; and though at first
faint and far distant, advanced rapidly nearer and louder, till there fell upon
their appalled ears the prolonged and continuous yell of pursuing wolves,
mingled with loud crackling of the underbrush, and a wild indescribable cry
that at intervals rose above all.

`Knights to your defence! Men-at-arms rally before the Princess!' cried
the chief of the party. `Come they along the highway, or across the forest,
peasant?' he cried to Olof, who, on first hearing the well known sound, had
instantly run forward to a rising ground and was now intently looking in
the direction in which they seemed to be coming.

`They will cross this way!' he shouted. `They are in pursuit of a horse
who is flying this way! Let me advise you, my lord, to have open-spaces
between your men-at-arms that they may have clear path-way before them.
There are above three hundred in the pack, and nothing can resist them!'

`Let us defend the princess with our lives, knights!' said the knight, `and
throw ourselves in a body before her, with our spears in rest! Hear their
infernal yells! The ground shakes! Nay, lady, keep seated till this fierce
storm go by!'

The forests now fairly echoed with the yells of the approaching pack, and
the moment after he had spoken they beheld advancing along a glade that
intersected the road, a dark cloud of wolves in close pursuit of a flying steed
who, with his mane erect, his eyes starting from their sockets, and every
muscle strained, was making supernatural exertions to escape from them.—
Beneath his belly was a knight's saddle, and the bridle and stirrups were flying
in the wind. Upon his bleeding flanks hung a huge wolf, and ever and
anon the victim would give vent to a wild agonizing cry that seemed human
in its mortal terror.

In silence and horror the little band stood in the paths awaiting their fate.
The yells of the wolves were now so clear and deafening that no voice
could be heard. At this crisis, Olof, who had stood in advance awaiting
them, as if first to offer his body a sacrifice, bounded towards a man-at-arms
who held a scarlet banner aloft, and snatching it from him, placed himself
a few rods in advance of them and waved it.

The maddened steed came plunging on, and, startled by the flutter of the
streamer shaken in his path by the fearless youth, turned slightly aside
from his course which was directly for the palanquin, and was dashing past
in his furious career, when suddenly, at the sight of men and horses, he
checked his speed and threw himself bleeding and exhausted upon the ground
in front of them, and cast upon the party a glance of human supplication.

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There was no time, however, for regarding him, as the peril of all was
equal, though each good knight, as he gazed on him, felt as if he would
cheerfully do battle in his defence, had he none other to defend. The
wolves came up at headlong leaps, and the head of the pack were speared,
or fell beneath blows of sword, while many rushed through the spaces left,
and alarmed by the sudden encounter, by the shouts of the knights and men
and the shrill shriek of the alarum bugles, kept on in flight. About a score,
however, gave desperate battle around the fugitive steed, and many of the
horses were thrown down and their riders dragged to the earth.

Olof, immediately on seeing the horse turn aside, had placed a tree between
him and the fierce current, which, parting on either side, rushed on
leaving him unharmed. He now hastened to the assistance of the party,
when he saw a wolf of enormous size, who had fled beyond the spot, turn
back and make with fierce determination towards the palanquin, which was
in the rear. The next instant he was flying over the shoulders of the terrified
bearers and lighted upon its side.

With a cry of horror the young forester bounded to her rescue, for all
around were appalled and motionless, and the palanquin had been thrown
down! He was unarmed; but regardless of this he sprung upon the wolf
as he laid his huge paw upon the bosom of the insensible lady, and fastening
his hands upon his open jaws, broke the lower one; and then grappling
with the furious beast, who howled with pain, he fell with him to the ground.
For a few moments a terrific contest ensued, but the courageous youth,
grasping a knight's dagger from the earth, which had been dropped in the
fray, succeeded in thrusting the brute through the gorget and slaying him.
This act was witnessed by the princess, who had recovered from her swoon
on the fall of the wolf from the palanquin, and by all the knights who, having
beaten off the rest of the pack, were spectators of his achievement.—
The princess thanked him warmly for the preservation of her life; and after
the knights had got their party together again, and each had his wounds
bound up, and the march was resumed, she detained him by the palanquin,
and enquired his name and parentage.

When she found that he was as modest as he was brave, and had wit and
gentle manners, she was greatly pleased with him, more than she dared suffer
herself to express in that company.

`This forest life befits you not,' she said gazing upon his blushing cheek
and downcast eyes. `Will you not come to court and serve me?' she asked
with a gentle voice and winning smile.

`I will serve you, noble lady, in court or forest,' he answered warmly; `so
that my poor services may be accepted with one so high and lovely.'

`He is a courtier already, your Highness,' laughed and said the dark-eyed
horsewoman who had all the while been riding near. `He hath the court's
tongue!'

`Hush, Rachel,' said the princess; `be not pert!'

The Jewess, for such she was, and the confidential maid of the princess
Brynhilda, looked vexed and displeased at being rebuked so openly, let her
palfrey fall back a pace and rode moodily along.

The noble steed which had been rescued, though sorely wounded, was
led behind by a man-at-arms, and numerous were the conjectures as to the
fate of the unfortunate rider, for nothing of his rank could be told from his
soiled and torn accountrements, when a man was seen advancing through
the forest, hailing the party. As he came nearer, it was discovered that he
was a knight in a plain suit of russet mail and that he was bareheaded. On
his nearer approach the chief knight exclaimed with astonishment,

`It is the emperor!' and instantly spurring forward into the forest, he
threw himself to the ground and kneeled before him.

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At his exclamation there was a general murmur of surprise and recognition.
The effect of the announcement upon the princess was remarked
with marvel by the peasant. Her face became deadly pale, and she seemed
to him to be stricken with fear.

The emperor mounted the knight's horse, and came forward saluting the
company, and riding up and seeing the beautiful Jewess mourted on her
palfrey, which she had switched to bring him nearer the emperor, he bent
towards, and gallantly saluting her upon the cheek, said, while he gazed admiringly
upon her dark and voluptuous beauty:

`By my halidom, Sir Bertrand, but you have brought me a brave wife!'

`Your majesty,' said the knight, who with all the company had witnessed
with surprise the king's salutation, to which, be it said, the Jewess seemed
nothing loth, `Your majesty has fallen into a great error. The princess
Brynhilda is in the palanquin! She whom you have honored is but a jewess!
'

`Fore heaven, Bertrand, were the princess fairer than the Jewess, she
were an angel,' said Otho.

As he spoke he lifted the curtain and looked in, where, pale, injured in
feelings, and instinctively feeling repugnance towards the emperor, reclined
the princess. She had been married by proxy, at her father's court, three
weeks before, and was now on her way to her husband's court, who, having
taken a fancy to surprise her, whom he had never seen, rode alone into
the forest, three leagues from the capital, to meet them, clad in plain armor.

He gazed upon his lovely bride an instant, with a look of evident disappointment,
slightly pressed his cheek, not his lips, to hers, and dropped the
curtain, leaving her in tears of grief and indignation.

`Ha, here is my horse! How rescued you him?' he inquired, with surprise,
`I believed he had been, ere this, food for wolves. I was set upon, a
half league hence, by a hungry pack, and only saved myself by springing
from his back into the branch of a tree, when he took flight, with the whole
horde in full cry after him!'

The knight narrated their adventure, and the escape of the princess, by
the gallantry of the forester, whom the emperor, after casting a searching
look upon him as he stood aloof from the company, beckoned to advance.

`I am told thou art a forester, and hast shown bravery of no mean degree.
I need such youths about me! Go, take leave of thy father, and follow
me to court.'

Thus speaking, the emperor, remounting his own horse, rode forward;
and Olof saw as he followed with his eyes, that he talked and laughed with
the Jewess, as he rode, without taking notice of the palanquin, or its occupant.

The young peasant went to court the next day, in obedience to the command
of the emperor, and was made a page of his person, to attend him in
hunting. His courage, his manliness, and his superior excellence in all
things appertaining to his new station, as if born and educated to it, won
for him the emperor's regard, who did not fail to heap honors upon him.—
Nevertheless, Olof remained the same modest and unassuming person as
before. He had been but a few weeks in the palace when he discovered
that the emperor neglected the youthful empress, whom he kept almost a
prisoner in her own apartments; while he spent many of his leisure hours
in the company of the beautiful, artful and ambitious Jewess. Olof's heart
bled for her, and he was daily contriving ways to do her kindnesses, which
his position enabled him to do. At length, for some bold deed, in which he
saved the emperor's life from an assassin, he was ennobled, and made a
knight of the first order in the empire.

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Two years he had remained attached to the emperor's person—a bold soldier
and gallant warrior in the field, and a polished courtier in the palace,—
when it was discovered by some means, and with certain proof, that he was
a nephew of the emperor! being the son of his younger brother, who had
been taken from its nurse's arms in the forest, by a bear, and borne into
the wilderness, where he was supposed to have been devoured, or to have
perished. He was, however, found by the forester's wife, who nurtured him
as her own. This discovery produced a great change in the condition of
Olof, but none in his heart! He modestly assumed the honors of his high
rank, yet wore them as became his birth. During the two years he had
become loyally attached to the empress, whom the emperor had now deserted
for the beautiful Jewess, who became his concubine, and held great
influence over his mind. At length she succeeded in prevailing upon him
to imprison Brynhilda in a remote castle on the Rhine, on the accusation of
an attempt to poison him.

This act roused the indignation of the nobles, for the mild and gentle
character of the empress had won their attachment, and enlisted their sympathy;
and being also incensed that a Jewess should be elevated to her
place in the imperial palace, they drew up a formidable petition of remonstrance
at this injustice done to the empress. This bold procedure incensed
the haughty and reckless emperor; and, determined, under the smarting
rage of the insult, to be revenged on both her and the nobles, for their interference,
he sent for Olof, who was now nearest his throne and his confidential
adviser. The young prince appeared before him, tall, noble and commanding
in person, the first knight, already, in arms and gentle deeds, in
all Germany, though scarce twenty two.

`Olof,' said the emperor, `you are my next of blood, and heir of the empire!
If this wicked empress lives, she will seek your life as she has mine!
Go to her, and take with you a trusty slave, and see that she is put to the
death! It is the only course I have of ensuring my own life, or you the
imperial sceptre?'

The young prince started, and his eloquently-speaking countenance showed
his compassion and grief. The emperor observing this, said sternly,

`On your obedience hangs your own life, and thence your crown!'
The prince bowed low, and left the imperial presence. The same night he
took horse and attendants, and the third day reached the fortress, in which
the hapless empress was cruelly confined.

The lady beholding him approach, from her grated lattice, and recognising
him, began to hope her deliverance had come, for she could not believe
she could receive evil from his gentle hands. He alighted; the warder opened
the heavy barriers! the lock gave back at his onward course through
the passages! she heard his step upon the paved hall without, and the next
moment the young forester-prince stood in her presence. He closed the
door, and they were alone! She stood still, uncertain whether to, advance
or not, when he came forward, and, kneeling silently at her feet, took her
hand, and she felt hot tears drop upon it!

`What means this grief, Olof?' she said, as he rose to his feet and gazed
upon her with pity.

`It is the emperor's commands, lady, that you prepare to die! I am commissioned
to put them into execution!'

`And will you be so cruel? I am innocent, Olof, of all he could charge
against me. My guilt lies in his own dark heart! I am innocent!' and she
fell on her knees and looked up to heaven!

`I know it, lady!' he said, with deep grief; `it is the emperor's command
that I slay you presently.'

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`Then give me a moment, Olof, to make my peace with God,' said the
patient lady.

`Nay, I shall not harm thee! Your death or mine is my alternative! It
becomes not a knight to harm woman—a subject to lay his hand upon his
empress. Thus, lady, I show my loyalty and maintain my honor!'

Thus speaking the noble youth threw himself forward upon his naked
sword, and died at the feet of her whom he had been commanded to slay.

Here the German knight paused!

A murmur of surprise and admiration rose both from the knights and the
listening sisterhood in the casements above, and it was acknowledged, without
a dissenting voice, that Olof St. Morin had shown himself worthy the
appellation of a true knight; inasmuch as this deed of his was inspired by
the noblest sentiments that can inhabit the bosom of a man, or give glory
to chivalry.